Part 23 (1/2)

Being a dad, I couldn't help but reflect on my own relations.h.i.+ps with my parents, who had never really seemed interested in giving me this kind of physical closeness. Remembering made me bitter. I couldn't help it. me this kind of physical closeness. Remembering made me bitter. I couldn't help it.

”I just can't believe my dad doesn't know his own grandkids.”

”It's a lost cause, Jesse,” Karla said. ”Forget it.”

It blew my mind, because I saw how adorable and how perfect my kids were. I couldn't understand how people who were flesh and blood weren't willing to make the effort to know them. I took the rejection personally, as if it was happening to me all over again, instead of my kids.

Months pa.s.sed, and my shop and my kids grew. Unfortunately, so did the differences between me and Karla. Though we functioned as a team, the tension between us was mounting. The more we squabbled, the more I retreated into booze. The more I drank, the madder Karla seemed to get. It was a vicious cycle, and I didn't know how to make it stop.

Then, in the spring of 1999, an event occurred that would change my life. A producer from the Discovery Channel, Thom Beers, called and proposed making a doc.u.mentary about our shop.

”But why?” I asked, honestly flummoxed.

”Have you been watching TV lately, Jesse?”

”Not really,” I said. ”I don't have much time for it.”

”Reality TV's. .h.i.t,” Thom explained. ”And it's here to stay. Have you heard of The Real World The Real World? Survivor Survivor? These kinds of shows are leading the pack, nowadays. Viewers are starting to expect shows about real people.”

”I know what Survivor Survivor is, Thom,” I said, looking down at the long to-do list I had in front of me for the day. ”And we're definitely not that. So, unless you got something else to tell me . . .” is, Thom,” I said, looking down at the long to-do list I had in front of me for the day. ”And we're definitely not that. So, unless you got something else to tell me . . .”

”Jesse,” Thom interrupted me, ”we think that what you're doing is absolutely unique. West Coast Choppers is very popular among a certain segment of the American population.”

”Gearheads, bike freaks.”

”Sure, gearheads. But with an hour-long show, the rest of America gets to see what you're doing. It'd be great exposure. Come on, what do you say?”

I thought it over for a while. I still didn't see what was going to be compelling enough over at our shop on Anaheim Avenue to rivet the American public to their seats-our high drama was going to consist of watching an average white boy try to make payroll at his greasy garage. But, I reasoned, Discovery was probably good at what they did. It couldn't hurt to try.

The shoot was a disaster, though.

”You could not have come at a worse time,” I told Thom. ”I'm getting ready to take five brand-new custom choppers to a huge annual bike rally in Daytona Beach, Florida.”

”Yeah, and?”

”We got a ton of work to do,” I snapped. ”I don't need any distractions!”

”More drama equals better ratings,” Thom said. He held up his hands. ”Just saying.”

I almost eviscerated the camera crew. For two weeks, they lived in our shop, asking so many questions and being so invasive that I almost lost my temper several times. They seemed dead set on capturing every single step of what we did as a custom shop, from manufacturing the wheels to welding the frames to painting the flames on the metal.

They filmed us riding around Long Beach; filmed us talking with customers; filmed me feeding the sharks that I kept in a tank in the shop. They even filmed me squabbling with Karla over payroll, and by the time they got done with their work, I felt like an animal in the zoo who'd been prodded with a stick.

”Look,” I grumbled. ”Can you explain to me why the h.e.l.l you have all this footage of my dogs fighting each other?”

”Shows a deeper portrait of who you are?” replied a cameraman.

”No,” I disagreed. ”And I don't think footage of dogs trying to bite each other is important enough to be in the final cut of this show.”

”I'll make a note of that,” he said drily.

Even though I hated the process and resented the strangers who had busted so rudely into my shop with their lights and cameras, I had to admit that secretly I dug the attention a little bit. Who wouldn't have? I craved respect and acknowledgment just as much as anyone else, maybe a little more so.

Some months after the crew had completed their work, Thom invited me to Los Angeles to view a rough cut of the piece. I watched with a mixture of alarm and pride as the film slowly unfolded in front of me.

The version of myself on the screen rode his motorcycle to a beachside cliff in San Pedro and overlooked the Pacific Ocean wistfully.

”I feel like I spent more than half my life trying to kick the world's a.s.s, fight everybody, and stuff like that . . . and I'm not even really into it anymore. I just want to trip out, make the stuff I make, hang out with my kids.”

”This is cheesy,” I said to Thom. ”Cut this part, okay?”

”Hold on,” he said, shus.h.i.+ng me. ”I love this section.”

”But don't get me wrong,” the me up on the screen continued, the me up on the screen continued, ”I'll still punch someone. If they start s.h.i.+t with me, I'll finish it.” ”I'll still punch someone. If they start s.h.i.+t with me, I'll finish it.”

Beside me, Thom laughed. ”You come off so real, Jesse!”

”I don't even remember saying saying that,” I complained. that,” I complained.

”We think that's precisely what people will enjoy about you.” He turned on the lights. ”You're spontaneous, unguarded.”

”Thom,” I said, rising to leave, ”I appreciate your enthusiasm. I really do. And I apologize in advance because, dude, this thing is gonna tank.”

The next two weeks were about the most nervous weeks of my life. I felt totally exposed by the footage that was going to air, and my temper was at its absolute worst. I sheltered myself in my office, alone, as I waited for my national exposure and subsequent humiliation. office, alone, as I waited for my national exposure and subsequent humiliation.

On the evening the show was to air, I was sitting in my office all by myself, my stomach clenched in a knot.

”Go home, Melissa,” I said.

”Really, Jesse? There's some more . . .”

”I said go home, go home, please,” I snapped. please,” I snapped.

She saw from my face that I meant business. ”Uh, okay,” she said, grabbing up her bag and beating a hasty exit.

I wondered how I could have been stupid enough to allow a TV crew into my private life. How could I have been so prideful and naive, to think that anyone would actually care what happened in the day-in, day-out life of a motorcycle shop?

Just then, the phone rang.

”Yeah?” I said.

”Is this Jesse James?”

”Yeah. Who's this?”

”My name is Jim Newsome. I live in Detroit. I just saw your show on TV!”

”What are you talking about?” I growled. ”It hasn't aired yet.”