American Outlaw Part 10

It was a McDonald's Happy Meal.

"Jesus," I breathed gratefully.

"All yours," Pfieffer said. "I figured the food had to be killing you in here."

"It's awful," I said.

"Yeah," said Pfieffer. "I know. Eat up."

I wolfed down the hamburger and French fries, then ate the apple pie in two bites. I swear, it was the best-tasting food I'd ever had in my entire G.o.dd.a.m.n life.

"Thanks," I said, embarra.s.sed, as I realized my coach had watched me tear into the food like a starving coyote.

"No problem," he said. "Hey, give me that box. Can't have people saying I give one of the football kids special treatment, you know."

I crumpled up the greasy paper, placed it carefully inside the box, and handed it to my coach. He accepted it and turned around to go, but stopped before his hand turned the k.n.o.b.

"Listen," he said. "I've got something I need to tell you." He looked grim.

"What?" I said.

"Jesse, you made Parade."

"Really?" I felt myself break out into a real smile for the first time in over a month. "Coach, are you serious?" I felt myself break out into a real smile for the first time in over a month. "Coach, are you serious?"

"You're an All-American, Jess. It came out a couple of weeks ago. I just thought you'd like to know."

"Wow," I said. But there was something more. I could tell by the way he was staring at me. "That's great. Why are you looking so down?"

"They came, Jesse. They came and went."

"Who did?"

"The coaches," Pfieffer said slowly.

My lips tightened.

"When the season was over, they all were calling. We had requests from all over to see you. Stoudemire had OSU in his office. Kansas and Nebraska sent their people, too."

"What happened," I mumbled, already guessing the story.

"We had to tell them the truth, Jesse. There was no way around it." He shook his head. "I'm real sorry, son. I know you would have done a great job at any of those schools."

"They don't want me anymore?" I asked, unwilling to believe my own ears. "Just because I'm in here?"

Pfieffer looked pained. "They withdrew their scholarship offers."

I was stunned into silence.

He rotated the fast-food box in his hands, carefully. "We'll figure out something for you. Meanwhile, I want you to do the rest of your time like a man." He looked at me hard. "Do you hear me? No more fights. No more hardheaded s.h.i.t."

I swallowed hard over the lump in my throat. "Sure thing, Coach. Thanks for the Happy Meal."

For the remainder of my time in isolation, I went over Pfieffer's words in my head a hundred times. Slowly it sunk in: I wasn't going to be playing big-time football, after all. I wasn't going to escape to another part of the country, to an Iowa cornfield or a rainy Pittsburgh steelyard, or any of that. It all had been just a fake little dream. I shook my head. I should have known better. to be playing big-time football, after all. I wasn't going to escape to another part of the country, to an Iowa cornfield or a rainy Pittsburgh steelyard, or any of that. It all had been just a fake little dream. I shook my head. I should have known better.

A six-week tail remained on my sentence after I got out of the tank, and there was little choice but to serve it. For the remainder of my time at the California Youth Authority, I composed myself to be a model inmate. I spoke rarely, and when I did, I didn't cause any trouble. When Zuccolotto made his rounds, I didn't give him any eye contact.

"James," Johnny Pinece whispered. "I hear Zuke wants another shot at you."

I shook my head. Just wasn't going to happen.

Christmas came when I was in there. I remember lying in my bed during the day, feeling lonely and tired. A religious group came and handed out oversized candy bars. I chewed mine slowly, ruminating. Savoring every little piece of nougat.

I asked for more responsibility. I was given a job: floor polisher. Twice a day, I'd wheel the big silver machine into the middle of the mess hall by its plastic handlebars. Unwinding the long, blue electrical cord from around its base, I'd find an outlet in the wall. The plug was big and black and had dirt and gunk smeared onto its casing, the collected detritus of ten years of hard cleaning. But I'd jam it into the outlet enthusiastically, and then flip the switch, kick-starting the whirling machine to life.

I pushed the floor polisher for two hours every day, watching the bristles speeding in a ring-shaped orbit, until they blurred with their own purposeful velocity. Patiently, I worked every inch of grime off the cafeteria floor. I worked the machine for six weeks, every day, twice a day, until it felt like it was mine.

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5.

When I finally got out of the California Youth Authority, I'd missed eighty-three days of cla.s.s.

"Would you like to graduate, Mr. James?" my guidance counselor asked me wearily.

"You know what?" I said. "I would."

So it was off to summer school for me. They had some pretty cool cla.s.ses in summer school in those days, gotta say. My favorite was High School Cafeteria. They tossed me an ap.r.o.n, jammed a white paper cap on my head, and taught me how to be a short-order cook. Not bad, not bad at all. A couple weeks in, I could flip a mean hamburger. Just add ketchup.

At nights, I was back at Golden Apple, either leafing through comics or working an event. One evening my boss motioned me to his side.

"You interested in more work, kid?"

"Always."

"A buddy of mine needs a security guy to work a volleyball tournament. He needs someone to supervise setup and breakdown-is it okay if I give him your number?"

"Absolutely," I answered.

"Lucky kid," he said, shaking his head. "Chicks on the beach. Man, I wish I was you!"

The tournament was put on by the AVP, the a.s.sociation of Volleyball Professionals, but they were sponsored by Miller Lite, so there were all kinds of bikini girls there. One young woman in particular caught my eye. Her dark, bobbed hair and tight little body stood out against her red swimsuit.

"Need help with anything?" I asked her, hoping for a crumb of affection.

She just sort of looked me up and down.

"No," she said kindly, after a moment. "Thank you."

I shrugged, moved on. I don't know, maybe she smelled teenaged convict on me. Little did I suspect that adding adding to my bad-boy image would catch her eye later. Midway through the summer, I ama.s.sed enough cash to get myself a used motorcycle, a broken-down, turquoise 1976 Harley-Davidson. I know, turquoise Harley: sounds pretty wretched. But this was the eighties. It was my Duran Duran bike. to my bad-boy image would catch her eye later. Midway through the summer, I ama.s.sed enough cash to get myself a used motorcycle, a broken-down, turquoise 1976 Harley-Davidson. I know, turquoise Harley: sounds pretty wretched. But this was the eighties. It was my Duran Duran bike.

I loved that cycle dearly. It seemed so incredibly fast to me. And the sound! When I started her up, the straight pipes were like two cannons going off. BAHPAHBAPABAH!! BAHPAHBAPABAH!! I felt like I was going to bust windshields. It was pure bliss. I felt like I was going to bust windshields. It was pure bliss.

The following weekend, I had another volleyball tournament, and of course I rode my cycle all the way to Manhattan Beach. As it happened, the bikini model I had a crush on saw me getting off it.

"What's this this?" she said, smiling.

"Just my Harley," I said casually. "It needs some work."

"Oh, wow, I love bikes!" she exclaimed, caressing the handlebars. "Do you think you might take me for a ride sometime?"

"Yeah, of course," I said, grinning, unable to believe my luck. "Anytime you want."

"Well, how about . . . tonight?" she said coyly. Her hand drifted from the bike to my forearm, as if it were an extension of the machine.

Nothing much ever came of us; I think she figured out pretty soon that I was fresh out of high school, and that kind of killed it. But d.a.m.n, the motorcycle had sure opened the door for me. Of that, I took careful notice.

At the end of the summer, I received a battered cardboard package in the mail. I sat down on my front steps and ripped it open with my hands. It was my diploma. Well, how about that? Well, how about that? I thought, laughing. They'd pushed me down, but they hadn't beaten me yet. Life could have been a lot worse. I thought, laughing. They'd pushed me down, but they hadn't beaten me yet. Life could have been a lot worse.

After all, I could have been Bobby. He called me one night, out of his mind with worry.

"What should I do, man?" he asked, tense. "My girl . . . she's pregnant."

I shrugged. Bobby and I had never really been the same after the CYA. He'd apologized, of course, and I'd accepted it, but I was still pretty touchy about serving his sentence for him.

"That's up to you," I said finally. "I can't help you make that decision."

He sighed. "I have the strangest feeling that I'm about to do the honorable thing."

He did. At the age of eighteen, Bobby married his girlfriend. They found a place to live and set out to raise their child together. You had to respect him. He'd stepped up.

And me? Well, I was headed to community college. The Division One schools might have withdrawn their scholarship offers, but that sure as h.e.l.l didn't mean I was never getting on a football field again.

"Jesse," Coach Pfieffer said, "you do a strong couple of seasons on one of these teams, and we'll have Kansas banging on the door again, I promise. And this time when they come, you'll be ready." on one of these teams, and we'll have Kansas banging on the door again, I promise. And this time when they come, you'll be ready."

I nodded, not fully convinced. "I'll do my best."

Luckily for me, a strong junior college was right around the corner: Riverside Community College. Like all junior colleges, they were a bit more forgiving when it came to tolerating players' various idiosyncrasies, like having committed multiple burglaries. They needed a linebacker, and with Coach Pfieffer's help, a scholarship had been set aside with my name on it.

"I made my decision," I told my dad one afternoon, as he was restoring an oak dining set for the coming weekend's swap meet. "I'm heading to RCC."

My dad didn't look up from his lacquering. His small brush moved steadily and with confidence. "That's good."

I watched him work for a while, my hands stuffed into my pants pockets.

"So, I guess I won't be seeing you for a while."

Patiently, my father continued to apply lacquer to the chair's thin, ornate spindles.

"Any thoughts?" I asked impatiently.

"You got a place to live?" he said, finally.

"I'll be in the dorms."

"We can't afford that."

"You don't have to pay a dime," I said. "I'm on scholarship."

"Oh. Okay." My dad glanced up at me briefly, his paintbrush held between his index finger and thumb. He appeared lost in thought. "Well, stop by when you can."

"Right," I said. After a long silence, I added, "Thanks."

On our first day of football practice, our new team a.s.sembled in a small locker room, unconsciously segregating ourselves according to ethnicity. The black kids, most of whom came from Compton High and South Central L.A., sat sullenly on one side of the room, staring down the beefy, working-cla.s.s white knuckleheads who'd gathered together on the other side. In between us sat the Mexicans, the Samoans, and the Tongans in one big group. Instead of a football team, we looked like three gangs getting ready to rumble. High and South Central L.A., sat sullenly on one side of the room, staring down the beefy, working-cla.s.s white knuckleheads who'd gathered together on the other side. In between us sat the Mexicans, the Samoans, and the Tongans in one big group. Instead of a football team, we looked like three gangs getting ready to rumble.

The a.s.sistant coach squinted at his clipboard, his chewed-up yellow pencil poised over the roster.

"Jackson, Anton?"

A thin, muscular black kid raised his hand. He wore cornrows and baggy jeans. His eyes emanated a quiet hate. I recognized him immediately from the California Youth Authority. He hadn't been a friend, exactly.

"James, Jesse?"

I raised my hand. "Right here."

Anton Jackson sneered. "I know you, motherf.u.c.ker," he said softly, looking right at me.

I didn't smile.

Our team could not have differed more strikingly from my high school squad. Riverside Community College specialized in tough kids from rough neighborhoods, standout athletes with messed-up families and severe att.i.tude problems whose extensive juvenile criminal records and inability to function inside a cla.s.sroom had conspired to keep us out of real colleges and universities. We were hoods, every one of us. And we were none too happy to join forces.

"You thought you were the baddest baddest dude at the Youth Authority, huh?" Jackson said, his voice low and soft. dude at the Youth Authority, huh?" Jackson said, his voice low and soft.

"Was I wrong?" I said, disliking him more every second.

He nodded. "Real wrong."

A sick feeling filled my stomach as I studied my teammates. But my mood darkened further that evening, when I discovered that I had been a.s.signed to live in the "football dorm."