by James, Jesse
Onward I drove, scenery melting, now dust, now desert, now mountains, and I ripped along the empty roadway through the breaking light of dawn, the blues and blacks rising into something brighter now. I rumbled by cowboy towns like Blythe and Brenda, swallowing hard, wishing I had water to drink, past Quartzsite and Tonopah, never even heard of them, who lives there, and why, the windows shaking from the speed and my head pleading, just let me get there, just let me go . . .
With morning breaking, I pulled off the highway, stopping at a gas station, my shirt soaked through with sweat. I dipped my head low, tucking my chin nearly into my chest, as I filled up the tank. Nobody better come up to me, I thought, nobody even come near me, because now is not the time.
I filled the tank without incident and settled back behind the steering wheel and gunned the engine. I ripped out of the gas station, flying off the mark, cutting against the wind, heading east toward Phoenix, racing against my own pulse calm down calm down. Then I laughed, at nothing, and the vulnerable, awkward sound I made frightened me.
Sweat beaded on my forehead, and I lowered the window and let the wind whip in at me. The coldness of the early April morning buffeted my face and neck and chest, giving me a meager sense of clarity that was gone as soon as it appeared.
I snapped on the radio, fumbling between stations. A snatch of Top 40 pop filled the front seat, somebody singing over and over imma be, imma be, imma be . . . The chorus tore at my brain, like some infant’s simple demands.
“No,” I mumbled, and pressed my thumb onto the dial, switching over to the next station, but it was even worse, something swoony and pseudo-soulful, wherever you are, whenever it’s right, you’ll come out of nowhere, and into my life . . .
“I’d rather crash into the wall again at Irwindale,” I muttered. I jabbed my thumb at the stereo again: give me something better.
“Okay, we got a great show today,” came the familiar, confident, nasal New York voice. “Listen, we got Jesse James with us today . . .”
“What the fuck?” I whispered.
“He’s a guy who first became successful when he started building motorcycles. I’ve been reading about this guy. I guess he used to be a real badass. Listen, you talk to him, Robin. Hey, Jesse, Robin wore extra cleavage for you . . .”
I sat bolt upright in my seat, unable to believe the coincidence. I’d done the Howard Stern show one year ago; and now, today, as I sped through the desert, driving myself either toward rehab or the great beyond, they were airing it again.
As the morning heated up around me, the mountains growing brighter, sharper in their cut against the sky, I listened to my voice. It was as if the show was being broadcast solely for me.
I traveled all around the world, ten times in five years . . .
. . . that whole time, all I was doing was going to motorcycle shops . . .
. . . Yup, when I was off the road, I’d just work on my bike in my mom’s garage . . .
. . . She contacted my office, and wanted to bring her godson on a tour of the shop . . .
. . . I contacted her assistant, and said I wanted to ask her out . . .
It was just almost too much to believe.
“You were married to the beautiful, stunning—who I wished I coulda had sex with—Janine Lindemulder for a while, weren’t you?” came Howard’s voice. “Boy, she must have been a monster in bed . . .”
. . . Sometimes, things aren’t what they seem . . .
“She’s one of the sexiest broads on the planet, though!”
It was surreal. I listened to myself break down the dissolution of my marriage to Janine, then go on happily to tell the story of how Sandy and I met: how she’d refused me at first; how I hadn’t stopped trying, and eventually, I’d won her over. I spoke about our relationship, about how completely different it was from any other thing I’d ever experienced.
The words sounded hollow and false. Suddenly, behind me, I saw the flashing lights of a cop car.
“Dammit, what now?”
I pulled to the side of the highway. A police officer pulled his squad car behind me and leisurely sauntered out onto the blacktop.
“License and registration.”
I handed it to him. Squinting down at the paperwork, the officer frowned, then glanced back up at me.
“What’s up?” I said.
“Are you that Jesse James guy everybody’s talking about in the news?” he said. “You are, aren’t you?”
“Yep,” I said, forcing a tight, small smile. “Hey.”
“Well, whatcha going so fast for, Jesse James?” The police officer looked pleased with his catch.
“Heading to Tucson.”
“Well, what the heck’s in Tucson?” the officer asked. He waved to his partner, who was sitting in the front passenger seat of the cop car, motioning him to come up to my car. “I thought you were a Hollywood guy.”
“I’m . . .” I shrugged, too exhausted to lie. “Look, I’m going to rehab.”
The cop frowned. “You got a drug problem? Let’s see your eyes.”
“I’m not high,” I muttered. I widened my eyes for him to inspect. “I’m just . . . trying to get better.”
The second cop joined us. “Hey, shit. Hey, you know who this is? It’s Jesse James!”
“I’ve already ascertained that information,” the arresting officer said. “Okay, listen up, Jesse. Here’s a deal for you. You were going over a hundred twenty miles an hour, so we can write you a big fat ticket. Or, you can take a picture with us.”
“You won’t give me a ticket?” I asked. “All I have to do is take a picture with you, that’s it?”
“No ticket.”
“Well, all right,” I said, almost cracking up at the absurdity of the situation. I climbed gingerly out of the car. “Just don’t sell it to TMZ or something.”
“Would we do that?” the second cop said. “Come on.”
The first police officer pulled an iPhone out of his pocket. He shoved it toward his partner, then threw his uniformed arm around me, grinning widely.
“Go ahead. Take a picture of me and Jesse.”
We stood on the edge of the blacktop, our arms around each other, as the other cop fumbled with the phone. The morning traffic whizzed by me. Sweating, I tried to swallow.
——
At around eight o’clock in the morning, I arrived in the visitor parking lot at Sierra Tucson. I’d covered over 450 miles in little more than four hours. My hands were shaking.
From the backseat, I grabbed the small bag of clothes I’d hastily thrown together the previous evening, and slammed the door closed behind me.
The air around me was crisp and cool. I looked at the main building: it appeared to have been constructed out of some sort of adobelike material. The whole thing had this Southwestern feel about it, with cacti and brush trees all around. We were in the foothills of a mountain range.
Hesitantly, clutching my bag and my keys tightly in my hands, I walked up the path to the building.
Fuck, I thought. Maybe I should turn around and head back. There’s still time. Back into the car. Maybe drive to Mexico . . .
“Hey, there,” came a rasping voice. I turned to look toward a silver-haired woman, about fifty years of age who was smiling at me with a twinkle in her eye. “I’m Fay.”
“Hey,” I said. “Jesse.”
“Jesse?” Fay said warmly, putting her arm around me. “You came to the right place.”
I said nothing, just felt the way her arm hung on me.
“Come on,” she said, taking in the scared look on my face. “Let’s get you inside.”
Suddenly I realized that in my haste to leave home, I hadn’t bothered to let anyone at Sierra Tucson know that I was coming. I had made calls making sure my kids would be cared for, but I’d neglected to phone this center and ask if there was room for me.
“I don’t have a reservation,” I told her. “No one’s expecting me.”
“Shouldn’t be any prob
lem,” Fay said. “I’ll take you to reception and we’ll figure it out.”
We walked down the quiet hallways, passing only a few people, who gave us interested looks then returned to their own business. “Do you work here?” I asked.
“Sure do,” Fay said. “I’m on the kitchen crew.”
“Oh,” I said. “I thought you might be . . . well . . .”
“One of you?” Fay laughed heartily, the skin around her eyes coming together in friendly crow’s-feet. “I have been, you can believe that. Come on, Jesse, I’m going to take you to the folks in charge. We’ll get everything all squared away for you.”
Fay handed me off to the woman at the reception desk, who took me in pleasantly. If either of them had recognized who I was, they didn’t let on.
“Jesse,” she said, “now that you’re here, we ask that you make a commitment to stay with us for thirty days. Can you do that?”
I nodded. “Yes. I want to be here.”
As I said it, I realized it was the truth. I had only been inside the building for fifteen minutes, but already, my pulse had slowed. It was quiet here. Slowly, the realization that no paparazzi were allowed inside these doors came to me. I smiled, tentatively, feeling the importance of the victory.
“Here’s your bedding, and some towels,” another staff member said. “There’s already soap in your bathroom.” I was shown to a room of my own. It was nothing special at all: bare white walls and a bunk bed. It reminded me of a college dorm more than anything else.
“If you need anything else, just come up to the front desk. You’ll have a meeting with Dr. Thomas at one o’clock. She’ll acquaint you further with our program. Lunch is at noon. Until then, feel free to relax and enjoy yourself.”
She waved good-bye, closing the door behind her. I dropped my bag on the floor, tossing my bedding onto the desk in the corner of the room. I lay back on top of the bare mattress, my feet still on the floor, and studied the ceiling of my room, as if there were some answer there. Soon my eyelids grew heavy, and then closed. Minutes later, I was asleep.
——
“I don’t know why I’m here.”
“Well, you made it,” said Dr. Thomas, a friendly, middle-aged woman. She smiled at me, as we conducted my intake interview, a clipboard with my paperwork in her hand. “That’s the first step.”
“But, I mean . . . aren’t I supposed to know, like, what’s wrong with me?”
“You’ll figure that out,” she said. “Over time. Everything takes time. We have people here who are dealing with chemical addiction, eating disorders, anxiety, depression . . .”
“But I don’t have any of that,” I said. “I’ve been sober for almost ten years. I eat just fine. I’m not a depressed person.”
Dr. Thomas smiled at me patiently. “But still, you felt the need to be here.”
“Yeah,” I admitted.
“Be patient,” she advised. “Do our program. It’s pretty rigorous, that much I can tell you. You’ll have individual therapy, group therapy, EMDR, if you want it, not to mention all sorts of meetings. You’ll find yourself pretty busy, I guarantee that much.”
I gritted my teeth. “So, there’s lots of talking here, huh?”
“Yes, that’s true. You can gain a lot, in fact, just by listening to what other people are going through. Think you’re up for it?”
“I guess so,” I said. “I don’t really know if I’ll be any good at it, but I can try.”
“That’s all we ask of you, Jesse,” she said, patting me on the hand. “So come on. You’ve got your first group session this afternoon. Step lively.”
Half an hour later, I walked downstairs to a large meeting room, where about fifteen residents gathered.
“How’s everyone doing?” asked a male therapist, a young man named Ben. “We have a new member of our group joining us today. Everyone, this is Jesse.”
Most of the members of the group waved to me. “Hi, Jesse.”
I waved back tentatively. “Hi.”
“Does anyone want to start us off today?” Ben asked. “What’s on everyone’s mind?”
After a few seconds, an older woman raised her hand.
“Hi. I’m Jill. Most of you know me already. For those who don’t, I’ve been battling with addiction to alcohol and drugs for more than ten years. I’ve been here for a couple of weeks, and each day, it seems like I’m getting a little bit better. I mean, it’s still hard . . .”
Her voice broke off.
“What’s the hard part, Jill?”
“I just don’t know if things will change when I leave here . . . I mean, it’s pretty easy to be sober here, but I’m scared that when I leave, I’ll just go back to my old ways.”
Jeez, I thought. How about just trying to be tougher? I mean, if you don’t want to drink, then just don’t drink.
A young girl, not much older than Chandler, raised her hand.
“I’d like to share.”
“Go right ahead.”
“I’m Catherina. The reason I’m here is, I’ve been struggling with an eating disorder. I’m anorexic, and it makes me so unhappy . . . every day, I wake up with this feeling like I can’t do it, I can’t get better. I don’t want to be like this, you know, but I feel trapped.”
Holy shit, I thought. These people really have issues.
“How’s everyone else doing? Can we hear from our new member, maybe? Jesse, would you like to share?”
“I don’t know,” I said uneasily. “I mean, sure, I’m open to sharing, but I don’t exactly know why I’m here.”
“Well, that’s fine, Jesse. Tell you what, how are you feeling right now?”
“I’m feeling okay, I guess. I’m glad that I’m here . . . I think I just need some time to figure some things out. I need some time to be alone, I think.”
“That’s a good start,” Ben said. “There’s no hurry. Ease into it.”
I sat in my seat, fidgeting, but at the same time trying to listen as the other members of the group listed a staggering catalog of psychological conditions: anxiety, PTSD, cocaine addictions, and abusive relationships.
Hell, I thought wearily. Compared to these folks, I’m practically normal.
My first private session came later that afternoon, with Dr. Thomas. I sat on a chair directly across from her in a small, cozy little office.
“I thought people had to lie down when they did this sort of thing,” I joked.
“No room for a couch in here,” Dr. Thomas said, smiling. “Although, if you want to lie on the floor, we can probably accommodate you.”
“That’s okay.” I laughed. “I’m good just like this.”
“So, Jesse,” she said. “What brings you to my office? What do you want to discuss? This is your time.”
“Well,” I said. “I guess . . . my marriage ended. I’d kind of like to figure out if I can save it.”
“All right,” she said. “Tell me about it.”
“Oh, man,” I said. I paused for a while, letting the silence fill the room. “I just . . . don’t know if I’m ready to go into all of that. It’s been pretty painful.”
“Is it recent?”
“Real recent,” I admitted.
“Do you need some time to settle in here, first?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I said. “I mean, I don’t want to be a dick. I mean . . . sorry.” I blushed.
“That’s okay. You can say whatever you want to here, Jesse. Everything’s allowed.”
“Well,” I said, haltingly. “I just . . . I’ve never done anything like this before. Like, talk about my feelings. Any of that. I’m more of a take-action type of person. I never saw the point in therapy, to be honest.”
“You might be surprised what happens when you open up,” Dr. Thomas said patiently. “Tell you what, let’s just meet again, tomorrow, and go from there—how does that sound?”
“Good,” I said gratefully. “Thanks. I’ll do better next time. I promise.”
“It’s all
at your speed,” Dr. Thomas said. “There’s no need to rush it.”
I wandered around the grounds, outside of the building, killing time before dinner. A guy with a receding hairline, a few years younger than me, approached me carefully.
“Hey, man,” he said. “How are you doing? I’m Tim.”
“What’s up, Tim. I’m Jesse.”
“Dude! I figured that was you. You’re the guy from Monster Garage.”
“Yup,” I said.
“Well, welcome. This is a pretty cool place.”
“What are you here for?” I asked.
“Oh, depression, you know, anxiety . . . my whole life being kind of fucked up . . . that kind of thing.” He laughed. “It’s not so bad, I guess. I swear, some days, I actually feel like I’m getting better. What about you?”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“I just mean . . . why are you here?” he said. “That is, if you want to talk about it. No pressure.”
“You mean, you don’t know?” I said.
“How would I know?” Tim asked, confused.
“I thought you knew who I was.”
“I do,” he said. “You’re that Monster Garage guy. But that’s all I got, man.” He grinned. “Look, we’ll talk about it in group. I just wanted to say what’s up and welcome you.”
“Well, thank you, Tim,” I said, after a second. “I appreciate it. See you around.”
We separated, and I continued to wander around on the grounds, in the shadow of the mountains.
Of course, I thought. Most everyone’s been here longer than me; they weren’t on the outside when the story broke.
There were no newspapers, magazines, TV, or Internet at Sierra Tucson. I realized, with incredible relief, that this place really was an escape for me. No one knew about me and Sandy. And, I decided, I was going to keep it that way.
