Free American Outlaw by Jesse James

their coats.
    Patty looked at me with a spark in her deep brown eyes. “I’ll give you sixty seconds, Mr. James.” She handed me her drink as we stepped into the room. “Hold this for me?”
    “My pleasure,” I said, closing the door behind us.
    We necked passionately, laughing, rolling around on the bed of coats beneath us.
    “Hey,” said Patty, after a couple of minutes. “I better get back out there before my boyfriend misses me.”
    “Wait,” I said. “Give me your phone number.”
    “Who do you think you are?” Patty asked, smiling.
    I shrugged, and after a moment, Patty found a pen. Shaking her head, she proceeded to scribble out her digits on a ripped piece of paper, then handed it to me.
    ——
     
    Gradually, I started stealing again. I shifted over to the Bobby school of theft, which is to say, based less on deception and more around the fact that I figured no one would fuck with a beast like me. The way I saw it, I was huge and mean-looking, so why not capitalize? Food was by far my favorite thing to pilfer. I was always hungry. I would go into supermarkets and just pick up an apple, a banana, and a cake and walk out, eating them. No one ever said boo.
    One day, during lunch period, I found myself in the Circle K. It was only a couple of blocks away from school. Often I’d go there during a free period to leaf through the bike magazines or the new
Penthouse.
On this particular afternoon, I felt hungry, so without even thinking about it, I reached out and jammed a Butterfinger in my pants. I didn’t even consider what I was doing. I just kept reading the magazine casually.
    “Hold it right there,” came a voice from behind me. “You’re stealing!”
    A big, bald guy grabbed my shoulder. He was wearing the orange uniform of the K, and he was glowering at me.
    “What are you talking about?”
    “This,” he roared, and triumphantly he seized the Butterfinger out of my right front pocket. “I’m calling the
cops,
fucko.”
    “Hell you are,” I said. “I was going to pay for that. You just didn’t give me enough time.”
    “Come on, you’re coming with me.” He took my collar roughly and tugged at me.
    “Dude,” I said. “It’s a fucking
candy bar,
man.”
    He only yanked harder. He tugged at my collar with as much power as he had in his big arms. “Let’s go, now.”
    Without even thinking about it, I decked him in the face. He dropped like a load of scrap, directly to the floor, screaming in agony. “Here’s your Butterfinger,” I said casually, as I threw the candy bar and it bounced off his head. “See ya later.”
    Moronically, I thought that was it: I figured, hey, situation taken care of. Apparently, I was very wrong. Half an hour later, in my algebra class, cops came and knocked on the door. They held a quick conference with my teacher, pointed at me, and hitched up their police belts.
    “Mr. James? We’d like you to come with us.”
    I was hauled into juvenile custody. The Circle K guy had easily figured out who I was—that was the downside of being one of the biggest kids at the school, I guess. He wanted me charged with assault, which is what happened. I got the kids’ version of aggravated assault, and they threatened to send me to the California Youth Authority for a thirty-day period.
    “So why don’t you?” I asked, pissed.
    “We know you’ve done well for yourself in football. We think you can help this community. So we’re going to give you probation instead.”
    I was introduced to my probation officer then, a fairly attractive older woman who wore a gold crucifix around her neck.
    “I’m Ms. Torres, Jesse,” she said sternly. “I’d like you to explain to me what happened.”
    “Sure,” I said. “A guy grabbed me. So I hit the fucker in his face.”
    “He grabbed you without provocation?” Torres said dubiously, glancing down at her paperwork.
    “Yes,” I insisted. “In fact, I’d like to request that he be charged for assault. Can we do