ALABAMA CHROME
A story of family, both given and found, and the long shadow of domestic violence, Alabama Chrome interrogates the performative nature of the modern world, and what true kindness means.
Carrying nothing but a shoebox of memories and a lot of secrets, Cassidy is used to being alone. But when his camper-van breaks down in a snowstorm and he is rescued by a kind young woman named Lark, he soon finds himself working in a small-town bar and becoming part of the community. When an inscrutable new waitress arrives, Cassidy is unsettled by a sense of recognition, and the unexpected arrival of a reality TV crew scouting for a new show finds him protecting Reba from the ghosts of her past. However, it soon becomes clear that it is his own ghosts who are chasing him - and Cassidy must find the courage to speak the truth, or risk losing everything, once again.
ALABAMA CHROME
A story of family, both given and found, and the long shadow of domestic violence, Alabama Chrome interrogates the performative nature of the modern world, and what true kindness means.
Carrying nothing but a shoebox of memories and a lot of secrets, Cassidy is used to being alone. But when his camper-van breaks down in a snowstorm and he is rescued by a kind young woman named Lark, he soon finds himself working in a small-town bar and becoming part of the community. When an inscrutable new waitress arrives, Cassidy is unsettled by a sense of recognition, and the unexpected arrival of a reality TV crew scouting for a new show finds him protecting Reba from the ghosts of her past. However, it soon becomes clear that it is his own ghosts who are chasing him - and Cassidy must find the courage to speak the truth, or risk losing everything, once again.
If I donāt make a decision right now itās going to be done for me, but the last one I made was for shit, and I knew it about five minutes after I left the interstate; this is a lonely road and the snow is squalling up so bad, I swear itās becoming a blizzard. I canāt ignore the rough-shod noise of my engine no more and thereās a burned-out smell that brings me out in a cold sweat. Iām nauseous. I want to spit up. Cold is creeping right into me and making me stupid. I got no sense of where I am; I could be a hundred feet from the nearest town or a hundred miles. Engine spits, drops, kicks back. It spews black smoke then cuts out altogether. I steer the van smooth as I can and let it coast to a standstill at what may or may not be the side of the road; for all I know Iām on the edge of a precipice. Probably am; these backwood mountain roads usually are. If Iām lucky thereāll be trees to break my fall if I go over, but that makes me laugh and I think, Shit, I might be going a little crazy in this cold, because if thereās one thing Iām not, itās lucky; theyāll have been cleared for timber for sure and over Iāll go, and right there would be your poetic justice.
I reach in back and grab the bedding, wrap it around me and then just sit. I sit, and try to keep my fear in check, while the snow tries to get inside. I can feel wind from all directions, right there inside the van, and I can hear it, sounding like hellcats screaming and howling out there in the nowhere. Every now and again the wind gets ahead of itself and almost lifts the van off of its wheels; it donāt for one single moment stop rocking and banging about in the wind.
The cold keeps growing and crawling over me. I have on every piece of clothing I own, but still my belly tightens 9 and shudders, my jaw clenches so rigid it hurts and my body starts a short, hard, tight jerking on the inside that goes on and on; I canāt make it stop. And now Iām thinking strange, stupid thoughts about not being discovered till spring when the snow melts and uncovers my sorry ass and wishing I could tell Mama I love her. Right now, I wish that more than anything else in all the world. I want her to know it. And that Iām sorry.
My mind slips, slides away somewhere on thoughts of sunshine and water; a face smiling. The light around me is dazzling white and I canāt keep my eyes open no more. I shove my hands hard into the pockets of my coat, my shoulders bunched up around my neck so they ache, but I canāt relax and canāt stop my body from shuddering so hard Iām sure Iām about to bite through my tongue. I close my hand around the little box in my pocket and shut my eyes. A dull thumping fills my head. Maybe itās outside me somewhere, I canāt tell. Keeps on. Shut. Up. Please just let me, just let me sleep.
Muffled voices come from way off somewhere. I open half an eye, before the bright pierce of white light, a tilt of icy blue, makes me shut it tight again. I wonder if itās God calling me and think of laughing, but this time I canāt get further than the thought. I canāt seem to make anything work. Face of an old man is pressed up against the window and I wonder if thatās Him; A girlās face comes into view and I think, now angels, but they donāt got fur lined hoods so far as I know and this makes me a little more determined to make out what sheās saying. I think itāll be easier when Iām not so tired, so I turn away and try and ignore these clowns outside banging and thumping away, making out like I should follow the light.
Next thing I know, my fucking windowās been broke and I try and holler at them to get away, that I have a weapon, 10 but the words donāt come and the girl, sheās crawled through the back and sheās unlocking the door and shoving at me and pulling and yelling things in my face and I give up. Thereās no fight left in me and, truth be told, itās been that way longer than I care to remember.
Iām in the cab of a high up truck, heat running, blanket wrapped around me, shivering so hard my teeth rattle and Iām sure Iām about to knock āem right out. Angel in the fur hood is trying to get me to drink something steaming from a flask and talking up how lucky it is she took this route to work, otherwise who knows how long it would a been before somebody came across me.
Old fellow posing as God is driving and tells me his name is Beau and that Iāll be alright now. āLark,ā he says to the girl and I, stupid as I am, feel a lift that sheās a bird and not an angel; a creature like that is something I can believe in. āWhat do you say we take him to my place and see whatās what?ā
āIs Belle about?ā she asks, and the fellow tells her to use his cell phone and give her a call.
It aināt no time before Iām sitting in his home by a wood burner, spooning some kind of thick soup into my clumsy mouth and trying to make sense of whatās going on. I canāt seem to make my fingers work right and worry Iām going to spill the soup. I put the spoon down and try focusing on whatever might be out of the window; aināt much to see. The house stands in a clearing, that much I noticed when we pulled in. From here I can see the snowy yard, snow topped fencing, and a big olā barn with doors wide enough to take a tractor. A little way down the trees begin again.
The girl, Lark, comes over from the kitchenette and stoops to pour my soup into a big coffee mug. āTry it this way, youāre still so frozen itās bound to be hard to hold anything right now.ā She hands me the mug and I close my 11 hands around it, try not to shudder and lose the lot. āYou got a name we can call you?ā She smiles.
I think for a moment, trying to get in gear. āYou can call me Cassidy,ā I tell her. I lean back and close my eyes.
They talk together, real quiet, but Iām too tired to pay any attention anyhow and feel myself drift, before I whap my eyes open, startled by the feel of the mug slipping from my hands. Itās just her, though, the girl, taking it before I drop it, sweet look in her eyes. āOkay?ā I nod.
When the old fellow, Beau, is good enough to offer me a bed for the night, I speak up. āYou donāt have to do that. You donāt even know me.ā He gives me a puzzled smile, gentle. āI know you need a bed,ā he says, and he looks right at me until I canāt meet his eye no more.
āThank you,ā I say. āI appreciate your kindness.ā Iām overcome with shame that I might cry in front of these strangers.
The next day, me and Beau make a trip to the local mechanics. We drive up a single-track from his home, leaving the creek, and woods behind us. Cab of his truck is warm and quiet. He donāt ask too many questions, just gives out a little here and there.
āLook up there to your right. See that cottonwood?ā Itās a beauty, real tall, and I think how it might look in summertime.
āI aināt never seen one that big,ā I say, and I see him crinkle at the edges of his eyes. āWe entered it for Champion Trees of Kentucky a while back,ā he says. āGot ourselves a special mention.ā
I donāt ask what that is, and it donāt matter on account of heās pointing out Main Street and showing me where his lady, Belle, has her beauty parlour.
āThatās it right there with the pink and green awning, next to what used to be our local newspaper. But thatās gone now you young people get all your news online or from the TV.ā
āThatās too bad, I guess,ā I say, thinking thatās what he means.
āWell, Iām not averse to progress, and thatās a fact, but it does seem a shame that every time something closes, more folks move away, aside from your old fool diehards like myself, of course.ā He does a rumble deep in his chest I understand to be his laugh, but sobers pretty quick and says, āBut donāt get Belle started on that. Her pet project isā¦ā he breaks off to check his mirror and pull across to the other side of the road and eases in at the kerbside next to High Beam Auto Repairs and Diagnostics. āNow, letās see if we canāt get you back on the road and on your way.ā
I guess Iāll never know what Belleās pet project is. I get in front of him and hold open the heavy plastic curtain hanging over the open doorway and he goes in ahead of me. The floor is cement and oil, dirty rags and tools. Up on the wall, an old tube style TV is hanging out, tuned in to KYTV and turned up loud, trailing one of them reality shows Mama used to give the finger: Brooke Adlerās Random Acts of Kindness. Thereās a music radio station on too and the sound of a blow torch working hard. Whole place smells good and familiar to me.
Somebodyās legs are sticking out from under a tow truck, greasy blue overalls and work boots are all I can see of him. āIs that you under there?ā Beau asks, bending to look. āFellow here might have some work for you.ā Mechanic shoves a foot, comes rolling out on the dolly and sits up, reaching a hand out to Beau, who grabs it and pulls. 13 āWell who the hell else is it going to be, Beau? You think thereās ever going to be enough work in this town for me to hire help?ā
I get that feeling of surprise that makes me want to kick myself; Mamaād be shaking her head at me right about now. āI raised you betterān that,ā sheād tell me. āNever assume, it makes an ass out of u and me.ā I got so tired of that old joke I stopped hearing it, which tells you something maybe about how long it takes me to learn a thing. Or not.
Anyhow, the mechanic aināt a fella at all, but a woman about my age maybe, thirty some and real tall and rangy, backwoods to the core; she got that pale-eyed, cagey look but it disappears the minute she smiles, which she does just about every time something comes out of her mouth, just not at me. ā
Hey,ā she says, leaning back against the truck and wiping her hands down her pants legs. āYou must be the guy Lark pulled out of the snow. Lucky she came by.ā She turns her look on Beau again. āDid you ever see anything like it? Lark says her mamaān daddy remember an ice storm one spring to rival it, killed every last sprout theyād planted, but never saw a snowstorm like this in all their years farming.ā
āI canāt say I ever have,ā Beau tells her. āAnd damage to spring crops is going to be bad.ā He turns and puts a hand on my shoulder, and I flinch before I can think and that old fellow, he just squeezes and lets go with a pat, like heās quieting a horse.
āCassidy, Evangeline here is our local doctor of all things to do with engines, like her daddy before her, and if she canāt get your van back on the road, itās not going to happen.ā āLark says youāll need your van towed?ā I nod, but Iām unsure of what I need, and Iām concerned that towing is just the tip of this iceberg; I think again about the noise and smell and swallow hard. Evangeline is looking at me, suspicious and I would say, unfriendly. āLetās get something straight, right off the bat. I 14 do not run a good-will service here. Unlike everybody else in this damn town. Iām not towing no van for charity, you got it?ā
āNow look here, Ev,ā Beau starts in, āleast you can do is get that sucker off the side of the road. Itās a hazard to all and as far as I can make out,ā he turns to look at me then and says, āitās your home, am I right?ā I nod and look at the doorway. āIf we donāt move it soon, someone else will and Cassidy here will lose anything he owns.ā
āWell, I canāt bring it here,ā Evangeline tells him, grudging. āI donāt have the space. Unless youāre good for the money,ā she says at me.
Something sparks then, inside me, fires up for a second and I look right back at her. Hard ass, I think, but truth be told I kind of admire her straight talk. āDo I look like a body who has any money?ā I ask her then, and she raises an eyebrow at me. First time, right there, that her smile is at me.
āLeviās looking for help,ā she says and Iām struck by a thought that leaves me feeling empty; Iām now a man with nothing better to do, no call on his time nor company; it donāt make no difference to nobody if I put up in a broken down mountain town and take a job.
āLeviās always looking for help,ā Beau cuts in. āWhat kind of help?ā I ask and the mechanic, she gets that look that tells me I aināt no better than I am, who the hell am I to be picky?
āBar work. Does it matter? It pays.ā
And I think, well, sheās right. Does anything matter? I put my hand in my pocket and tap, tap, my finger on the little box.
Beau offers me a ride to Leviās, but Iām done being inside of things for now.
āIāll stretch my legs,ā I tell him. āGet a feel for the place.ā
Evangeline snorts. āLooking for the bright lights?ā she asks and lowers herself onto the dolly again; she sure is salty.
Outside, Beau points the way we came, and tries to talk me out of walking.
āForecast says clear,ā he tells me. āBut itās real cold and about to get colder. You donāt want to be doing yourself another bad turn in the cold now, do you?ā
But thereās something in his manner, unhurried, kind, like he wonāt take it bad if I make up my own mind.
I set out on foot to get to know the place. Itās an old habit I have from a child. When Mama and me came again to a new place, Iād roam about getting a feel for it, barefoot if I could, until I could find my way about in the dark if I cared to.
The auto shop is lonely on its own, just outside town, and the walk is further than I imagined. I get to wondering if I didnāt miss the turn in the road. There aināt no kerbside, which is usual in these parts, so I walk along the paved road, keeping my ears sharp for oncoming vehicles.
Beau werenāt wrong; it is cold. And what began as a clear, pretty day, is fast clouding up and Iām starting to miss the winter sun that was. I pull the collar of my jacket closer around my neck. A movement snags at the corner of my eye and right away lifts my spirit a little; I always did like to pace myself alongside a woodpecker. I like the way they fly; dipping and rising and getting ahead, then waiting. Itās a friendly sort of game, trying to see if you can catch up while it waits at the next tree, or electricity pole. When I was a boy, I liked to think they was showing me the way and I let myself think that right now.
I keep walking, striding long to get my blood going. I can hear the crunch of my feet on grit, but the snow, still laying out over everything, seems to muffle most other sounds excepting for the one or two that are sharper to my 16 ear than they might otherwise be; silence and birdsong, calling and answering each other, and just for a moment the world good and clean. If I could just stay right here, with nothing but the birds and the trees to contend with, and this cold, sharp air that numbs everything, I might be okay. The woodpecker gives up on me and starts pulling at loose bark, getting at something good to eat. I stop to watch him for a moment before the cold slides up my legs and presses at the bones behind my ears.
About a half hour after I leave Beau, the road widens and the trees thin out, and I find myself coming out into the open, the tarmac road widening out and sloping away towards a long, low row of square, flat-fronted stores and buildings. Thereās a white striped painted crossroad, but only one of the crossings seems to take you anyplace. The other leads you straight into a big old pine-mulched bed of shrubs, weighed down with snow. The square, brick, building on the corner, white paint peeling off of it everywhere you look, has a patchwork of bright painted murals telling you to LOVE where you LIVE historic Horse Neck Creek donāt drink and drive, yāall! Aside from that, thereās not a whole lot else to see.
I look about for the striped awning Beau showed me before and follow his directions to Leviās Bar and Grill. It stands in a dirty old parking lot, set back from the kerbside, with overfilled dumpsters and oil spills and who knows what else staining the paving. The whole place looks tired-er than me and just as used to it. There aināt no windows, and the metal door must be a security service put up after the bailiffs come in. I take a moment to wonder if Beau and Evangeline was messing with me; Leviās long dead and gone and nobodyās home; nobodyās looking for help. But fixed above the flat roof is a red, neon sign, fizzing a little every now and then and telling me this here is Leviās and thereās an arrow swooping down towards the beat-up metal door to emphasise the point.
Now I wouldnāt put it past that salty car mechanic to mess with a stranger for her own type of fun, but I canāt think it of Beau, so I pull at the door and it opens easy enough into a storm lobby papered all over with flyers telling about hardwood for sale, a deal on a four by four with trailer, and an All U Can Eat Pit Barbecue long since passed. Tacked up onto the glass in the saloon door is a piece of paper reading: Last day to sign up for this monthās grocery run is the 21st, thatās THIS COMING THURSDAY folks! Sorry! NO exceptions! Thanks for helping us make this happen! Lark and Belle x. Somebody has drawn a little smiley face and heart next to their names.
Inside tells a whole different story to the sorry tale outside in the parking lot. Itās a big, dark, barroom, but lit nice, with green and red coloured glass shades. Itās longer than it is wide with framed photos over the walls of folks having wholesome, country-style fun and thereās a signed photo of what looks like it might be the inside of this very bar, with a band playing at one end. I stand real still, enjoying the warm and slowly notice the signs of life; quiet sounds of busy; clatter of dishes, bottles in crates being moved about and musicāradio maybeā coming up the back stairs. As you might expect, thereās a long, dark-wood bar, beat and scuffed up, running all along the back wall, fronted by āaināt no surprises hereāslat-backed, padded leatherette bar stools swivelled towards a wall-hung TV over in the corner. I soon see it aināt the only one in here; thereās numbers of them. Theyāre all over the damn place.
I call out towards the sounds of bottles being moved about and after a couple more hollers, a hefty fella in a green Gettin' Lucky in Kentucky t-shirt rolls through the doorway, behind the bar, and wipes his top lip with the back of his hand. āā¦do for you?ā he says, swallowing the front part of his sentence, and for a moment there I forget what Iām doing here. Or maybe Iām having second thoughts.
Levi tells me he has an opening for evening bar work, which suits me fine, and while he explains how the place works and how much he pays, I try and work out how long itāll take me to earn enough to get my van fixed and move on. I give up after a minute, on account of how Levi calculates what he pays; they got minimum wage here in Kentucky, but, he says, as though I might start reading him my rights, the law says he donāt need to pay it if thereās tips involved.
āIāll have you working the bar and youāre in control, see?ā he says. āItāll incentivise youāyou know what that means? Itāll incentivise you to be decent to my customers.ā
An older woman, beech-nut coloured hair done up like sheās going someplace, straightens from over the other side of the bar where sheās been setting up a microphone and messing with some tables and chairs. āThe law says,ā she calls out, in a friendly voice. āThe law says that if your employees donāt make minimum wage with their tips, the employerāthat would be you, Levi, honeyā the employer needs to make it up.ā
She makes her way across the barroom and puts her hand out and I take it in mine. In that instant, I realise I havenāt touched another personās skin in months and it pricks at me, almost makes me dizzy. I take my hand back, stroking at it with my other one. She talks with her hands, and her wrists, loaded as they are with silver and turquoise bracelets, make a fine, jingle-ringing while her hands are non-stop coaxing and shaping the air about her; itās like sheās sketching the pictures of what sheās saying.
āI donāt know you,ā she says to me, as though this is a thing of wonder. She looks me over, head to toe and back again and smiles. āIām Belle and if you have any questions or suggestions, you just come on over and talk to me.ā
Sheās tall, a big woman, almost looks me right in the eye and itās a real seeing look she gives; I look away. So, this is Belle.
āIs this here your place too, maāam?ā I ask.
āMercy, no!ā She laughs, and I get a flash of a couple gold teeth. āI have the beauty parlour on Main, thatās my baby. But Iām here a good deal of the time, just like everybody else. Leviās is the front porch of our town.ā That makes me smile and she smiles right back. āNow before you head out, come and help me move these tables and tell me a little something about yourself.ā
Sheās turned and walking back to her arrangement. I look at Levi, wondering if weāre done. āI know better than to get in her way,ā he says. āIāll see you back here tomorrow night, 5pm. Donāt let me down.ā
*
Alabama Chrome, by Mish Cromer, is a story about found family and the stories we tell ourselves and each other, set in a tiny rural town. When Cassidy's campervan breaks down, he gets a job at a bar in town and just kind of stays there. This is a story about a drifter, and so the story drifts. There's not really any tension for most of the novel, instead we follow Cassidyās aimless movements as he settles in and gets to know the other residents. Most of this is a slice-of-life, as we watch characters going about their lives in this rural town.
I love the kind of novel that explores found family and complex friendships, and this town is full of memorable, but believable, characters. Sure, itās mainly Cassidyās story, but as Cassidy meets and becomes close to others, we discover their stories too.Ā
A lot of the story deals with inspiration p0rn, those heavily publicized stories of kindness and support. These articles make me feel insane -- why should we be inspired by a teacher giving a lesson from a hospital bed or coworkers donating their own limited sick time to a colleague with cancer? Why do we not see these as evidence of a deeply diseased system? So I found myself disliking the characters who delighted in watching a reality show based on sharing these ārandom acts of kindness,ā and I was relieved to see other characters consider the effects of this show and the situations that require such dramatic aid.Ā
As Alabama Chrome meanders through a depressed, rural town, the novel looks at the poverty and domestic violence that shapes the charactersā lives. There are no facile conclusions here, just an exploration of how one event affects another and the choices we make. In this story, as in our real lives, often there is no good choice that will resolve all the problems well. Our characters are often presented with a series of slightly-less-bad options, which helps develop even the minor characters into flawed, struggling humans.Ā
When the host of the reality show comes to town, planning to make those expected, uplifting conclusions about salt-of-the-earth rural residents, more of Cassidyās past is revealed. There are, again, no smooth conclusions here, instead, thereās an awareness that regrets and traumas of the past can be eased by sharing with friends.