A Hanging At Cinder Bottom by Glenn Taylor

Tiny falls on face, farts

in carefree fashion.

Condemned remarks ‘Amen.’

Yikes. It’s now officially two whole calendar years since I read this one – not literally, but almost literally – so of course the major memories revolve around feelings, as the reality will have been overwritten many, many times by the mythologizing narrative brain functions, like a palimpsest (a word that is woefully under-utilized), or a school desk covered in ancient gouged graffiti extolling the virtues of long-departed teenage girls (or boys) and who is cool, rad, or slays (I am fully up to date with the young people, see). Of course, it’s equally probably that once read, I gave not a single thought to this book until now. In either outcome, there is a problem – how to truly and faithfully recall a) what the hell it was about, and b) what I thought about it.

So, of course, I performed an internet search (other, MEGACORP-brand options are available), and came up with some handy plot synopses, courtesy of Southern Literary Review and Susan Osborne’s wonderfully succinct A Life In Books. Within these was ample material with which to refresh my tired mind, and so here I go, consequences be damned.

With recent-ish conversations in mind of corporate greed, the usurping of true power by nameless entities devoted to division of the labor market to prevent unionization and collective bargaining, it became clear that despite this book ostensibly being about the relationship between a rascally gambler and card sharp The Keystone Kid (Abe Baach) and his lovely, resourceful and indomitable, if improbably monikered, partner, Goldie Toothman, it is in fact about the abuse of position and wealth in a poor community in the coal belt. Mayor Trent is a classic industry baron, stepping on the heads of the ‘honest’ working class schmucks like Abe’s long-suffering father Al – this Virginian Boss Hogg even has his own Roscoe P. Coltrane in “Tiny” Rutherford, the corpulent and flatulent sheriff, whose very much timely demise is announced by his own petard at the opening of the novel at the titular hanging. Cinder Bottom itself is the poor area of town where the cinders from the mining processes coat the street.

M. Glenn Taylor, author of my brother’s favorite ever novel, The Ballad of Trenchmouth Taggart makes clear his disdain for the managed decline of formerly industrial areas in his acknowledgements, naming the real McDowell County and shaming the local, federal, and national authorities for its continuing poverty and misery. That said, the medium of his disdain is on the surface quite a fun read, with plenty of larks and capers to keep you entertained. From the scenes of their execution, the story jumps back in time to when Abe’s dad Al Baach and his friend Vic Moon first arrive in Keystone and encounter pantomime villain Henry Trent. Exposition, exposition, and then Abe comes along, middle son, exposition, exposition, some poker and high jinx, plans for a heist, and so on. Abe has plans to make himself rich at the expense of Trent, to redistribute the wealth a little more equally, although in reality this doesn’t extend far beyond his own family. To be fair, my memory is still poor, lacking a lot of the detail, but this section invokes very little of the feels that mean some books are deservedly remembered. In fact, apart from a vague memory of a hot air balloon and the emptying of a famous safe, I can’t even recall the ending.

Huh. Do I recall some dramatic tension between Abe and Goldie? Are there suggestions their union will falter? I expect so, otherwise what would be the point of the relationship, plot-wise; but that may be the latent (and very, very dormant) writer in me projecting.

In the metaphorical Arboretum of Southern Literary endeavor – Southern Literary Review posits a similarity to that stunning decorative sakura that is John Kennedy Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces, at which I scoff in dismay – I am not certain this will uproot any of the great Champion trees to take their places. It’s now about ten years old (at time of writing) so if it hasn’t appeared on any awards lists or in your algorithmically curated reading lists, I would say the internet has passed its judgement. However, this shit sandwich needs some bread on top – I wouldn’t advise against giving it a go. It’s a fun turn of the (20th) century American tale, worthy of a side-mission in Red Dead Redemption (1 or 2, I don’t mind).

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