Constant Craving

Another Story From the Jukebox

We left Mobile before the sun had made up its mind, her hands easy on the wheel of the beat up F-150 the color of sunset on the Fairhope pier. She never complained, not once, even though the tape deck only played one side of a Lucinda Williams cassette that had warped somewhere around Bay Minette. I just kept my eyes peeled for the next hand-painted sign promising miracles in the form of fried dough.

Constant craving.

First it was the gas station in Loxley with the plywood peach out front. I made her pull over so hard the tires chirped like startled birds. Inside, a woman with a voice like sorghum sold peach fritters still spitting grease. I bought six. Ate three before we hit the highway again, sugar glazing my fingers, sticking to the cracked vinyl seat like guilt.

She glanced over, licked her thumb, wiped a streak of glaze off my chin without comment. Kept driving.

Constant craving.

By the time we crossed the river at Claiborne, the floorboard on my side looked like a crime scene of powdered sugar and shame. She slowed anyway when I spotted the cinder-block joint advertising “World Famous Coconut Pie – One Slice Ruins All Others.” I came back with two slices balanced on paper plates, forks already stabbed in like surrender flags. She took one bite, eyes half-closed, and said, “You know this is how people end up diabetic and happy, right?” Then ate the rest without another word.

Constant craving.

Afternoon folded into that bruised light that only happens south of the gnat line. We headed north. Outside Grove Hill we found a place with a rooster made of hubcaps and a chalkboard screaming BOILED PENUDS. She parked under a pecan tree and waited while I stood in line with loggers and church ladies. Came back with a paper sack steaming like gossip. She cracked the window, let the smell of cayenne and brine roll out into the hot air, and stole half the bag before I could protest.

Constant craving.

Dusk found us crawling through Monroeville, past the courthouse square where Harper Lee probably ate a pie or three. I saw the glow of the Dairy Queen and started bouncing in my seat like a kid who still believes in miracles served soft. She didn’t even sigh, just flipped the blinker and eased into the lot. I ordered a large Heath Blizzard and a peanut buster parfait because decisions are for people with self-control.

We sat on the tailgate while the sky went purple and gold, spoons clacking against those weird plastic cups. Fireflies stitched the dark together. Nearby a jukebox was playing a song about Mama’s home cookin. She licked chocolate off her wrist, looked at me sideways.

“You gonna run out of room in there one day,” she said, tapping my chest with the back of her spoon.

I shrugged, mouth full of candy and cold. “Not tonight.”

Constant craving.

She fired the truck up again, Lucinda crackling back to life, and we rolled south through the pine dark toward whatever came next. My belt was already negotiating surrender, but my eyes stayed sharp, scanning the shoulders for the next flickering neon promise. “Keep looking,” she said. “I’m in no hurry.”

Constant craving.

“What’s that place over in Folly?”

“Foley,” she corrects, soft as forgiveness. “Lambert’s. Throwed rolls and pies to make a preacher cuss.” The Ford’s already nosing south like it heard the rumor. She hits the turn lane, sugar tremors dancing in my knees.

Constant craving.

We blow past the Tanger Outlets doing a respectable eighty, Lucinda still croaking about fruits you can’t get back. The sign appears sudden as grace: HOME OF THROWED ROLLS in letters big enough to read from the space station. She wheels us into the gravel lot like she’s parking a getaway car, dust blooming up around the tires like applause.

Inside it smells like yeast and drumsticks. Waitresses in suspenders sling steaming rolls across the room like major-league closers. One sails over three tables and lands in my outstretched paw, so hot I need an oven mitt. Butter melts faster than regret.

I order the pumpkin pie without even looking at the menu. It arrives taller than my shortcomings, spiced within an inch of its life, crust flaky enough to make a fellow consider religion. She watches me take the first bite, eyes crinkled, like she’s witnessing a minor resurrection.

“Told you,” she says, stealing the second fork before I can protest.

Constant craving.

We sit there while the rolls keep flying overhead like slow, delicious artillery. Outside, the Alabama night presses its face against the humid windows. My stomach is a battlefield of triumph and surrender, but the pie is gone and the plate looks licked clean by angels. She wipes a streak of whipped cream off my lip with her thumb, pops it in her mouth, and grins.

“Still room for the ride home?” she asks.

I lean back, belt already whimpering, and nod toward the door. She stands, tips an imaginary cap to the waitress, and we walk out into the bug-whine dark, two sugar-drunk pilgrims staggering toward the truck.

Constant craving.

The Ford fires up faithful as ever. Somewhere down the road there’s more pie, more neon, more night. She backs out slow, headlights cutting tunnels through the heat.

“Keep your hands up,” she says. “Next one’s coming in hot.” And we roll.

The tape finally gives up outside of Robertsdale, Lucinda dissolving into a long, wounded hiss that sounds like every goodbye we never said out loud. Neither of us moves to change it. The silence that follows is comfortable, two people deciding the night belongs to them.

I’m slumped against the door, belly tight as a drum, sugar buzzing behind my eyes like a hive of drunk bees. The pumpkin pie sits in me like a nutmeg cavalry. My fingers still smell like cinnamon and butter and whatever Grace is made of when it’s served on a plate.

Constant craving.

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Every week, we write about a story that pours out of the jukebox. Like chocolate gravy. Check the link, and join in the fun!

Constant Craving