Work Text:
verse one
On Gladys’s fifteenth birthday, her mother calls her “a pretty little pixie,” but her father says, “That girl is in the clouds.” Gladys does not feel like a girl in the clouds. She feels like a girl in the ocean, suspended, her black hair floating around her face like ink through water.
Gladys sits cross-legged on the grass, dog-earring pages of her favorite books. She clutches her books like contraband.
She imagines herself as chaos, waiting to give birth to a dancing star. She will be Hunter S. Thompson, drinking in the San Juan sunshine; she will be Mountain Girl, tripping on a speeding bus; she will be Martha Gellhorn, carrying stretchers after battle. Gladys blows dandelion fluff into the breeze and recites, “Throw your dreams into space like a kite.”
verse two
Gladys sits on the side of the highway, a backpack full of books in her lap. She meets a man, twenty-three to her sixteen. His name, Forsythe Pendleton Jones the Second, reminds her of the country club, where the boys danced a Bible’s length apart from her. But those boys had soft hands, and this man’s fingertips prickle.
FP‘s hands smell like cigarettes, and his eyes are the color of rum. (Gladys has never seen rum before.) He wears a leather jacket and carries a silver lighter. The lighter is engraved: “FPJ II” alongside the American flag. She kisses him, pressing one palm over a snake tattoo and the other over a shrapnel scar. (Gladys has never kissed a boy before.)
FP tells her about his town, where he was a football star and an outlaw king. He teaches her about serpents. He says, “Hold on tight” as they ride his motorcycle down the highway, and her black hair floats around her face. She is flying through the clouds.
verse three
Gladys hops off FP’s motorcycle, adrenaline numbing her fingertips. She is a wife, and they’ve reached their town. He leads her into a quarry to write “FPJ II <3 GJ” on the rockface. He says, “I love you, Gladys. I love you. You’ll be the making of me.” While Springsteen sings about gamblers, they sway under the moonbeams; FP leaves no space between their bodies.
They will be Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow, living happily-ever-after instead; they will be Ava Gardner and Frank Sinatra, shooting out store windows because they can; they will be Johnny Cash and June Carter, their lust burning like a ring of fire.
Later, they walk into a bar, glowing with neon light. When FP closes his fingers over hers on the pool cue, the ball rolls into the side pocket, and Gladys says, “This is my dream, caught in my hand.”
verse four
Gladys’s face is round, and her belly is round. She is no longer a pretty little pixie. She thumbs through the encyclopedia and learns that FP does not know much about serpents.
She walks alone into the neon light to find him holding a bottle of rum. An outlaw king hands FP a switchblade and sends him away on business. It will be weeks before FP returns, pockets full of damp and crumpled tens and twenties.
As soon as her husband is gone, Gladys stumbles into the quarry. She touches the writing on the rockface, “FPJ II <3 AS,” adrenaline numbing her fingertips. She knows the bitterness is filling her womb; the chaos will give birth to ashes.
verse five
Gladys tells her husband’s regal lover, “That will be $19.84, ma’am.” She ties back her black hair. She is no longer a girl. She is a mother.
When she returns home, her son hands her a picture frame, and dry macaroni falls onto the carpet. The boy asks, “Why do serpents live in flowerpots?” He signs his sloppy crayon drawing “FPJ 3,” smiling, crooked, like his father does. (They haven’t seen FP in five weeks.) Outside, the neighbor’s children sing, “Jughead, jughead, big ears, small head.”
Gladys opens her hand, and her dreams fall onto the carpet.
verse six
Gladys’s face is round, and her belly is round. FP wears a Sherpa jacket, and his hands smell like wood dust. He takes her to a diner where they sip one milkshake from two straws. FP smiles, crooked, lifts a cherry to her mouth, and says, “Your lips are the same red.” Later, while Springsteen sings about lovers, they sway under the sunbeams; FP leaves no space between their bodies.
They will be Ethel and Norman Thayer, holding hands by a golden pond; they will be Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward, kissing in the summer heat; they will be Anne and Gilbert Blythe, laughing with their passel of children. Gladys knows the hope is filling her womb, and she will finally give birth to a dancing star.
verse seven
It is Gladys’s daughter’s eighth birthday. Her mother calls her “my pretty little pixie,” but her father calls her “jellybean.” (FP is home for the first time in five weeks.) Her older brother, Jughead, is growing into a man.
Gladys shudders when he smiles, crooked. Jughead wears a Sherpa jacket and a crown hat, though his father is no outlaw king. Gladys knows Jughead will soon be in leather, riding down the highway with a girl on the back of his motorcycle. Never mind that he clutches books like contraband; there will be a switchblade in his hand, and his pockets will fill with damp and crumpled tens and twenties.
Gladys abandons the books in her backpack. She forgets the clouds. She wants to sink into the ocean, suspended, her black hair floating around her face like ink through water.
verse eight
Gladys rides a rickety bus up the highway. It is her thirty-second birthday. She is no longer a wife. She is half a mother. She clutches the girl (her pretty little pixie, her dancing star) like contraband. Soon they will sit cross-legged together on the grass, blowing dandelion fluff into the breeze. She will recite, “I am Gladys Jones. That will have to be enough.”