Gatsby.
The introduction of him into my life changed everything. I need to get that across quickly and clearly before I continue.
West Egg, where Jay and I lived, was not the elegant side. It was gaudy, and loud. East Egg, with Tom and Daisy Buchanan, was more desirable. Tom a friend, Daisy family, and both rather rich compared to me, Nick the bond man.
I wasn't close with either at the start.
But by the end, the end of the happy period, I knew Daisy inside and out. She had told me everything, with the way she acted and the way she moved around that man.
Gatsby.
He was a man of entertainment. His parties were well known for being both rowdy and the best. He was rich, we thought, and surely he had to be happy. No one truly knew who he was; he kept to himself despite the excitement crawling all over his house and yard. There were rumors, of course.
"He killed a man."
"He was a bootlegger."
"He was a German spy."
But none of them were true, of course.
Jay Gatsby wasn't truly his name. It was James Gatz. He was the son of farmers, never rich until he met a man one day when he was seventeen years old. But he had a reputation to uphold, he couldn't tell anyone about his past. Because Daisy was a rich girl, wouldn't love a poor man. So he thought.
Daisy was beautiful. She didn't walk, she floated. She didn't have relationships, only flings. Gatsby was a man she loved once upon a dream. She forgot, at least a little bit. He couldn't. He gave up so much for her. He moved for her, he waited for her. He spent countless hours finding a way to get to her. He loved her, and thought she loved him too. His love was like falling into Niagara Falls. He fell fast for her, and he drowned in it.