It was nearly 1918 by the time I got here. Louisiana was a desert in Winter, but Long Island was a tundra. My mother encouraged me to pack my bags, but my father was less than proud when I did. I used to think subconsciously they favored my sisters more than me, the one of four that always was ready to be in the right place at the wrong time. My mother named me Josefina after my great grandmother, and I'd always loathed it. My sisters got the beautiful names Hazel, Rose, and Alice. I remember I even found a distaste in the way it was written on my name-pin that I had to wear every day of the week to work at the tailor shop shoved between a barber and a bank that could give in any day now.
Present day October of 1922, I'm still sitting in this little shop that is taking its time to fill my pocket and forces me to keep my eyes open until the dark of night when I must race across town to my second pay that is about as close to my ambition as it gets. First I am stitching the wounds of a shirt of a man who probably didn't much have to work for its fine cotton, and then I continue to serve the upper class in a speakeasy singing songs everyone knows are the usuals. Life was fine and busy until the day of Halloween when I retreated home early for a change of apparel, taking the filthy train with a usual who always made eyes at me much to my discomfort. I took my step off just at the apartments before the entry of the bridge headed for the Valley of Ashes as I hustle my way up the steps and straight to my room on the highest floor above a café and desolate little grocery outlet. I hardly put the key into the golden lock of my chipping door before my sisters appeared as if by a puff of smoke at my side. "Josie!" they took turns saying as they gripped my face, kissing my cheek or hugging my abdomen with abnormal strength. "You never gave me a call, I would have cleaned up-" I didn't have a chance to finish my sentence before I was practically forced through the door of my little apartment and into the cushion of my sofa. "Oh, Josie, it doesn't matter. We have something urgent to say!" Rose, the oldest, claimed. "Mama's passed," Hazel said. A sinking feeling set in my chest as I lowered my weight into the small couch, a frown stitched on my face. "What?" I mumbled. "Papa was with her, we didn't get to see her," Alice then broke in. "But there's a will-" "Our mother just died and you want to talk about a will?" I interrupted Rose. Rose shut her mouth as I got to my feet, seeing the way my eyes began to glaze over.
"With you three it's always about the money. Do you know what our father would say if he heard you?" I snapped. "Papa gets half, and so do we, Josefina. With your condition living out here alone you need it!" Rose retorted. "You're not even the slightest bit upset?" I asked. "We are, Josie. Honest. And as morbid as it sounds...mama's passing means we can have better lives! Grams' inheritance goes to us. Papa was supposed to come tell you all this, but...he's still angry," Hazel added. I looked at my feet and then out the window, trying not to think of the angry faces my father made at me out the window of our sad, old country house just before I left for the train station. He never wrote or called me on the telephone. He was upset and now that mother was gone...so is the last place I was getting my courage from. "Let him be angry, Rose is his pride and joy anyhow," I muttered as I began to grab my clothes from the wardrobe just on the inside of my bedroom as I picked the sweet, golden-colored dress I always wore working on a holiday. "Josie, please don't be upset!" Alice begged me. I shook my head as I changed in front of the mirror and swiftly put my thick and relentless head of curls in a messy updo. "I have work," I replied gruffly as I march toward the door, not wanting them to see me cry for my mother. "Josefina!" Rose snapped. I turn to her at the door. "Rose, I love the lot of you despite your ignorance. But I can't afford to disappoint her. Have fun with your money, I'm going to earn mine like she wishes of me!" I give as a goodbye, slamming the door on my way out.
The barber shop is crowded with gentlemen tonight, all of which know me by name from the speakeasy just beyond a full-size mirror that Mr. McGinley sits at. Prohibition laws are lost and the joy of the bull market are rejoiced behind the stone wall of the concealed tavern, "the Secret," as I pass the bouncer with a polite hello. I adjust my messy and uncontrollable curls as I put in my time card behind the bar counter.
The Follies are dancing and men are roaring drunk as they call me and smile at my presence. I know a few of the regulars who will sometimes give me rides to and from the shop to the Secret, or treat me to a drink after I've done my job of being the lounge singer. It doesn't pay much, but at least I'm in reach of all I've ever wanted. It's typical for one in my position to pray one day someone walks through these doors and hears the lounge singer's voice pleading her to let them take her to something more. I haven't had thoughts like those in a year. Now I'm just a lone wolf simply existing in Long Island. I wave to the bouncer in the very back to turn on the circuit of the mic as I get up on the platform I will spend the next two hours on taking requests and earning what I'm apparently worth. I hear the band play upon my appearance as I smile when I see half my audience clap in recognition of me.
My favorite part of the night has begun as my voice stretches and echoes to the ears of indecent dancing Follies and dancing ladies and gentlemen. I watch people file in from time to time from the overhead entrance that gives the cascading staircase down onto the floors of the speakeasy. I wink and I wave my fingers at the men blowing me kisses and some women who very much don't want the night to end. And then I look up and see a boy looking at me. A boy? A man? Maybe just a man with a boy's face. He doesn't quite seem to know where to go as he removes his Coney Island hat, smiling at the scene as a second man guides him down the staircase roughly gesturing to me and talking although I try to ignore it. I know the man's friend because it's the very one who makes eyes at me on the train I take going job to job at times.
He's picking up where he left off for that matter with those rough eyes that older men get when their head is as big as their stomachs. I keep doing what I'm doing even so.
From six to eight my voice was lent in celebration of the infamous Halloween before I stepped down from my platform, immediately having a drink held in my face. It was none other than my train stranger. "With a voice like that, why aren't you workin' someplace better?" he asked me. I sighed, trying to be polite as I answer, "Believe me I'm trying, excuse me-" "Tom Buchanan," he said, suddenly taking my hand as he kissed it. I nodded. "Hello Tom. I'm going to go take a seat with the bartender if you'll-" "Nick! Get your rear over here!" Tom's loud call interrupted me once more. I watched as the stranger I'd noticed before wandered over with Tom putting a strong arm around his shoulders. "I've been coming for a year to this speakeasy every Friday night just to hear this girl sing and just get a glance at the face capturing a generation's attention. Surely you have a request, I'm sure she doesn't mind," Tom said. "Nick Carraway," the stranger said, extending his hand.
I shake it gently, trying not to squeeze with the amount of irritation Tom was feeding me. "Nick is a writer, not a good one, but a writer!" Tom filled in. "Impressive Nick. I wonder, do you work in the building across from the little tailor shop I work in?" I ask once getting a better glimpse at his face. "I work across from Aunt Regina's, yes!" Nick replies. "Well, you'll let me have the honor of a visit when you need it most then?" I smiled. "I'll do the same," Tom jumped in as he eyed me. I saw the look in Nick's eyes as he slowly looked at Tom whom I took notice of as being a man with a ring on his finger. I say goodbye before Tom can invite me to more than just the one drink, but I see Nick follows me still. "I'm sorry. My friend is a bit of a pest sometimes," he says above the music and loud, competing voices. "It's alright, he's not the first one," I chuckle as I lean on the bar counter. "I have a question!" he begins, "You work in East Egg but I notice your shop does a lot of business in West Egg. Do you know a man named Gatsby?" I turn my head to him in surprise. "Gatsby? I wouldn't think so. But I have heard the name," I reply.
"Have you ever been invited? To his parties?" "No, I stay down in East Egg most of the time. It's my superior that does the business in West Egg. Why do you ask?" "I hear he leaves the celebration up to the public, but...I was invited. Personally," Nick went on in confusion. I tilted my head. "How very strange. I've never been to one. But the fireworks I can see from across the Sound," I tell him. "Well. You should come. I'm Gatsby's neighbor, I'm sure I have the ability to bring a guest," Nick then says. I smile slightly. "Well I- I'd love to, Nick, but I might be working that night," I sighed. "Well. You'll think about it," Nick says. I nod as I watch him tip his cap to me and walk off to find his friend Tom.