It has been fifteen years since the vivacious light of Jay Gastby was extinguished. His memory soon faded, his legacy merely a dazzling drunken night enjoyed by most of West Egg. He became no more than a rumbling among Long Island society; the gossip at a party when the conversation grew as stale as the alcohol. Even his lavish home, once overflowing with life and vitality, had lost its grandeur. It remains abandoned to this day, overcrowded with lost dreams and unfulfilled vows. At one time, taxis would slow in front of the residence as individuals would reminisce about one "splendid night" or to shake their head when they took a singular moment to remember the unsettling tragedy. Yet it was always the murder that occupied people's thoughts; they never quite took an instance to think back to the actual man- that shallow but profound fellow, their mysterious but passionate contemporary- for none of them truly knew the Great Gatsby. I realize calling myself Gatsby's best friend is an exaggeration I am not willing to succumb to. No one could honestly claim that title, for Gatsby never properly bestowed it upon one man's conscience. However, unlike many, I was permitted to enter deeper into his fantasy than most. Witnessing what occurred that Summer made it easier to comprehend the torturous details that made Gatsby untouchable and were in the end, his downfall.
Eventually, those Saturday's in the city became too much to bear. "After Gatsby's death the East became haunted for me, distorted beyond my eyes power of correction" (Fitzgerald 176). Sitting on a barstool one evening, sipping my martini slowly and becoming entwined in a sensuous piece of jazz, there he was. I couldn't spend a moment without Gatsby following me through the bustling streets, staring at me from across a smoke filled nightclub, or riding next to me as I drove cautiously past my favorite venues. Being blinded by the rapturous city lights was never enough to put forth his image from my sight. So in a way, it was satisfying to return home to St. Paul, no longer stalked by his presumptuous figure. The Midwest provided me with a necessary escape, and soon I chose a different pathway of employment to accompany my enhanced pastoral way of living. My time on The Yale News sparked my current curiosity on whether I was as literary as once boasted. After finding work at a local newspaper, I soon found myself indulging in freelance pieces and the occasional editorial. Pulling myself away from the bond business was something I never looked upon with regret, especially after the homicidal market crash. And there was nothing more I wanted to elude than money in careless hands. Soon, I also resolved myself to the expected domestic lifestyle. Within two years of Gatsby's death I was married and became a father not long after. Within five more years that life had vanished, nothing left but an open door and a resounding silence. The life of a family man never settled well with me, I was far too removed, a permanent observer at the world around me. There was a constant sense that the life was happening around- never to- me. And so, peaceful isolation was my constant companion those following years. Yet memories relentlessly flooded into my home like party guests, overstaying their welcome and unwilling to leave.
In one instance, while there is no clear definition of the 'close' relationship shared between Gatsby and myself, I felt it my duty to keep in contact with Mr. Gatz. Every now and then I would receive a sad letter from the wearied old man. Perhaps he felt just as obligated as I to withhold a connection, less for my sake but for Gatsby's. By acknowledging the sole individual whom he believed cared for his son, he did not have to face a harsh reality, that perhaps he had harbored false pride in someone he had not known for a life time. Even so, the money from the Gatsby's estate allowed Mr. Gatz to carry out the rest of his life in comfort, though I doubted he had any real interest in the glorious fortune bequeathed to him. In his letters, the senior Gatz would refrain from trivial items concerning his everyday pursuits, but rather he would share memories concerning my former neighbor's early life, fractions of an unwritten biography. "He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power...Jimmy was bound to get ahead" (168). My responses were polite and at times I would share what precious few memories I had of Gatsby, editing the more compromising events composing the majority of his son's life. The letters eventually evolved more sporadically until one brisk autumn morning, just as the leaves became tinted a lucid red, an envelope arrived. Its contents contained a note which read:
Mr. Carraway,
It is my sad duty to inform you of Mr. Gatz's death. His health had been failing for some time and it came as no surprise when he passed. He specifically requested near the end that you receive this photograph.
Sincerely,
Graham Scotts, Mr. Gatz's Attorney
Indeed it was the same antiquated image of Gatsby's home Mr. Gatz had shown off so proudly the day of his son's burial. It was even more tattered than when I last encountered it, and I was surprised it remained intact throughout its journey here. Nevertheless, I still carry it in my wallet to this very day, out of respect for James Gatz, a young man whom I never had the pleasure of becoming acquainted .
My work fueled my distasteful but continuous fascination with the past. For years, even during my marriage, I scouted the presses for Jordan's name. It would occasionally arise after a prominent tournament or some more seemingly prominent scandal. I believe she was married at one time, maybe even twice, but I was never discouraged. Her wandering spirit refused to let her be caged for long. When a picture of Miss Baker was published, a sense of relief overwhelmed me. That enchanting personage and intense eyes peering from behind the ink were close enough to offer me release; but far enough from me to remember the world which I never wished to belong to. It was the world I would be damned if I was to be a part of. Still, I regretted that I never had a chance to encounter Jordan's alluring quality again, for she eventually encountered another reckless driver on the streets of New York. Those clipping still reside in the bottom drawer of my desk.
As for the Buchanans, I remained aloof from them as best I could. A Christmas card every year containing an impersonal greeting was our only connection. Once, a trip to the city on business for my editor led me to a final glance at Tom. To some relief I avoided him. Besides, he was evidently occupied, his arm draped conspicuously around the bare shoulders of a stimulating redhead. It wasn't until after the Stock Market plummeted, that he began to refrain from such levity. Tom lost a vast fortune in his investments, and it was rumored among East Egg society that he hit the bottle with unstoppable fervor paralleled with roguish abuse of his wife. No longer did either of the Buchanan's show their faces at upscale gatherings, as they were forced to sell their home and retreat to more humble accommodations. In the end, Tom, no doubt inebriated, took a loaded handgun, cocked the weapon with a somber 'click', placed the barrel carefully in his mouth, and finally ended the charade. His obituary received a prominent headline in St. Paul's local circulation, alerting me to the loss. I sent my condolences to Daisy, but did not attend the funeral. I don't believe I could summon the sincere sympathy one must possess at such an event. What became of the Mrs. Late Tom Buchanan, few can say. Some believe she returned home to Louisville, while others are convinced she now scours the globe with reckless desire. Despite where she may or may not be, she has fallen victim to an inevitable fate, to remain unobtainable for those who wish to possess her.
And so it was then that I decided to return one last time to New York, and confront the few demons that still inhabited its boroughs. I meant it only to be a short visit, for the sake of my well being I don't think I was capable of anything more. After arriving my means of the train, it was my decision to walk the crowded streets alone. The low grumble of the city and unwavering movement was sobering, keeping me levelheaded in the midst of such memories. My first destination was not only Gatsby's but my old abode. Mine seemed just the same, now occupied with new tenants, most likely blissfully content with their absent neighbor. Gatsby's on the other hand exhibited a surprising yet familiar quality it once had, bringing back the recollection of my first party at the magnificent palace.
A wafer of moon was shining over Gatsby's house, making the night fine as before, and surviving the laughter and sound of his still glowing garden. A sudden emptiness seemed to flow now from the windows and the great doors, endowing with complete isolation the figure of the host, who stood on the porch, his hand up in a formal gesture of farewell (55).
It was this same loneliness that pervaded from the mansion this very moment, as if desperately seeking someone to love and care for it, much like its former occupant. I didn't even bother searching for the green light by means of the old dock. Its purpose had long ago become obsolete, and its broken promise to Gatsby forced me to behold it in disfavor. After surveying many more distracting buildings and clubs, I decided it time to conclude my tour with its final destination.
The cemetery seemed foreboding, not in a sense of the superstitious fears one expects to surround such a place, but the feeling of unworthiness I experienced treading upon such hallowed ground. Sunlight had been growing dimmer each hour this day, and by now gray clouds blanketed the sky in despair. With hands buried deep within the recesses of my pockets, I climbed the grassy hill to Gatsby's grave. The tombstone was weathered and no flowers adorned this particular site. "Dammit," I thought as I remembered the forgotten carnations that lay atop my dresser at home. Putting my frustration aside I knelt before headstone and ran my fingers along the name of a forgotten...friend. Unanticipated, those final words to Gatsby surfaced from the cavernous depths of my thoughts, "'They're a rotten crowd,' I shouted across the lawn. 'You're worth the whole damn bunch put together.' I've always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever gave him" (154). I remembered he then shared his parting gift with me when I concluded my rant: that penetrating smile of understanding. It had been a long while since I unwrapped his token of appreciation but now that image of Gatsby seared itself into my morality, never allowing me to forget it again.
I remained crouched, bowing my head in reverence just as a chilling rain began to fall, reminiscent of Gatsby's own final farewell. Lifting my head to the saturated skies, I stood up and pulled my coat collar firmly around me. Making my way down the moist earth to the street in hopes of finding a cab, I took one last look back, not quite sure when or if I would return. Maybe the rain distorted my vision or unexpected emotion had finally struck me, but a phantom of a women now occupied my previous position. "Dai-," but before my mouth could form the word the vision had disappeared. My lips indulged in a vague smile, considering the effect this city once again was having upon me. "Good bye old sport," I whispered before hurrying off into the gathering storm.