The Cause

I sat and stared at my finger nails inspecting them as though they were some great work of art full of fascinating detail. In a way I guess they were but still it was a stupid thing to do. I sat on the veranda of my beautiful cottage with that beautiful mansion to my right and the soft lapping of the sea coming from behind the house. But looking up just hurt too much, brought back too many memories. Of Daisy, of Tom, of that drunken night in the cramped New York apartment; it reminded me of the parties, the sneak easy, the car rides, the drink. It reminded me of Jordan and even more so of him.

I had just returned from telling Jordan I couldn't see her any more. It had hurt more than I expected; not because I loved her because as bad as I felt I never had, no that wasn't it. Part of me knew, I guess, that it was because that by leaving her it really was over. I pulled my gaze from my hands and looked up at the building to my right. It was beautiful, it really was but without all the lights, the glitter and the music streaming from the doors it seemed derelict, alone, sad.

How did this happen? Why did this happen? I guess it was coming back from New York. Daisy racing through the Valley of Ashes in the yellow car, Myrtle throwing herself into the road thinking it was Tom. Maybe if she hadn't have died this wouldn't have happened but then I don't think even I can convince myself of that now. Before that there was the fight in the Plaza hotel. The shouting, the atmosphere, Jordan and I just sat there in the corner, powerless of calming any of them. Then before that there was the journey to New York. Tom, Jordan and I sat in the yellow car; Tom driving so fast and so recklessly that I was sure we would end up dead. Before that there was the party and before that there was Gatsby's hospitality to me, his neighbour, who up until that point had just watched lustily from afar. There was obviously my loose connection to Daisy but I had never had that much to do with her. We were only cousins after all. There was me moving here but that was only the beginning of this for me.

For Tom it was Gatsby moving to West Egg in the hope that he would one day see her again, holding the extravagant parties with the view of catching her after she had wandered in drunk. Or maybe, for Tom it was before that, maybe it was his wedding to the Bride who cried tears of regret not joy as she came down the aisle. But how could he know of that, he did not know her history. Then for Daisy the start of all this was that summer romance of 17. He was perfect to her; she was in love, totally, completely, head over heels. And he was to but he never wrote. The Army and his pride tore them apart.

And yet for Gatsby it had come before this, before Daisy, before War, before Tom and before me. For him it had been growing up poor in the Midwest. Being born James Gats the poor not Jay Gatsby the Great. For him it was the continuous battle for the unachievable, the American dream. Daisy just slotted in nicely at first but soon she meant so much more. She overtook the dream and became a whole new one herself. If he had left her, if he had moved on; he would have achieved the dream, found a new girl who 'slotted in nicely' and I would never have met him. I would have escaped. Little I can do now about it. It was obviously the hand of God that guided him to Daisy. Instead I am sat here; packing boxes stacked around my feet the wave of memories lapping of memories in my ear as loud as the lapping of the sea. I have only the bottle on the table for solace and, as I reach out and grasp the neck, the smell of warm whisky drifting, unappealingly to my nostrils, I realise it is now my last hope.