I had the privilege, in my youth, to view the very heart of the world as it evolved from a stark, pale slave of tradition to a shining maelstrom of lurid recklessness. It was late winter of 1921 when I moved to New York from the pastoral recesses of South Carolina, a hopeful graduate of the College of Charleston. Only twenty-two, but grown bitter in the trenches of France during the Great War, I sought a place in the bright prospects of a new decade, in the ostentatious glamour of the city's wealth and business. I came north with the dream of making an overnight millionaire of myself, or at least something near to it, with a pretty girl and a modern monstrosity of a house. However, as I was quick to discover, money was not as easily made in the city if the person looking to make it had any sort of morals. After about six months of working odd jobs with little profit, I realized when a man did not have money himself, he often was left to work for those who did. I was forced to settle for the latter—if only temporarily—and became a manservant, working in the home of a fellow who possessed the excessive wealth for which I so longed.
It was mid May of 1922 when I began working at Gatsby's enormous mansion on West Egg. I was hired on to work at his lavish parties of increasing renown—every weekend, as the days grew longer and the breezes milder, the house of the mysterious Mr. J. Gatsby would emanate a ferocious cacophony of music and human uproar. The partygoers would arrive in the evening, an endless rotation of vehicles through the mansion's drive, guests of every age, walk of life, race, and status. The only semblance of uniformity among Mr. Gatsby's guests was their unbridled temerity, present upon their arrival and exacerbated by the copious amounts of illegal liquor I was paid to serve on delicate round platters.
Often unnoticed as only a butler amidst New York City's most colorful crowd, the rumors and intrigue that followed Gatsby's name like a shadow ceased to shock me after a few weeks of working for him. Mr. Gatsby was accused of everything from bootlegging alcohol to being family with the German Kaiser Wilhelm. Many questioned the legitimacy of his purported military heroics and Oxford degree. But no rumor could compare to the wantonness I saw at every party. I found each man and woman who made wild guesses at Gatsby's corruption to appear infinitely more flawed than what I'd seen of the man himself.
No one paid much attention to the servant; it was as if I was not an actual person, merely a receptacle with which to burden the necessary labor required for Gatsby's grand parties. In my presence, lips were looser, actions more open, and emotions more apparent. From this vantage point, I was the unsuspected observer of every scandalous romance playing out in Gatsby's upstairs rooms, every fistfight, underhand deal, and act of revenge. I came to realize the people who appeared in Mr. Gatsby's halls each weekend night—who drank his liquor and made unwarranted claims of understanding the famous Jay Gatsby's immorality—were more corrupt themselves.
The parties continued into the summer—until one weekend, without any warning or apparent cause, Gatsby's house remained silent and empty. I had woken before sunrise, as I usually did on Fridays, to begin the preparations for the night's upcoming party. Typically, I would busy myself unpacking the crates of fresh fruit Gatsby ordered for cocktails, and helping to decorate the forty-odd acres of Gatsby's property. However, on that day, there was none of the usual bustle of uniformed butlers to ready the enormous mansion for its weekly festivities.
Searching for the other workers, I found myself in Mr. Gatsby's immense home. My footsteps echoed in the emptiness of the mansion, tripping through the immaculate halls in hopes of an explanation to the morning's stillness. I passed an unfamiliar man, dressed in the robin's egg blue of Gatsby's servants, but with an unscrupulous expression about his features as he mopped the tile floor. I stared ahead, not meeting the man's eye, and continued towards voices that I could suddenly discern in the early silence of the house.
Turning a corner, I could see a line of men, dressed in the same uniform as myself and the suspicious man I had just seen, but with distinct looks of dread discoloring their complexions. Mr. Gatsby, whom I recognized only from photographs hanging in his study, stood before them, an apologetic look apparent on his face. Coming closer, I moved into line with the others, Gatsby's announcement coming into earshot.
"…you have served me well, but at the present, I feel that it is necessary to relieve you of your house management duties. Your final payment will arrive by mail within the next week, and before leaving you may deposit your uniforms to the care of the new household staff," Gatsby paused. "Thank you for your work." Gatsby glanced down, seeming somewhat discomfited, before moving to shake our hands as we numbly filed out.
I felt frozen with shame and disbelief. I could not think of a single thing I had done to warrant unemployment, and now I was…I had nothing. I had come to New York in search of my own millions, and Gatsby's house was the closest I had gotten. I did not know what to do, if I should remain in New York, scrounging odd jobs amidst the thrum of urban success, or if I should return home, head hung low, to the lukewarm comfort of my Southern farming family.
Preoccupied by my reeling thoughts, I wandered out on Mr. Gatsby's beach, staring out over the glassy water of the Manhasset Bay to East Egg, my gaze drifting over the Georgian-style Colonial estates of the long-wealthy. Longing once again for money of my own, my eye caught on a wavering green flash, a light blinking on the end of a dock across the bay. I counted its beats and dreamt of a future in which I was my own Gatsby, with more money than the legend himself. The light seemed a shooting star upon which to wish; its distance was fitting. My dream of wealth was near enough to observe—in the halls of Gatsby's house, the homes of those across the bay, and the wallets of Gatsby's guests—but had never been farther from my own grasp.
As I turned from the water and began walking back up Gatsby's drive, I was passed by a black car, resplendent in its luxury. The car pulled up before Gatsby's front door, and I watched Mr. Gatsby walk out to greet its passenger. She was a younger woman, blonde bob adorned with a jeweled hair band, wearing an elaborately-patterned dress that was the style of those days. There was an air of expense about her, and even from a distance, I could see the emotion veiled in Gatsby's gaze as looked upon her, helping her from the car and gently pressing her hand to his lips. Slowly, I spun around, my feet heavy with the realization that I no longer played even the smallest of parts in their fantastical opulence. I was forever destined to dream of living their life in the warm heart of society, while I shivered on the fringes of lavish existence.