"I thought of Gatsby's wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy's dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him…"
F. Scott Fitzgerald, 'The Great Gatsby'
I must admit that I am no longer a young man. Days seem to run together, and I have found that the smeared ink of yesterday is sometimes difficult to discern from the blur that is last week, or last year. That isn't to say that I'm unhappy, though; the oblivion of old age is actually quite pleasant.
And yet, despite the fact that my memories have swirled and converged into the great, amorphous mass that constitutes my lifetime, I am unable to forget the fateful summer of 1922. This particular summer is burned indelibly into my mind; I find myself returning, time and time again, to thoughts of a yellow car, a woman with a musical voice, an invitation written in a majestic hand…
I suppose it is ironic that the memory of Gatsby is what continues to draw me into the past. I, however, have no desire to repeat it—in fact, I've run from it. I do not regret leaving the emptiness of West Egg behind, but I fear that refusing to look back is just as dangerous as refusing to move on.
Gatsby never got the chance to tell me about the day he first picked out the green light, so I have attempted to pen it myself. I hope that by making peace with his memory, I can find some peace of my own.
It is a selfish hope, but, as I have learned, what are we if not selfish?
N. Carraway
Gatsby awoke as he often did, with the midmorning sun streaming through the large bay window. His heartbeat quickened as, for a moment, he found himself somewhere entirely unfamiliar. But, no, he was at home, sprawled across the colossal master bed in the colossal master bedroom of his colossal mansion. A small smile touched his lips at the thought, and he paused to admire the way his hand slipped over the smooth silk of his sheets. This was the reality of Jay Gatsby's life; it was a life with no place for the threadbare blankets of James Gatz's childhood, a life with a bed as big as all of James Gatz's room.
The marble floor was cool beneath his bare feet as he walked through the cavernous hallway and went downstairs. As he did he couldn't help but imagine how the place would look once she was here with him—then the rooms would be filled with her warm effervescent glow, and the house would ring with the melodic bells of her laugh. At the thought, the timid quirk of his mouth was suffused with the thought of her and he smiled—really smiled—all through breakfast. Today, they would find each other.
As he dressed carefully in a pale emerald suit, he saw himself driving slowly into East Egg. She would be sprawled elegantly across her porch, and as he approached her eyes would light up, twin stars in the lovely constellation of her face.
"We've met before," he said to his reflection as he knotted his cream-coloured tie. "It's me, Jay Gatsby. I'm certainly glad to see you again." And she would fall into his arms and he'd whisk her away to the house that he'd bought for them, for her. And they would be so wonderfully happy. The thought buoyed Gatsby up as he floated from his house to the car, a balloon held aloft by the lightness of dreams. It was a gorgeous autumn day, and, with the sun warming an endless azure sky, he could almost forget the winter chill that had crept into the wind.
As he approached the Valley, the omnipresent cloud of ash seemed to leech the colour from the sky until it was a shadow of its former grandeur, a pale bloodless blue. Here, the sickly sunlight did little to warm him. He shivered as he pressed harder on the gas, urging the car to move faster. The engine obliged with a roar that caused the grey people on the street to look up and follow the bright flash of his car with colourless eyes. Their upturned faces were a featureless blur of destitute eyes and crooked noses and pallid lips, all coated with a thin layer of ash. They looked like nobody and they looked like him.
Gatsby sped on, eager to leave the wretchedness behind. As he passed, a boy craned his neck to follow the golden car retreating into the dust. When he could no longer see, it he knelt in the dirt and traced its patterned tire-tracks with ash-stained fingertips.
Gatsby did not slow down until the dust yielded to blue sky and colour had seeped back into the world. It was astonishing how quickly the Valley's dirt roads gave way to East Egg's smooth pebble driveways and sleek manicured lawns, as if nothing more than a slim partition separated the two vastly different worlds. Gatsby pictured himself standing before it, peering through the sheer gold curtain before carefully parting it and slipping through. The thought made him smile.
Enormous houses—small palaces, really—crouched at the end of expansive driveways, their windows leering eyes that followed Gatsby's car from their perches. Gatsby did not know where Daisy lived exactly, but he had a vague idea of the address, the knowledge gleaned from a collection of smudged newspaper clippings folded neatly into the breast pocket of his emerald suit. But as he drove he saw no slim figure draped across a porch, heard no bell-like laugh carried on the wind.
Eventually, he approached a man and a woman in riding clothes. The man had a carefully groomed moustache and the woman was pretty in a bland way, her elegant features arranged into an expression of thinly veiled boredom. They were attending to two white ponies when Gatsby pulled his car up beside them.
"Good afternoon, old sport," he called. The couple turned, their gazes sweeping over his green suit and his yellow car, which shimmered in the sunlight
"Good afternoon," said the man. He approached the car and leaned his hand against the hood.
"I don't think we've been introduced," said Gatsby. "I'm Jay Gatsby."
"Charmed," said the woman automatically, inspecting the sleeve of her blouse for loose threads. They did not introduce themselves but Gatsby, propelled forward by his nearness to Daisy, did not notice. Or perhaps he did, and simply did not acknowledge it.
"I'm looking for a friend of mine, Daisy F—Buchanan? Do you know where she lives?" At the sound of Daisy's name, the woman's gaze snapped up and she smiled blandly, not meeting Gatsby's eyes.
"Oh Daisy! Such a darling. She and her husband live over there." She gestured to a glittering white mansion with a vast front lawn and a curved driveway. The man said nothing, regarding Gatsby imperiously down his rather long nose.
Gatsby thanked them and sped off down the gravel. The man regarded the hand that had been resting on the hood of Gatsby's car, his lip curling with distaste when he saw that it was coated with a thin layer of ash.
"What did that man say his name was?" he asked the woman. She shrugged and went back to grooming her horse.
"I haven't the slightest idea," she said. "But whoever he was, I doubt he lives here." She snorted delicately. "Did you see that ridiculous suit? My, how could he possibly know Daisy Buchanan?" The man didn't respond, but narrowed his eyes at the car as it flew eagerly down the road.
Gatsby parked his car in the Buchanans' winding driveway and hurried to ring the bell. As he stood before the towering front door, his heart grew heavy in his chest and his blood became leaden in his veins. He clung to the morning's optimism, to the dream of Daisy, to the memories of a summer that he kept in the pocket near his heart, folded beside the faded newspaper clippings.
"I'm certainly glad to see you again," he whispered to himself as the door creaked open. However, it was not Daisy who answered, but a butler who peered at him suspiciously. "Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan are not home at the moment," the butler said haughtily. "May I help you with something?"
Gatsby opened his mouth to leave a message, but closed it abruptly as his gaze drifted to the water. There, across the bay, was his own house; he knew he had a view of East Egg, but it had never quite occurred to him that she could see him too. The thought filled Gatsby with warmth and an incredulous laugh bubbled in his chest. He gazed at Daisy's dock, at the green light flashed at the end and the shiny white boat that bobbed the breeze. The dock itself seemed to stretch across the water like a bent fingertip, as if Daisy knew he was there and was beckoning to him. The butler cleared his throat, jolting Gatsby from his reverie.
"Sorry, old sport," Gatsby said as he retreated from the door. "No need to leave a message. I'll speak to Ms. Buchanan soon." The butler pursed his lips in annoyance and shut the door as Gatsby returned to his car. He knew that he wanted Daisy to see him in person; he wanted her to see the house that he'd bought and the man that he'd become. He could wait knowing that she was just across the water.
The sun was beginning to set as he drove away, and in the gathering darkness Gatsby did not notice the silhouettes in the mansion. He did not see the woman peering through the curtain at the strange, retreating car, or the man who took her hand and pulled her away from the window and into his embrace.
Gatsby spent the evening gazing across the bay at Daisy's house. Now that he knew she was so achingly close, he could hardly tear his eyes away. He stood perfectly still as the sun set and the moon rose and the stars hung themselves in place. Only then did he notice the green light at the end of Daisy's dock. It blazed on the edge of the horizon like a discarded star, green as the money that now lined his pockets, green as the dream that had grown inside him, twisting itself around his heart until it was as vital as blood and bone.
He found himself unconsciously stretching out a hand to grasp the light, fingertips longing to caress its trembling edge. He must have known that the entire endeavour was fruitless, that his hand slipped through nothing more than air imbued with purpose by desperate dreams. In that moment, though, he lost himself to the light. He longed leap inside it and let it burn away every speck of ash, every vestige of James Gatz. He longed to crush it to his heart, so that the beacon of his love would call Daisy to him like a moth to flame. But, most of all, he longed to know that even as he reached for Daisy, she too sat awake and reached for him.
He stood there like that, with his arm extended, until the stars melted into the water and the green light's feeble glow faded away, engulfed by the unquestionable might of the sun.
When I remember Jay Gatsby, I often think of my mother's costume jewelry. He was plastic dipped in gold, ambitious and entirely too gaudy to pass for authentic under the scrutiny of East Egg snobbery—although I doubt he ever realized that. Daisy and Tom, they were solid gold heirlooms, far too valuable to fraternize with cheap imitations. I like to think that I am entirely removed from the metaphor, but in all honesty I was probably silver—I began the summer shining with promise and ended it tarnished by disillusion.
Despite his tragic death, I think Gatsby ended up better off than any of us in the end. I have not spoken to Tom or Daisy in years, but I imagine that their crimes must weigh on them somehow, even as they attempt to prop themselves up with status and wealth. I myself committed no crime, but I cannot banish the memory of standing alone with Gatsby's body, waiting for friends that would never arrive. And Gatsby, with his plastic heart and hopeful dream, escaped it all.
Once, as a spiteful child, I threw the contents of my mother's jewelry box into the bathtub. Among other things, I remember watching her gold chains and silver rings sink, landing with a dull thud at the bottom.
The costume jewelry, however, remained afloat.