His Name was Gatsby

by Persephone Quinn

We once met. We talked about the weather and he made me smile and sometimes when he thought no one was looking, he would grow sad and stare across the water at the little green light that seemed to grow dimmer and dimmer with each passing hour. He threw luxurious parties and lived passionately and freely. His name was Gatsby.

He was so passionate; passionate about life and everything he did. I envied him. Everything was so simple in his mind. Do what you love. Do what you feel is right. Such a pure and innocent mentality. I envied him.

He lived dangerously and loved recklessly. He took what he wanted at any cost. I pitied him. He spent his life chasing dreams that could never be, trying to become someone, anyone. I pitied him.

Though I knew he was careless, his beauty was in his recklessly; his scornful disdain for commonplace institutions like marriage only made him more appealing. He was unattainable, unreachable. If he were to pay you any mind, you would the luckiest woman in the world for those he did love, he doted upon. He was a wondrous creature, dark and mysterious, but free in ways I could never understand. His life was his. He was in control.

I once spoke to him. We remarked on the weather and he made brief mention of a party he was throwing, suggesting I stop by. He was attentive as if the dreary weather of west egg was the most interesting topic one could ever discuss, though there was little to say on the subject. I never spoke to him again past that day, but I frequently attended his parties.

They were always grandiose affairs, the parties. The exuded all the exuberance and zeal of their host with flappers running rampant through the halls, bootlegged liquor in hand, tugging their latest prey behind them. The extravagant entertainment and gaudy decoration only served to enhance the festivities though not at all detracting from the general splendor of the mansion in which they were held. I admired the opulent design of the home and found myself constantly in awe over the size and frequency of the parties held at the estate.

Everything about him was lavish, from his home to his parties to the clothes he wore and the car he drove, he was lavish. He had money, that much was clear, though not old money. No, not old money at all. It would have been easy to make the mistake if not for the fact the he had taken up residence on west egg and not on east egg, the latter being arguably wealthier and more elite. East egg was for old money. No, he came from more humble beginnings I could tell.

He was a hard man to pin down. People often ran into him by chance and of course seized the opportunity to talk and he was often quite pleasant. He was the type of man that was never without an acquaintance no matter where he went. He had connections and a reputation though it seemed close friends was one thing he always lacked. I remember I was quite young the first time I heard his name.

Gatsby.

The mysterious man in the big house on West Egg. I was maybe 18 when I first learned who he was and it was maybe another 2 years before I had to pleasure of discussing the weather with him and attending my first Gatsby celebration. What we were celebrating I never knew, but then again Gatsby hardly needed an excuse to throw a party. His parties were never in short supply.

Gatsby was a mystery to me. Some people hardly questioned him. They attended his parties and took him as a decent fellow, but there was something about him I couldn't quite put my finger on. He seemed secretive. I would sometimes see him in town nodding to shady businessmen or driving away mere seconds after being pulled over by the police. Even when we spoke, I caught him glancing around furtively when he thought I wasn't looking as if he was suspicious of his surroundings, but he also seemed sad. It wasn't an external kind of sadness, but more of the soul. You could see in his eyes, a sort of quiet pain buried under all the wealth and luxury. Something was pulling on his heart and keeping his soul captive. There were moments when he could be seen staring from his window out across the water at a green light, as if he longed greatly to reach that green light.

It was at one of Gatsby's regular parties that it began. When what began? Well, my life for that is when it started to matter. I hold firmly the idea that nothing of great significance had ever happened to me before that moment. There were whispers all around me, an excited undertone running through the party like an electric current. I caught parts of conversation and words like "finally" and "I don't think I've ever seen". Could it be that the mystery man in the big house on West Egg with the lavish parties had finally come out to greet his guests? Yes he certainly had.

Gatsby had arrived.