We passed a barrier of dark trees, and then the façade of Fifty-night Street, a block of delicate pale light, beamed down into the park. Unlike Gatsby or Tom Buchanan, I had no girl whose disembodied face floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs, and so I looked at the girl beside me, loosening my arms. Her wan, scornful mouth forced a smile, and so I removed my arm and looked out of the window.
No, unlike those two, I had no girl. But with one of them I had a stronger connections, and among those bright city lights and speed limit warnings, his face formed and teased me with the thoughts of his gorgeous attachment to his dream. And I could not help but feel a pang of regret--or perhaps some deeply concealed jealousy--that he would choose the mouth of money over me.
Unlike Gatsby, a woman was not the object of my desire. Wealth was not a step for me to press my wavering feet on to climb to. With Gatsby I had become fascinated. The man that represented a side of the country I had not even begun to scratch the surface of, that had immersed himself in it as if it were a pool of cool water in the blazing heat of the sun. And while I could do nothing but watch as this man reached, in a pathetic ritual of hope that was dazzled with dollar bills and the dreamy voices of beautiful daisies, and saw nothing of his shadow--me--watching his balancing act, I could only think, "Why not me?"
I've never been one to ask for much. Indeed, I seem to be made for--and fit quite comfortably into--the supporting role. I've been with Tom to see his mistress, with his brute foolishness in that I hold a high opinion of him. I've sat in the passenger seat of a terribly dangerous driver. I've taken the sideline seat in watching the great worker of dreams balance on the green tightrope of the east. In these scenes I've never done anything but watch, and never taken an active role myself. And now I can see, that feeling that pushes the most logical, upright, unbiased of men, into a passionate burst of chaos.
---
That face greeted me when I entered. The one that Gatsby gave a fluttering glimpse of every so often. "What is it, old sport?" he asked innocently, to which I remained silent and examined the paintings I've already stared down before. He continued, "I was pretty surprised when you asked to meet with me alone, actually. It's quite unlike you, old sport, but welcome regardless." I pondered it for a moment: yes, it was different. I'm not the kind of person to do this. "I'm sorry if it's a burden, Gatsby," I responded finally.
"No burden at all, of course. It being a dull Sunday, I had nothing particular to do anyway. I could get you a drink, maybe?" he said.
"I'm fine."
"Sure?"
"Absolutely. I'm not in the drinking mood, anyway."
"All right, old sport."
And with that he turned and looked at a picture of himself in his younger years, but was shortly interrupted. I couldn't contain myself, "There was something I wanted to ask you, actually." He turned towards me and looked at what seemed to be my chin. I continued on, "Are you in love with my cousin?"
"Well--to put it so bluntly… I am, old sport. Does it bother you?"
"Not really."
"Then why do you ask?"
"Have you ever--loved anyone besides her?"
"I can't say I have."
"Huh."
An awkward air filled the room. Like the day of the clock, but now it wasn't shattered. It was the over encompassing present that drowned us throughout the room. And for a moment I thought that he felt it too, even where his life buried itself back in 1917.
What happened next took me by surprise. "Have you ever fallen in love, old sport?" inquired Gatsby. For a moment I was almost breathless, shocked-- but I know myself not to be a shy man. I tried to speak coolly, desperate not to let the chance pass but not to make a fool of myself. And even my mind rendered itself helpless in his gorgeous stare. "I have," I responded, half-trembling, and half feigning disinterest. "Was it some time ago? Is it now? I find it interesting, old sport!" He spoke quickly, as if-- "I'm surprised, actually. You're quite reserved, and it seems too active a thing for someone like you to pursue."
I was indignant. Of course, I deserved it. My reserved demeanor did put me in that kind of place. It was not exactly his classification of me, but the fact that his words blatantly revealed that he didn't know that I was his shadow, that he would never know I'm watching him from the sidelines, that he would never know I loved him.