Something Great

Untitled Part 1

"She's gone, old sport."

Gatsby was sat upon his bed, staring intently out the through the glass doors upon the bay. The green light that he had spent so many years fixating on no longer flickered, similar to the way his scintillating eyes had lost their light when we had first gotten notice that the Buchanans had left town. I had never seen Gatsby cry, and to this day I have still never seen the man shed a single tear, yet, as he sat there, his sagging shoulders and crinkled white suit seemed to signify more emotions than tears ever could.

I let out an elongated sigh as I approached his bed, and took a seat beside him upon the satin sheets.

"Jay..." I began, unsure of what I could possibly disclose that would return the gorgeous sanguinity that had characterized Gatsby for as long as I had known him. An epoch of time passed before the silence was broken.

"I'm going to call the house again. Maybe they forgot something, and they're back to get it. Or, I guess it would be more direct to just drive over there, in case one of their attendants picks up the phone again. Yes, that's precisely what I'll do." Gatsby stood up, the constant need to be in motion suddenly returning to him. He began to walk out of the room at a brisk pace, no doubt towards the garage, where his car was locked into shortly after the death of Myrtle.

"Jay, don't..." I quickly followed him, grabbing his white-cuffed wrist just before he crossed the threshold into the vast hallways of his mansion. He turned to me, his eyes mirroring the emptiness of his massive residence on a late Sunday afternoon when all festivities have ceased. Staring back at him, I began to piece together what I had, for quite a long time, wanted to put forth into words.

"You don't understand, Jay. You called her house twelve times today, every hour, on the hour. It's useless. She's gone. I remember once, I said to you, 'you can't repeat the past,' and, naturally, you replied 'of course you can!' But you really can't, Jay. And some things, they aren't worth repeating. You've been chasing a dream, not a possibility. All these years you've been apart from her, and you've slowly built her up to be as marvelous as the parties you throw. But she's just a girl. And she's not worth it. The green light you've been chasing is out, but you still have time. To move forward, to forget that green light, to make something great of yourself."

As I said these last few words to him, I suddenly came to the realization that my hand was still encasing his wrist, and that, even in the cool hours of the early autumn evening, my hand had begun to perspire, thus slightly staining his white cuff. I instantaneously pulled away.

"Come with me, old sport," Gatsby said, the air of serenity in his voice contrasting markedly with his panicked and harsh tone just a few moments ago. He was still staring intently at me, through my eyes avoided his gaze.

I followed Gatsby through his mansion, passing through some parts that I had never seen before, until we reached his topmost balcony, from which one could survey the legendary terrace that served as the Saturday night meeting place for the wealthy and elite populations of New York City. Gatsby stopped as he reached the granite railing.

"Do you see this?" He asked, making a grand hand gesture towards the magnificent yard sprawling before us. I nodded, taking in the view, unsure of what Gatsby's next words might be.

"All of it--the parties, the money, the house--it was for her. For Daisy." As he said her name, his head turned from facing me to focusing intensely on the opposite end of the bay, where the green light at the end of the Buchanan's dock used to flash, unwaveringly, in the dark.

"Of course, I'd always wanted to be wealthy," he continued, "But she gave me a reason. A reason to try that much harder." I glanced up at him, his profile almost gleaming in the moonlight.

"She told me she loved me, old sport."

"Do you think she meant it?" I asked.

"I don't know."

We stood in silence for awhile, watching the few lone boats cross the motionless bay, their lights like stars, endlessly floating among the black expanse of water.

"Jay, you really can't stay here."

"Don't worry about me, old sport," Gatsby smiled. It was the first time I'd seen him smile in what seemed like ages, and I started to realize how much I had truly missed his smile.

"Where will you go?"

"Like I said, old sport, don't worry about me. I've got a chateau in southern France, in the countryside. A break from the city will be good for us, don't you think?" I was completely taken aback by his implication.

"Us? What do you mean, us?"

"Of course you'll be coming with me, old sport! Come on. Quit your job, run off to France, make something great of yourself."

I was in utter astonishment at what Gatsby was suggesting, but the euphoric smile that appeared on my face could have outshined the stars.