Exempt from Pollination

I never thought in my lifespan that I would ever see my cousin, Daisy Buchanan, or her husband, Tom, again, but here I am, sitting on the metro line to the new Buchanan residence. It has been nearly three years since the death of Jay Gatsby; He is long gone and laying firm in the ground, sharing his grave with fresh despondency, even after three years have passed. Myrtle Wilson resides in near ground to Gatsby, but she is covered with much more of a stiff shell than just dirt and soil. Of course, in a likely hidden, unmarked grave in the Valley of Ashes lay George Wilson, as well. He is probably the least missed man I can pity my thoughts towards. George Wilson may have gone through the head of a group of New York policemen once in a blue moon, when they investigate the case of James Gatz, with luck.

While gazing towards the area surrounding the rushing Thursday New York subway, I begin to wonder who else may have left the earth in my absence; I haven't spoken to Jordan Baker since 1922. Her face hasn't been featured in undistinguished newspapers in the last years, for what I know. My mind hasn't focused on a dishonest woman in years, and I still am not quite sure why it has now. Perhaps Meyer Wolfsheim finally bit off more than he could chew, and now his own teeth are cuffed ironically on a gangster's summer day suit. Of course, the owl-eyed, inquisitive man who had enough respect to attend a real Belasco's funeral has scanned his eyes through my imagination, as well. Death has been all too common since I drifted towards the Eggs of Long Island, and no man is free from it, poets can tell you.

At the end of Spring, 1925, it was colder than the seasonal average developed by the years that have died. The snow has disappeared, but the rain and cool mist on the upright blades of grass made itself exceptionally perceivable. At the end of Spring, 1925, I was the recipient a phone call that I was unprepared for, to say the least.

"Hello, Nick." I knew immediately that the whispering stranger on the other line was my cousin, Daisy Buchanan, once again. I could imagine her standing alongside her telephone, rigidly, like she had risen for the national anthem. My mind could picture her standing in the living area, gripping the receiver sternly to her ear, and delicately, secretly whistling her words into the mechanism. Her voice lacked enthusiasm; contrary to the exhilaration she expressed like a toddler when she met with me in the summer of 1922.

"Daisy?" I answered, subconsciously. "How did you get this number?" Was my first question, one of many I had hidden inside of me, but, for my own safety, will likely hold inside of myself for up to forever. I was not ready for whatever conversation she was ready to expand to me. My impulses demanded that moment I hear one or more of the words 'mistress', 'cheating', or the name 'Gatsby' I would at once slam this telephone down and never reach for it again.

"I know this woman, she is an operator." Her voice was peculiarly hollow, which I thought was exceptionally dangerous coming from a woman such as Daisy. "I'm having a bit of difficulty in my life, Nick. Is there anyway we could meet again, anyway at all?" I found it curious that Daisy would be so vague in a phone call, it was rare for her to restrict her problems. She whimpered silently, it was a tone that reminded me of the screeching brakes on Jay Gatsby's Rolls Royce, when, or if, he touched them, at least. It often wasn't difficult for me to say no; in fact my stubborn side had almost forced me to demand her to come to my repugnant home if she wants to bother me again. However, this was Daisy Buchanan I was on the line with. "We moved to the outskirts of New York City," I heard her whisper into the telephone before I responded. This showed me that she knew more confidently that I would he in her presence once again than I was aware myself.

"-I'll visit in a few days. Chances are by next Thursday." I'm not sure why I said yes. I wanted to avoid the Buchanans, the Wilsons, and the Gatsbys, but I said yes. I abandoned the city of Long Island-- hopefully forever--and now I find my residence in Idaho; Boise, the capital of Idaho. I never felt an urge to ever see Long Island again, I would say have a distaste for New York as a general. In Augusta I owned yet another eyesore dwelling where I sold and traded bonds, this time under the name Midas, a name Tom Buchanan would recognize. Daisy told me that the Buchanans bought an Outskirt New York mansion and sold a Long Island mansion like they were playing a trading card game. Tom Buchanan did not have to worry about work. It is more than likely that he is riding horseback on beaches outside of mansions, or playing polo while the servants supervise. He may even be in another city with another woman; a run-of-the-mill- Myrtle Wilson. Daisy did not need to worry about work, either. She is still the woman who refers to her daughter as a beautiful little fool, even with the potential, and foolish hope, of a six year old child.