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There was a dominating streak of passiveness and attentiveness that had persisted throughout Carraway’s whole existence. The very thing that had him hearing the woes and triflings of lesser and greater men alike; that had him share pointless dribble with the Buchanans or extravagant and harrowingly awkward schemes with Gatsby. A trait so lost among such domineering personalities that his was a presence welcome to even the most intimate of exchanges that not even the ever watchful moon would hear.
It made sense to him, much the same way the bonds with frayed edges of the elite did to him. He listened, offered support, ever the ‘yes’ man that these uniquely delusional people needed to fill out their grandiose ego tainted images. And though it might be eating up his insides with carefully handled, extravagant silverware, he found himself always filling the role.
Accompany Tom to see Myrtle, watch their shared infidelity advertised under the gleaming pretense of beauty and glory, glittering—pure—white pearls covering the repugnant stain of deception and poor-ness. Caraway sincerely doubted they had ever put any thought to what they shared, the concept of adultery so common that they merely trapezed through greed, Myrtle tearing blissfully over the lavish lifestyle of the elite she’d never tasted and Tom through whatever convenience of control over her luscious curves he found in her.
If one affair wasn’t enough, when Gatsby had implored for his own—Caraway had known he’d never be able to refuse. He had been caught and trapped into whatever dust Gatsby billowed up or whatever skeletons decided to join in from the myriad of closets Gatsby owned. All castes ever since Gatsby had smiled that uniquely confidence lifting smile of his. However, his growing fancy was what made it all so torturous, not due to the lens of selfishness, or pray tell jealousy. Simply because Caraway was no fool, he’d had too many years of listening to people to be, and as such, recognized the tell-tale signs of an oncoming tragedy.
Gatsby was beyond determined to follow the concept of his obsessively poisoned love for one Daisy Buchanan, no matter what road that led him on. Because his confidence and his hope for it all to work out in the end was limitless, he had nothing but faith for the destiny God had set for him personally. It was truly something else, a radiant beacon of untouched goodness that even Gatsby’s deception and lifestyle could never hope to sully. Truthfully, Caraway could’ve spent his whole journal recollection to describe the wondrous enigma that proved to be the greatest man he’d ever meet. But he feared he’d already exhausted his quota over the many descriptions of the uniquely radiant and intimately gentle smiles of the self-made millionaire. It was too difficult not to.
It was all so perfect, being whisked off his feet by Gatsby and his tantalizing dreams of grandeur. All he’d have wished for was to stop choking on the words he’d been swallowing ever since Gatsby had graced him with his primly elegant invitation and handwriting. That if he’d have said even a fraction of the words that threatened to suffocate him now, perhaps his misery would cease to drown him so incredibly decidedly.
Adjusting his reading lamp, it blindsides him for a moment and he covers his eyes to block the harsh light. As he sets down his arms, the boisterous unapologetic setting of Gatsby’s mansion on its renowned attraction night comes to view. It’s all the same and it’s all different. Women cackling amongst themselves, draping themselves dramatically over whatever man fits their fancy. Glasses shatter, toast and float towards the guests in a myriad of rimestones and well tailored suits. Someone is pushed into the pool and is followed by a whole group, laughing raucously the whole way down.
The invisible stars must glitter and shimmer under the impossibly varied and dazzling lights Gatsby has around his mansion. Perhaps even a shooting star should show itself to personally solidify the fantasy that Gatsby had shrouded all those close enough to him with. It prompts Caraway into an undesired and wilting reverie. All around him, fine well-dressed men—many with toned muscles and impossibly clean shaven soft features—lead women in lovely and expensive tasting gowns to live out the night in full.
Caraway gently sets down his glass, half empty and gently shimmering under the pretense of enjoyment. He catches Gatsby slinking among the guests, situated at a higher level, face carefully impassive yet welcoming. Gatsby scrutinizes the party, eyes scanning for his special someone in her golden elegant locks. Instead, their eyes meet and Caraway offers half a wave, timidness hidden by intoxication for all intents and purposes. Gatsby, ever the perfect host, widens his smile and with a toned arm returns the wave in an assured motion. Eyes promising there was no one more important for them to gaze upon than himself at that moment.
Suddenly the half full glass feels like the most important task to finish, and in a quick manner he averts his sights, taking two hearty gulps. A slow and familiar burning sensation trickling down his throat and a similar feeling singing the center of his mind. Caraway doesn’t glance back, but if he knows Gatsby, he’ll be back to scanning for Daisy.
“Why, what’s a lovely man of your appearance doing here all lonesome.” A petite voice breaks his shame, demanding his immediate attention. Caraway, politely smiles in her direction with an appraising look. Her dress jimbles with the small movements of her inspecting him closer, intoxicated blush painting her puffed out cheeks. Most notably her hair catches his eye, thick brown curls contained in a well styled but now ultimately loose hold. Whatever hairdresser this young lady has had, must’ve been proud of their work.
“Anything really.” Caraway gestures all around them; the loud and rowdy crowd present in his demonstrations. A little too overwhelming for his tastes, especially now that he has to entertain his new guest.
“Oh yes! Mr.Gatsby truly has opened the heavens for us all, a generous host going above and beyond.” She hurriedly agrees, earnesty bleeding through her tone, as she leans noticeably into his personal space.
“He truly is.” His is a quieter admission, a private and tight knit intimacy hiding as a shadow from a simple appreciation.
A few cups into the haze of liquid courage and he finds no issue in accepting the reckless show of intimacy from the lady in front of him. Her hands resting gently on his coat lapels, an uncharacteristically aggressive and domineering tug drawing him close. Her lips ghost his before a loud and decisive call for his attention startles him and irritates her.
Burning from a flush, Caraway sees it is in fact one of Gatsby’s butlers who’s standing prim and ready to tell him something.
“Mr.Caraway, forgive me, but Mr.Gatsby requires your presence.”
The woman in front of him immediately changed to intrigued, eyeing him over again, pensive. Caraway fixes his lapels in the meantime, barely hiding a stutter, “Of course, I won’t be a minute.”
“My apologies miss…” He reaches his hand for her own.
“Miller.” She supplies easily, eyes twinkling.
“Mrs.Miller, may you enjoy the rest of your night.” He kisses her hand in a way he’s seen Gatsby do, and with a final nod bounds up the steps next to him.
“Oh do tell Mr.Gatsby my greetings!” She calls out after him.
Gatsby is resting a hand on the top of the staircase railing, smiling down at the bustle of guests below as Caraway arrives to him. The lights catch his stylized hair perfectly and reflect through his eyes like fairy dust must in fantasy novels.
He allows himself to inspect Gatsby a moment longer, the tight fitted suit not leaving much to imagination. How lucky Gatsby was to have such an agreeable form and the grace to fully utilize it.
Carraway takes a step closer, “Gatsby? You wished to see me?”
There’s something pleasing about the way Gatsby’s generally polite facade of a smile changes into something sincere and unique. He can’t quite figure how Gatsby even manages it, lips quirking at less symmetrical angles, “Yes yes, by all means come closer, old sport.”
At Gatsby’s insistence Carraway approaches, surprised to note that by closer he meant nearly shoulder to shoulder. Not that he would complain, it was a nice view. The party being visible in all aspects from this small vantage point. Although, up here with Gatsby, the overwhelming atmosphere seems to sink away into obscurity, swallowed up by the darkening night sky. Caraway is also quick to note that Gatsby slides an arm to rest comfortably between his shoulder blades, anchoring him to this very specific moment.
“I’m assuming you had something of note Gatsby?” Carraway asks instead of saying anything else. Subtly leaning against the contact, emotions racing and his head desperately pulling the brakes on them.
A silence, unpermeated by any of the other guests, settles around them. Carraway can catch the subtle smoke from the gears turning in Gatsby’s head. It almost appeared as if he hadn’t expected this question to come up, but that was entirely too peculiar a mentality to have.
Gatsby looks around quickly, before audibly an idea comes to mind for him and he says with a nervously edged, excited smile, “There’s something incredibly important I need your expertise on..!”
Carraway shifts, not attempting to hide his incredulous narrowing of eyes. The subject is dropped there however, without further questioning, as Carraway was never one to push matters, preferring to let the other speak when the time was right, if it ever was. He had no doubt someone like Gatsby would’ve questioned it, but that was the beauty of their contrast that allowed them to mold together beautifully.
“It’s right this way.” Gatsby uses the hand on his back to gently coax him to go in the direction Gatsby wants. Fingers pressing on it nicely, lithe as they were.
Carraway smiles and even chuckles on top of it. The scandalous confessions always just at the tip of his tongue recede into obscurity, and once again Carraway can tell himself; this is more than enough . And it would’ve been, it truly would’ve been.
—
Confrontation was something Carraway avoided with his unassuming personality and observant nature. He could swallow back nearly anything in the name of upholding peace.
However, attending to whatever showdown this was between Gatsby and Tom, made him physically ill. The accumulated egos of the men went against each other like cars in a head on collision. It’s a train wreck that Jordan watches under carefully shrouded eyes, more attentive than anyone ever gave her credit for.
The bleeding desperation and fanatic faith into his delusions is what sets Carraway off about Gatsby at this moment. Wanting to get out of Tom’s ring of ire, to not see the pretty little pieces that Daisy is falling into under two such distinct pressures is what’s driving Carraway now. Even though neither man had outright started this open conflict, all were waiting to see Tom snap like a rubber band at the finesse Gatsby naturally employs.
“Self-control!” repeated Buchanan incredulously, “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea then you can count me out…Nowadays people begin with sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white—hell, between the faggots.” Buchanan glances his way for a brief second, something nasty and suspecting baring its fangs at him. Though he makes no reaction, confident under his maintained swagger, even as Jordan’s eyes sharpen toward him.
Jordan is braver than he and she raises quick, saying her good-byes. He merely hops on the bandwagon she pushes, declaring his leaving as well.
Tom snaps at Jordan, aggressively gesturing for her to sit back down. Meanwhile on his side, Gatsby catches his shoulder, maneuvering him to sit back down with notable force.
Naturally, it all continues to devolve. Carraway being held hostage by Gatsby’s need to prove himself and his self effacing love. And normally Carraway was content to see where such things would lead, not caring for how people fell apart in the course. However, he felt somewhat responsible for one of them in this situation. So, twice he tries to add something, anything to wedge a foot into the door before there was not one anymore, conflict blowing it off its hinges. A steep cliff—point of no return—was fast approaching.
First time, Tom roughly tells him to shut up as he gets the first word in.
Second time, Gatsby raises his hand to interrupt him before he can even properly open his mouth.
Carraway is a simple man, being shot down twice is enough to make him acquiesce. Back to joining Jordan in silent observations, willfully privy to the ugly cracks against Daisy’s beautiful-rotten facade, groaning against the onslaught. Meanwhile Tom pendulumed from desperately defensive jabs to haughty overcompensating remarks. Though Carraway honed in on Gatsby’s gorgeous face falling and rising in tandem to Daisy’s whispers of mercy.
Even then Carraway had sensed the disaster, a dread discoloring any hope from his foreboding. The sun falling to hide itself from the tragedy of that day and still Carraway said nothing. Content enough to let things go as they were.
—
He’d never gone through periods of great turmoil. Hiding himself away from a marriage unsuitable was the worst he’d ever had to suffer.
The last few nights of his fantasy, before it fell apart in his hands, similarly to Gatsby’s own, was a period of such a myriad of feelings that he could hardly survive through it again.
Coming home following Wilson’s death, he’d despised Gatsby. All his grace in avoiding whatever he didn’t like painting him as a comic book villain to Carraway. A coward, is what he wanted to storm over and spit out at Gatsby. A woman lay dead due to his carelessness, and he had no decency to even try and offer the bare minimum of human decency. Not a Goddamn shred. And as he spoke of Daisy, Carraway felt his anger nearly broil over. There was nothing else more distasteful to him than this man standing in front of him. If he wasn’t so passive, he would’ve punched Gatsby for it, but instead, he’d stewed in his ire, eyes set out in a fierce warning to Gatsby to watch what came out of his mouth next. Of course Gatsby had ignored it, but instead allowed Carraway to figure that it was Daisy behind the wheel, and who had started the run part of the hit and run. It froze over his anger into dread and deep seated concern.
The anxiety had haunted him all night, dutifully trailing after him into the morning. Which had led him to visit Gatsby that morning, fear of the unknown driving him. Gatsby spoke of many profound things, shedding everything out under the sun, catching the rays at just the right angle. Gatsby seemed changed, as if he’d woken up from a particularly long dream. From it, Carraway could draw pictures of sorrow, but also conduct an entire orchestra out of hope. There was something in the way Gatsby held his gaze, always changing their contact points, and readjusting a frighteningly vulnerable smile. What had changed?
Carraway missed his first train.
Gatsby starts opening up the future for him. Warding off his concerns, even as he confidently told him Daisy was going to be in contact with him at any moment. Still, once again, there was something else. As if her possible silence didn’t matter, but Carraway refused to believe that. Gatsby believed in the green light, the very thing that shone right past Gatsby and painted himself green in turn. An ugly shade of desire defining Carraway.
Carraway missed his next few trains.
A swim is what Gatsby was going to do, and by now Carraway felt the same burn of shame and need that finally urged him to leave. Foreboding be Damned. It was hard, leaving, and it felt like a good-bye. Not that it affected him enough to stay. It didn’t feel real enough to do so.
He is eternally glad he offered his first and only real compliment to Gatsby that day, “They're a rotten crowd, you’re worth the whole Damn bunch put together.”
Gatsby had never seemed so perfect and beautiful as he had in that moment. Looking so pleased.
It assuaged Carraway’s fears and gave him a great hope that blossomed pleasantly in his chest all the way to work. Waiting to call up Gatsby first chance, like some swooning maiden.
Instead, the cruel hand of fate had slapped him hard on the face.
There’d been no response. Nothing. And despite the horrible reputation it would garner him, he’d rushed past the whole crowd of his work. Someone had gotten shoved, but it hadn’t mattered. Somehow he knew something real was amiss. He’d run so Goddam fast into the Gatsby estate, raising alarm with the service staff, although they looked eerily resigned to what Carraway was going to witness. Crooks and gangsters would be no stranger to death. Carraway on the other hand had never seen anything like it.
Seeing the floating form and the pneumatic mat gently rocked by the waves scared him. Disbelief hazed over his thoughts. Eyes watching a deep red wine slowly follow the pull of the water. From the corner he registered Mr.Wilson just as motionless.
The butler had with an unnaturally steely resolve dragged out Gatsby, and given in to Carraway’s insistence at checking his condition. Despite the fact that they all must’ve known.
Carraway’s entire composure was resting on the word of one crook. Just about as steady as sand against wind, the reality eroding away his shell of hope, baring his physically trying anguish; It made his heart beat irregularly, a stone crushing his chest and froze the nerves over on his feet and fingers.
“E’s dead.” The butler had looked up at his horrified and sorrow weighed face in concern.
It all shattered at once. He fell to his knees, refusing to look at the sad and washed up face of Gatsby, and sobbed with such a ferocity that his shoulders shook. All he felt was the encompassing grief tide him under, as if he had been the one to get shot, not the man he’d dedicated his entire life to. There must’ve been something so raw and heartbroken in his open weeping, because at some point he registered two separate hands patting him on the back. One of them saying something he couldn’t focus on at the moment.
He cried, and screamed for what felt like an eternity. And for all he could note, he could’ve filled Gatsby’s empty swimming pool with his own grief-prompted tears. It didn’t matter that the volume of his pain died down, he couldn’t stop. Enough emotion wafting off of him to make up for a few centuries.
As the police had been contacted, they eventually come. Which prompted the butler, now that Carraway had enough sense to recognize, to pull him up and away from the police gently. The three remaining staff staying to deal with the legal side of this absolute tragedy. Effectively allowing Carraway to finish the rest of his grief in peace.
In hindsight Carraway would prove to be extremely grateful to the staff, they’d helped him more than they had to. It was at least something, among the vast sea of grief coursing through him. A deep chasm carved into his being that would never fully heal, not as long as he lived.
—
The Buchanans had run, it devastated him for Gatsby’s sake, but pleased him greatly for his own sake. The hatred he felt for his cousin and her repugnant husband was uncanny. It had been so profound that it had burned his bridge with Jordan in the same process. Though not before she had the chance to unwittingly increase his sorrow tenfold.
“Figured I’d find you here.” She wears a modest dress, face devoid of any telling emotion.
Carraway doesn’t look her way for long either. They’re both standing just outside Gatsby’s empty mansion. It still feels as if Gatsby is inside, waiting for him, so he can ask another pointless opinion about a decoration from him. Meaningless or not, he would’ve given anything for him to be in there again.
There being no life in the mansion gave it an eerie appearance, the tips of it reaching high into the unforgiving sky.
“It’s a tragedy truly.” Jordan drawls with sophistication, but Carraway already knew that much, “I should specify really. You and Gatsby.”
“ Me and Gatsby?”
“Why yes. It’s a lesser known one, but perhaps the most significant in this company.” She continues smartly, pulling her coat to rest snugly against her figure.
She seems genuinely amused or surprised that he would be thrown for a loop.
“ My, allow me to show you a woman’s intuition Nick.” She gestures with her finger for him to follow. He does so, noting that they’re going inside Gatsby’s mansion, her heading straight for his private study.
Carraway stands dumbly at the doorway, unwelcome memories tainting his mood. He is curious enough to stay and see what Jordan is scrounging through Gatsby’s files for. Eventually she pulls out the right one with a triumphant ‘aha’.
“How exactly does snooping through a man’s office relate to a woman’s intuition.” Carraway remarks despite closing the distance between himself and Jordan.
She smiles an ugly, knowing smile, “You wouldn’t understand.”
He brushes the comment off and murmurs, “Clearly not.”
“The tragedy of men too caught up on their prejudices and egos. A common tale.” Her smile is still plastered, flicking her cigar casually, “One possessed with too much confidence, trying to change things that cannot be. The other willingly steered away by fear, too weak to change what can be.”
He’s too tired to challenge any of what she’s saying, his head still trying process her little example, “What—“
She points towards the notebook seated innocently on Gatsby’s desk. And instead Carraway turns to her, half of another query running tribulations through his state, “But—anyhow, how is it not wisdom to exert caution?”
She actually laughs, “Read some afterwards, perhaps the truth of this will hit you kinder later. It will find you less stupid then.”
Carraway scowls, not looking at the book yet.
“However, would you not agree that true wisdom is knowing the difference between those two cases—between what can be and what cannot be changed.” She challenges easily, far too casual for his liking.
“I suppose so.” He opens the book, catching his name almost immediately. Written with Gatsby’s ornate handwriting, it makes his name seem so much more special than it was: Nick Carraway.
Somewhere in between his realization that Gatsby preferred his given name and his actual reading, Jordan vanishes into the evening dusk. Leaving misery in her wake.
It is the Damnest thing. Funny how things should change so drastically—yet not sailing the same direction as Dan Cody’s inheritance money. In fact, quite the opposite! Daisy is so surely sliding my way, whether my schemes worked or not, all for one blessing of a man named Nick Carraway. Why, I’ve seen faith in my travels, but nothing like this man possesses. I’d wager he’d follow his friends to hell if they so much as asked. It is a virtue more ought to have, even a fraction of the amount Nick does. It is this very thing that also does not fail to throw my future out on a loop. Daisy, Daisy, Daisy, my sweet angelic to be, I secretly dream of your divine nature lost to 5 years of separation from me. I dare not utter such paranoia under the light of God, but in the somber shades of the Devil’s darkened sky? I truly feared such weakness would efface my future given enough time, yet who is it that would come to chase away these haunting thoughts? Nick, the rock, the anchor, that every man should have. I sense his doubt, but he’s a rather cynical and observant fellow, yet I also sense his undying loyalty. I built myself up from nothing for Daisy, to meet her up there, but funny enough, if I should tumble down from the Heavens, I have the feeling Nick would climb down just to meet me down there. His soft, effeminate features ready to support my attempts at an ascent.
Carraway touches his cheek with a noticeable flush, and wipes away his eyes.
Even if I fail, it doesn’t matter with Nick here. With him, not everything is lost and sometimes I think that’s enough. That he’s enough. Even rarer, I think if he asked me I’d accept.
Although more commonly I still really do think that everyone should have a neigh—friend like Nick Carraway.
Carraway buries his head into his hands. Jordan was lying to him. He doesn’t think he could feel any stupider. Silence has never haunted him more than in this moment.
As it gets too late, Carraway takes the book with him back home.
—
He doesn’t know how he got roped into attending a last tea with the Buchanans before he heads back to his hometown. There isn’t a couple he wants to see less than them. How his passive aggressive tone and vocabulary didn’t tell the two of them that, he didn’t know. Could there be anyone more vacuous? Well yes, but he also knew Daisy knew, but pestered him into coming anyway. For what end? He didn’t bother to figure.
“Oh tell me it isn’t true Nicky! Back West?” She cries, blood red dress fitting her perfectly. Specks of darker red rubies glittering down her front and a single black band around head, holding parts of her hair in place.
Carraway hides his disdain with a careful sip, “There isn’t anything here for me anymore.”
“Hardly much has changed where it matters.” Tom adds in, as rude and uncaring as ever. Still, he looks at Carraway with a scrutiny that itches at his skin.
“I lived at West Egg.” He instead reminds Tom.
“So? I’ve no idea how you managed to get so blindsided with the dirt this Gatsby fellow kicked into your and Daisy’s eyes. Quite shameful actually.” Tom casts both him and Daisy a mean glare, fully looking ready to break out into one of his rants of pointless dribble.
Carraway says nothing, not impassioned enough yet to break appearances. No matter how much he wished there was something he could do. Some sense he could will into their egocentric, selfish mindscapes. But there wasn’t. They did what they wanted, played and broke people like toys, and before anything could ever get real, retreated into their vast wealth to cool off. It still hurt him to know Daisy had done nothing for Gatsby, avoiding his funeral like the plague. As if the man who had made everything for her had in turn meant nothing to her. The only saving grace was that Gatsby would never know.
“I’d almost say improvement was gifted upon us.” Tom starts again, aggressively hammering away what’s left of Carraway’s strings of livid patience.
“Improvement?” He parrots, voice dangerous enough to alert the two girls into understanding. Yet it has the opposite effect on Tom, his hulking mass of a body returning back to an upright position from the wall he was leaning against. Tom sees something in him, an answer to a question that ever since Gatsby was introduced, had existed in the back of his head. Bothering him and possibly sullying the very atmosphere of his precious home.
“ Improvement.” Tom pushes, much how he pushed Gatsby that evening. They’re all standing, glasses of whisky long forgotten, resting in the palm of their hands.
“Society, it’s all been going downhill. With the blacks, the immigrants and the fags running around sullying the very foundations of what America should be.” He adds upon his statement, a prologue to Pandora’s box that he’s teasing with his powerful fingers, “Worst of all, us good respectable Americans are being corrupted by such disgusting things.”
A notable pause, not even broken by the quivering gaze of Daisy. The palpable tension reminding her of that night. Her lips tremble and her eyes dart quickly between the two, waiting with bated breath.
“And corruption is what that fellow—“ Tom points to the mansion across the bay with his glass, “—specializes in. Which makes it crystal clear that his untimely death is a bene—“
It was practically premeditated, Carraway knew that. He’d figured it during long nights in his bed, going over every agonizing detail of his partake in New York. Of Gatsby. Tom hadn’t cared for the two lives he took that night with a few careless words, he never would. And Carraway had to live with that, watch it stare at him right now, carrying a sneer so undeserving.
The expensive, ostentatious and absurd glass full of murky amber shatters a mere feet in front of him. It must be an expensive glass and Carraway has never felt more satisfied dooming ruination on anything so much in his life.
Daisy startles badly, gasping, and Tom cuts himself off automatically. Processing the uncharacteristically violent act from Carraway. And it’s at this moment that that one question clicks, understanding lighting his eyes and deepening his frown. He knew now, and his repugnance radiates to Carraway, and yet nothing need not be added.
Carraway storms his way out, slamming the front door in a servant’s face. Leaving this godforsaken land of vanity and delusion behind.
No landmarks, promises of dreams fulfilled, people to mingle with, lavish lifestyle could ever drag him back. It was a stark truth, God’s truth that he was finished, this chapter of his life forever cast away into whatever afterlife Gatsby must have been blessed with. Nick Carraway had lived, loved and lost.