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I had seemingly acquired the wholesome truth and tried friendship with my elusive neighbor, who had become the not-so elusive Gatsby over the summer. During that intensive summer, we often had two-partied small celebrations of our own. These meetings were often accompanied by a gin-based concoction, and a deep semi-philosophical discussion about whatever stallion thought galavanted into our lazed minds.
One particular meeting seemed to blaze in my mind brighter than the green light Gatsby so admired. Even amongst the many talks we held that long summer, it was painted so vividly in my mind. The day was breezy, and the few flags smattering Gatsby’s mansion seemed to dance a tireless dance. The breeze blew warm air into the palace, bringing along with it the silk curtains hung on the windows. Gatsby sat across from me in a creme recliner and I on the same colored couch with a burgundy coffee table between us that held the ingredients for the gin rickey we sipped.
So suddenly, the memory of childhood seemed to hold me closely and tightly, and a specific moment pierced the brief silence between us with my chortle.
“Something funny, old sport?” he chuckled easily, more relaxed from his usual aloofness, and took a sip from his glass.
I shook my head and sat forward to place my drink on the table, “No-no-no. Just-,” I chortled again, “ just remembering a frankly embarrassing moment from my early days.”
Gatsby sat up as I leaned back, “Tell me, old sport,” before I could think to decline he continued, “We all have had our moments in our youth, old sport, it wouldn’t hurt to relive them.”
I paused, slightly smiled and thought of how to retell the memory. When I did, I regaled Gatsby in the glorious moment that when at the small age of ten, I had tried to ride an ass and gotten bucked off for my troubles by pulling the ass’ coat too hard. Though it, at the time, hurt my young pride, it at the same time brought my stone-faced father a form of amusement, and the present Gatsby and I a good laugh.
Gatsby with a slight pink in his cheeks, “That’s a good story, old sport, “ he paused, then got a gleam in his eyes and smirked, “Would you care to recreate it?”
I laughed, “Absolutely not! I think most things are best left in the past, and I doubt there would be any decent-sized ass that could hold me now.” Gatsby suddenly gained an apprehensive look.
“Best left in the past…,” he took a sip of his gin rickey, “ I think the past is the best thing to recreate,” he said wistfully.
I raised a brow, “The past is never fully able to be recreated. It's no longer new, it's lived-in, and it will never be the same, “ I said with conviction. This seemed to bother Gatsby as he frowned slightly then quickly went blank-faced then finally smiled his winning smile.
“I don’t think that's true,” He said with a finality that seemed to say that I was unequivocally wrong and that this line of discussion was done.
I stayed in that somewhat oppressive air for half an hour more than bid my farewells and went back to my humble abode. The breeze kissed me through my open window as I stared outside at my back porch watching birds, almost like it was trying to comfort my rolling thoughts. Frankly, Gatsby’s grasping of the past disturbed me greatly and put a rambunctious butterfly in the pit of my stomach about the future and about Jay Gatsby. I should have caught that butterfly and kissed its wings deeply for trying to prevent the future circus I would find myself dragged into.