It was eight o’clock when I arrived at Gatsby’s. For so long I had watched his summer parties from my small house, in awe of the lavish air of it all: the music, food, servants and guests. Sometimes it seemed as though the entire population of New York City showed up, even if they were not invited. Gatsby’s parties drew people in like a good game of poker. Even those that had never met the man seemed to be intrigued by him, myself included. The night was still young: for I had every intention of introducing myself to Gatsby. Even just a quick exchange of pleasantries would satisfy me.
Opening the heavy door to Gatsby’s house, or mansion rather, I was not surprised to find that the ‘little party’ I had been invited to had transformed into a raging one. People that had never step foot in Gatsby’s neighbourhood knew that he threw wild parties full of drinking and dancing. If you wanted to forget your worries, Gatsby’s was the place to be!
It was safe to say I knew absolutely no one at this party. At least not well. After many failed attempts to find the host and being denied by multiple people who were too drunk to clearly register my voice, I wound up at the cocktail stand: drowning my disappointment in drink after drink.
By nine o’clock my disappointment had lessened: a result of one-too-many a drink. I felt looser, and my thoughts were foggy. However, I was not yet black-out drunk, and noticed when Gatsby entered the room. I could tell it was him because the mood in the room changed instantly: though people were dancing and shouting before, they began cheering and became even more energetic when he entered the room. He had entered the room, and was heading straight towards me…
Gatsby walked up right beside me and ordered a drink. He turned towards me. ‘Hey there, young chap’, he said as he smiled at me. Gatsby’s smile was truly something to behold. It was one of those rare, perfect smiles: it made you feel accepted and appreciated. I didn’t know that someone could make you feel that way with just a smile until I met Gatsby. After I introduced myself as Nick, his neighbour, we chatted a while. He was such a friendly man, very well-spoken and incredibly poised. It was not until he had been called away by someone else and I had sobered up slightly later that night that I realized something. His answers to my questions almost seemed as though they had been rehearsed: with no wavering or missteps. Similar to how you rehearse and memorize a poem that is to be read aloud at school. I now understand why people think so highly of Gatsby: he is seemingly perfect, perhaps too perfect.
Comments