Saving Jay Gatsby

Without a Paddle

"Was that picture not wonderful?" Gatsby asked, striding along the cement pathways of Central Park. His voice was wistful, still just as mesmerized as he was in the cinema.  

"It was wonderful," I replied, trying to match Gatsby's pace. "I actually have a question."

Gatsby turned to me, smiling, "what is it?"

"How do they..." I raised my hand, gesturing to my face, "how do they get their eyes to look that way? The makeup is beautiful." 

Gatsby chuckled, "It is, but I am afraid that I am not qualified enough to answer." 

The park was cool in comparison to the New York streets. The open space allowed for an occasional breeze, rustling the branches of the yoshino cherry trees to the right. This time of the year, the leaves were green. It wasn't the Central Park I was familiar with, but the foundation, the tranquility, they were the same. 

As we rounded the basin pathways, a pier came into view. rows of small rowboats lined the pier. Is this where we were headed?

"Back in my Oxford days, I noticed the women there cared more about their hats than their makeup," Gatsby continued as he strolled along towards the pier. "It was really a sight to see... fascinators everywhere, in all colors and shapes you can imagine."

I smiled, "That does sound beautiful."

We continued in silence along the pathway until reaching the pier. 

"Which one looks sea worthy to you?" I asked jokingly.

Gatsby scrunched his brows, scanning the row of boats. He pointed to the yellow one, "I think that one will do."

My left knee made a resounding popping sound as I knelt over to untie the ropes tethering the boat to the pier. No one ever tells you that once you pass 20, your joints randomly decide to become bubble wrap. 

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah," I said, trying to hide my embarrassment as I pulled myself back up. "Well, I think that the boat is ready."

Gatsby pulled off his suit jacket, tossing it into the boat. He stepped down into the small rowboat. 

The boat teetered back and forth for a moment before reaching a sort-of equilibrium. Gatsby extended his hand upwards, towards me; an invitation to embark.

With my hand clasping his, I lowered myself into the boat.

The boat was pretty small. There were two small planks to serve as seats, but they were pretty close together. Facing one another, our knees were almost touching. It could make rowing more difficult, but not impossible.

"So, would you like to take turns?"

Gatsby rolled up both his sleeves. "With what?" He asked. He rolled up each sleeve slowly, as if he could somehow prevent a single wrinkle or crease from forming. 

"I thought that we could each row the boat so neither of us get tired."

Gatsby chuckled, "You wound me, Alice. Do you think I am unable to row myself?"

"No, not at all." I grabbed the oars from the floor and began to row us away from the dock. "It's just that, this way, if we divide the work, neither of us will get as tired."

"Fair point," he replied. Gatsby leaned back slightly, relaxing into the small boat. "Are you not concerned about blisters or callouses forming? I thought women disliked this."

"In my experience, men seem to be more bothered by women having calloused hands than actual women are."

Gatsby's eyes widened for a moment and then narrowed again as his face crinkled into a smile.