Saving Jay Gatsby

Dear Mr. Carraway

The West Egg homes loomed like massive shadows as the convertible headlights pierced through the darkness.

Even at night, it became obvious which home was Jay's. A faint glow on the end of the neighborhood drive beckoned us forward. Each widow revealed a fully lit room. It was wasteful to leave each room lit, but it felt purposeful. The home and everything in it was a display, highlighting Jay's wealth.

I wonder if Daisy ever noticed the lights from across the bay.

Jay stopped the car. His eyes were cast downward, staring at the pedals.

The car ride home had been silent. Our dance had broken the tension building within Jay, but it was only a brief reprieve.

Dinner passed by with curt, polite phrases. We ate, we drank, and we left. All the while, Jay's face remained expressionless as if he had become chiseled into a block of marble.

My mind wandered back to what Jay said while we danced. Could I change his fate? Or was everything always set in stone?

So far, doing anything to help Jay felt like pushing against an immovable wall.

I tried to stop his meeting with Nick but failed miserably. What if everything I try backfires or has no impact on what happens?

I need to do more to help him. No matter what it takes.

An attendant began walking towards the car. Jay's hands clenched the steering wheel.

I reached for my door handle.

Jay maintains a certain appearance around others. Right now, his armor was down. It felt wrong letting the attendant see him this way.

As I opened the door, I turned back to Jay, "thank you for taking me out. I had a nice time."

Jay glanced my way for a moment before averting his eyes back to the windshield. He nodded, "For that, I am glad." His speech was slowed, yet sharp.

I stepped out of the car, walking to meet the attendant halfway.

The humid, summer air and the Edison bulbs created an amber haze in the driveway. A part of me wished it had rained on the ride back so I could see what it looked like reflected on the cobblestones.

I beamed at the approaching attendant "oh good! Would you mind helping me inside?"

He looked over to Jay's car, then back to me.

He extended his hand, "of course."

"Thank you! I appreciate your help."

He said nothing back.

As we climbed up the stairs, I felt a tug at my hand. The attendant was leaning forward, his foot missing the final step and slipping backward. I leaned back and pulled his arm, straightening him.

"Are you alright?" I asked.

The attendant nodded, color creeping to his pale cheeks. It was very faint, but I thought I heard a mumble of thanks.

"So, what is it like working for Mr. Gatsby?"

The attendant turned to look back at the Idling car. "The wages are fair," he said curtly. "I will say that it is different being employed here than anywhere else."

"In what way?" I asked. We had reached the doorstep, but neither of us reached for the handle.

"Well, most men hire help just to boss some sorry sap around, but Mr. Gatsby rarely leaves his room, except for parties of course."

The mere mention of the word party seemed to open a floodgate with the shy attendant. "The parties are so spectacular! We work ourselves to the bone to get it all done on those days. But oh, the sight of it all when it comes together."