The Great Gatsby | A Winrina Story

West Egg

[A/N. Minor spelling and grammar changes made April 2024.]

When I was younger and more naive my father frequently scolded me with the words 'Before you judge anyone, remember that not everyone has had the same advantages that you have.' Since then, I always hear his voice when I'm about to criticize someone, and I hold my tongue.

Little did I know how much I would have to hold my tongue that summer.

How could anyone have predicted New York in the summer of 1923? It was as if everyone got off work one Friday in May, were told we were millionaires, and then woke up in September with our arms around strangers and covered in pixie dust and $100 bills and the sweaty madness of that deadly summer. Champagne rained from the heavens in 1923, and everyone, even those who were poor, seemed to be spending money like there was no tomorrow.

My neighbor, however, wanted none of the foolishness that had so beguiled her generation. Gatsby simply wanted to wind time backward, to hold one pure memory in her hand, and keep it there, shiny and clean, forever. Gatsby was the one who showed us what it meant to have hope. Gatsby, in her tireless pursuit of her singular, perfect dream -- Gatsby was the truly good one, and I would never meet another like her.

I moved to Long Island from the city for the cooler weather and the tranquility since I was studying for my broker license exam. A sleepy real estate agent found me an even sleepier one-bedroom cabin. I moved in on a Saturday morning and arranged my few things. Next door was a gigantic mansion from which came a riotous commotion of machinery, men shouting, car horns honking, lawnmowers running, and doors opening and slamming. Feeling adventurous, I wandered onto my neighbor's grounds. In a moment I stopped a woman in a maid's outfit.

"Excuse me, I just moved in next door, and I'm hoping that I can introduce myself to Ms Gatsby."

"Ms Gatsby is unavailable, but you are welcome to the party tonight," she smiled, curtsied, and hurried away. Suddenly she turned around. "I'm really sorry," she whispered, "but we're not allowed to talk about her."

"Of course," I nodded idiotically, as if not being able to mention living people was something I did regularly. "But then who comes to a stranger's parties?"

"Just all of New York," the maid said. "No invitations are sent. People just show up. Even the help are welcome. So are other races. Ms Gatsby should be running this country."

For a few minutes I walked around the estate grounds. It was truly palatial, and as I learned later, parts of the mansion were built from other castles Gatsby had bought in Europe. There were four pools, a bandstand, six tennis courts, and acres and acres of lusciously sculpted gardens.

. . . . .

By 9pm, I couldn't have slept if I had wanted to. I had to work the next day, and the responsible part of me kept reminding me of that.

But the other part...

Something caught my eye as I walked up the beach in the dark towards Gatsby's. At the end of the long pier, a slight woman in an immaculately-tailored women's suit was looking across the wide bay at a slowly pulsing green light across the water. I knew it was wrong to spy, but I couldn't help myself. If this had anything to do with the mystery of Gatsby, I wanted to know, to have my own little part of her to show off to my comrades at her parties. Step right up, people, someone who knows something secret about Gatsby is speaking.

As I watched, she slowly reached out her hand as if trying to grasp that light. But after a few moments she covered her face with her hands and walked quickly back to the house.

The party was truly roaring, with a full jazz orchestra and hundreds and hundreds of strangers trying to drink every drop of liquor Gatsby owned, take home every flower as a souvenir, and most importantly, take away a little of the wisp of the magic and mystery that lingered around Gatsby's name.

The party was beautiful glittering madness, music and laughter and alcohol everywhere, fools and geniuses acting equally ridiculous. There was one subject of discussion.

"Where are you from?" a woman with smeared makeup slurred in my ear.

"I'm from 100 yards over there. I'm Ms Gatsby's neighbor, Ryujin."

"So you've spoken to her? Is it true she's related to the Kaiser and helped start the Great War?"

I laughed. "I doubt it. How could one person --"

A sweaty man in a tuxedo jumped in the conversation. "I heard that she has railroad money."

"No, someone told me that she helps dictators embezzle from their own countries."

"Whatever it is," I said, using my best adult voice, "I'm sure it's not as mysterious as we think."

Bored with me, the three walked back toward the bar. I sighed. I was going to have to decide whether or not I was going to embrace 1923. Then something caught my eye. On the second floor of her mansion, in a dark room, Gatsby peered through the diaphanous curtains at the pulsing green light, her hands pressed against the glass.

. . . . .

My headache told me that I had, indeed, embraced 1923. You can say what you want about alcohol, but it does keep you honest: the pain is proportional to the pleasure. I was convincing myself that I could sleep in when the doorbell rang.

"One moment please!" I yelled as I splashed water on my face and hair, threw on some casual clothes, and hid my dirty dishes behind the radio.

I opened the door and my heart stopped.

Standing in front of me was a petite girl with shoulder-length hair, the last three inches dyed bright pink. I wasn't aware that it was even legal to change one's hair so... wonderfully.

"Old sport, mind if I come in?" she said as she brushed past me, her hands in her pockets.

"Of course!" I stuck my hand out awkwardly. "I'm Shin Ryujin."

"I know that."

"Did you spy on me?" I said jokingly.

"Since we were going to be neighbors... yes, I did," Gatsby said matter-of-factually. She was wearing a classic pearl-colored flapper outfit with long beads, a full skirt, and a quarter-moon hat. Where expensive clothes usually brought out the poverty of the wearer, on Gatsby the clothes took on a life of their own, as if they were happy to be wearing her.

We sat down in the tiny drawing room. Gatsby's feet jumped nervously, and within a minute, she jumped back up. "Do you have everything you need? Is this house adequate?"

"Ms Gatsby, for a stock trader studying for her exams, this could not be a nicer place to stay. Plus, I get the benefit of finally meeting you. Word of where I live has gotten out, and I spend all of your parties answering questions about you. But don't worry, I don't say anything, partly because I don't know anything, and partly good manners."

Gatsby's smile was a million watts of innocence and happiness. Unlike the rest of us that summer, she wasn't capable of sarcasm, irony, or guile, the horsemen of twentieth century American discourse. She jumped off the chair and wrung my hand before I could even stand.

"Well, Shin, it's been a pleasure. Please use my house as if it's yours, and if you need anything, let me know and I'll have it arranged. I can also make some business connections --"

I smiled. "Ms Gatsby, anything I do for you is as a friend and neighbor, so no repayment requested, please."

Gatsby smiled broadly. "Do you mean that, old sport?"

"Why... why of course!"

"Can you invite Karina Buchanan for tea?"