Interviewing Jay Gatsby

[[This is an interview that I, Patsy Robert Bateman Junior, conducted before the death of Jay Gatsby]]

Mister Gatsby, last night at precisely 11:36 you were standing on the edge of your property staring out at the water at a green light across the bay. What does that light mean to you?

Gatsby: Well now, that light is more than just some lightbulb across the water. That light, for me, is something that keeps me going. When I feel directionless, all it takes is a quick glance and I know where I'm going, old sport.

He pauses here, and rubs the side of his cheek, and then he replaces his hands into the pocket of his finely tailored pink suit.

Mister Gatsby, you realize that the amount of moneey that you own could get you anywhere in the world, but yet you are content to pursue a married woman. Do you realize that there are over 2.6 billion people in the world, there are probably around five million women in the world that you would live happily ever after with, why do you choose Daisy?

Gatsby: I've never looked at it that way. I think that a lot of who I am revolves on who I have been for the past thirty years. It makes no sense for me to go on a hunt in eastern europe for the special someone, old sport.

What is the most satisfying thing about hosting the large parties at your residence? Why do you do it?

Gatsby looks at me strangely, and then at the ground, and back at me again:

Gatsby: I uhh.. I find it most enjoyable to see people enjoying themselves, I like to watch the hilarity, which is why I invite so many people!

Alright.. But why is it that you do it, what is the main reason behind it?

This is where Gatsby is visibly getting uncomfortable

Gatsby: Say, have you seen my fine library? You look like you're a fond reader.

Mister Gatsby, you're getting off topic here. I think that you should answer the question.

Gatsby: Right! Sorry, I'm a bit.. uhh- distracted at the moment, old sport.. What was the question again?

Gatsby is beginnning to look quite nervous standing there in his pink suit, looking back and forth uneasily. He has avoided the question and then asked what it is.. So, I am going to ask it again.

Mister Gatsby, what is the main reason that you have the parties for?

Gatsby: Ahh. Right. Well, you see, I'm fond of this woman I know, Daisy and I..

His voice trails off and he hasn't begun to finish the fragmented sentance.

And you.. what, Mister Gatsby, what about Daisy?

Gatsby: I was hoping that Daisy would come.

Ahh.. Why is it that you want her to come?

Gatsby: I.. Alright I think we need to slow this interview down now, old sport. I've got Philidelphia on the phone and I can't be kept waiting. Goodbye for now, I'm sure we can.. finish this some time else. (This is where he ends with a quick one of his characteristic smiles before dissapearing into his house.)

The Green Light

I watched, from the bushes, Mister George Wilson stumble up to the pool with a crazed expression on his face, and his fingers wrapped around the grip of a handgun. He fired a bullet into Gatsby as he was floating on an air mattress in his pool. It was horrible to see the end. Was it George Wilson that killed Gatsby, though? That's what I am wondering. It's like asking if it was me who smothered Thomas Anderson II, and then dismembered his head and hands from his body. No, it wasn't me, it was him! They did it to themselves.

Gatsby's love for Daisy might have been for shallow reasons.. For the stigma attached to 'having' someone that is desired by others, with a large house, and an influential family. It wasn't until he pursued the goal did it start to crack apart in front of his eyes, but he refused to let himself see it. At night Gatsby stood and looked across the water at the green light, the green light that kept him going. He got closer to that light, until he was standing on their lawn until four in the morning, until he saw that light go out. That is when it was over.

I exhaustedly took a seat on a lawn chair and just stared at the gruesome scene before me. Wilson's crippled body on the concrete, and Gatsby's peaceful, empty body floating in the pool. It was so surreal, I just had to sit down and contemplate... Maybe I'm a little morbid.

The green light had gone out, and soon after Gatsby's own life blood was pouring out of his body on to the mattress and into the pool. I guess he wasn't able to accept that his dream was over.

So maybe it is a futile cause to try to elevate yourself to another class, to try to pursue your life's goals. That's a scary thought..

It's a strange world. Some people get rich and others eat shit and die. -Hunter S Thompson

And that's what it's all about folks. Thomas would make you think that we should all just live with what we're given. and I quote, from Nick himself: "A sense of the fundemental decencies is parcelled out uneually at birth" (Page 1)

I don't think we need to be content with what we're given. Whats the point of living if you can't feel alive? Dreams are still out there for us to achieve, money is out there to be made, just don't make the mistake that Gatsby did, and let it blind you. You can always strap your life to your back, and make that final leap over the edge into the untamed world, for the good or ill. And who knows, you might just make it.

As for me, I'm moving to New Zealand before the police catch on to what I've done here. I'm tired of being a manservant for these animals. The first thing I'm going to do is buy a jackhammer so I can chisel my way through the alien society, so I can smell the exotic smells, so I can eat the foreign food, so I can mingle with the locals... So I can step up to the mothership and force my way inside.

Jay. Daisy. Tom

I sat in the corner of the room, like any unassuming Butler would. They thought me to be one of their one, so I melted right in. Gatsby stared defiantly at the large framed Tom Buchanan, telling him that his wife didn't love him, and never did love him. I was right in the middle of a big life step for these people, so was Nick and Jordan. The three of us had no direct connection to the happenings, but yet we stayed and watched.

It was a horrible sight to see, a flaming love triangle finally falling apart in front of us. Gatsby tried getting Daisy to renounce her partial love for Tom, but it just wasn't going to happen. For everything Gatsby had, he seemed to be only missing a few things.. Things that money simply cannot buy. He believed that with enough determination, charm and wit he would be able to fight time itself. A full five years in the arms of another man is hard to erase, I think, and he didn't get the response from Daisy that he was looking for.

Unlike Thomas' biased view on the subject, I sympathize very much for Jay Gatsby. It looked, to me atleast, that Tom was very sure of himself in that argument when it had ended... He had little else to comment on than Gatsby's rise to power. He didn't at all agree with the methods in which Gatsby obtained his fortunes, even if it was for a noble cause in his eyes. Gatsby, on the other hand, was so sure that he had Daisy's love, and that's all that mattered to him.

Tom is from the same breed that the Andersons are from. That upper crust of society that has a warped view on the world. They don't accept people that make the final leap over their boundaries, because they've got nowhere else to go..

I think that Gatsby had a dream, an amazing dream of success and happiness, but he was fighting a force that couldn't be fought with material things. He was blinded by it, and he kept on fighting it. We will see where this will bring him.

Don't Tell

This isn’t Thomas any more. It’s Patsy, the introduction writer from the beginning of this series of blog entries. I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and it was about time I took out all my anger on Thomas, once and for all. I’m going to have to ask for the reader’s assurance that the authorities will not be notified. This is because Thomas is dead.

When he was sleeping in his bed, I sneaked into the room and silently approached him. This is where Thomas is the most vulnerable, so I took it upon myself to approach him in the middle of the night, so that I could do this and nobody nearby would know. I grabbed a nearby pillow and jumped on to the bed. I placed my knees on each of his arms, pinning his fragile arms to the mattress as pressed the cushion into his face. His body shook back and forth violently. His legs futilely kicked out at me, but they were covered in blankets. I continued smothering the life out of the bastard, screaming: “This is what you deserve, Thomas, this is what you get!” I could hear his muffled groans through the thick layer of fluff that I had wrapped around his mouth. Soon it would all be over, I knew, slowly his trembling and convulsions slowed down, he was dieing, and I enjoyed every bit of it. Finally I lifted the saliva covered cushion and stared at him one last time. Game over, Thomas.

Disposing the body was easy; I dragged his body into the bathtub and got out the fire axe... It only took three good, clean swings to detach his head, and both of his hands from the rest of his body. I placed the dismembered body parts in a bowling bag and brought it to a construction site. Burying it was easy, a backhoe was left behind at the construction site, and now his lifeless hands and head are deep underneath the dirt, where they should be. His torso I wrapped in a tarp and sunk in the nearby bay.

Finally the nightmare is over. I can sleep at night knowing that Thomas is gone forever. From now onwards this blog will be written by me, and I will continue exploring Thomas’ little investigation of the Great Mister Jay Gatsby.Unlike Thomas, my view on Gatsby is very different. As I was disposing of Thomas’ body, I noticed some notes that he had on his desk about Gatsby. As it turns out, Gatsby focused

most of his attention on winning the love of a woman in a completely different social class than him, a very great step to get over. He amassed a huge fortune and bought a mansion across the bay from Daisy’s own house, identified at night by a green light emitted at the end of a dock.

Meyer Wolfshiem

Through listening to these three talking in the restaurant, I gathered that the Jewish man's name was Meyer Wolfshiem, he was a gambler. It was interesting how he left Gatsby and Nick that afternoon. It seemed as if he had a solid view on social margins. It was clear that he was part of a specific group of people. I remember seeing him stand up and tell Gatsby and Nick that he “Was fifty years old, and part of another generation.” Gatsby had assured him that there was no hurry for him to leave, but this Meyer insisted.. He really knew that he was different, that he wasn't accepted as the same as Gatsby and Nick, and this was right, he was right. This is the first person I have seen to have a somewhat similar, less radical point of view as my own. Maybe my first impression of Meyer was wrong.

Meyer knew that it was his place to just get up and leave, that it wasn't proper for him to associate himself with another social group, and he was damn right. If it were up to me, everyone in the world would be walking around with a jumpsuit on, with a number on the back through 0-10. Zero's would be at the bottom. They would be slaves, pieces of human trash; they would be instructed to do all of the world's dirty work. Zero's, and one's and two's would be doing the jobs that the more privileged ones wouldn't have to do... A six would be able to initiate conversations with three's, but not vice versa. Four's wouldn't be allowed in the same room as eight's, etc. I'm sure you understand what I'm getting at here. People should be marginalized; there should be clear lines between social groups, like levels of a structure, like a pyramid, a hierarchy, an organized station of levels. People such as myself would be reigning from the top. Smart, educated leaders would stand above the pathetic, needy ones below. That is the ideal society, and this Meyer character seems to understand this to a degree.

If this were so. It would be a dystopia. The end of the world. A terrible place. Hence the gasmask.

The Lunch Date

I've been bored sitting around at home recently. Since I've been to that party in West Egg I've taken a peculiar interest in this Gatsby man, who has befriended the other man, Nick. Apparently he lives beside Gatsby, I know this because when I was waiting for my driver to pick me up at the front gate I watched Nick cross the lawn and into his house.

I figured since I had nothing else that I had to do, I might as well find out where they're going. So I followed the two misfits to a restaurant, I was in the neighborhood so it made sense at the time. There they met with a smaller man. When I heard his name was Meyer Wolfshiem, I knew that he was Jewish.. He looked like it too. People tell me its unfair to make stereotypes like that, but I've learned that stereotypes are faster, I don't have to try to get to know someone, I just apply a template to them and be done with it.. It's much more effective that way.

The Jewish man seemed shifty, he kept looking around everywhere like a scared rodent, like he was afraid of something. He was a weak character, I could tell. These are the sort of friends this “Gatsby” has. Gatsby's mannerisms were off. He was not your ideal tycoon. He didn't fit in with the environment of the fancy restaurant, or even the cream coloured suit that he was wearing. He was always fidgeting around, using strange figures of speech like “old sport.” he couldn't be compared to the high class I'm familiar with, they seem a lot more 'comfortable' with themselves.

Gatsby wasn't the complete opposite though, either. He certainly didn't fit in with any lower classes; he was much too rich for that. Gatsby's money, and his lack of fitting mannerisms made him a stranger to all sides, and it was sickening. He had too much money for himself, so much that he didn't even know what to do with it. I figured out why he had these elaborate parties. He yearned for acceptance in a world that simply did not identify him as acceptable, it had an inverse affect, and he was blind to it.

Gatsby's Party

It was about 4pm when we rolled up to Gatsby's estate. My driver dropped me off on the corner of the street by my request-- I wanted to enter the party on my own, I wanted to watch the people in this party, I wanted to observe. When I got inside I was greeted by a butler who greeted me by my full name. I didn't think too much of it though, when you're as important as me, flattery does little in the grand scheme of social contact. Its just a way for the boot lickers to suckle some attention from the social elite.

I picked out a man in a white flannel shirt sitting at the cocktail table, pensively sucking down drinks while looking about at the party. He really stuck out, most people were talking amongst each other; each part of the vital, necessary cliques, and he was sitting here. Alone. I took a seat at an adjacent table.

I could tell that this man was not from the long island area, and certainly not from any particular wealth. He was like a transplanted tropical plant in the middle of a desert, with no solid accepted connections to anyone -- he was a complete outsider. I felt sick thinking a wayward man like this was invited to the same party as I was. I was part of something I belonged to, and this man, for whatever reason, wasn't. It was not a respectable way of living, and I didn't like him for it.

That didn't change my curiosity with him, though. I kept a watchful eye over him as I sipped my cold beverage at the table, waiting for what else this character could prove to me. Soon after, I overheard a conversation with him and a woman I recognized from East Egg... I cocked my ear in their direction as they walked towards a set of marble stairs, apparently, I gathered, the man's name was “Nick.” His last name is unknown to me.

I decided to give it a rest for a bit. I was tired of straining my ears to listen to the conversation, it was too much effort. So instead, I swayed on over to a group of girls I recognized from East Egg. And, of course, I was greeted with enthusiasm as soon as I did. Three or four drinks later, I found myself in the middle of a distasteful conversation about something I had no interest in. These girls simply did not have the level of intelligence needed for a fulfilling conversation, I didn't expect them to, though. It was the physical aspect I was aiming for.. Regardless, I finished with them, and found my eye on this strange otherworldly phenomenon, which is known now to me with a first name: Nick.

I was inside of Gatsby's estate now. The world jazz, or whatever it was called, was playing in the background as Nick was having a discussion with the host: Jay Gatsby.

The two chatted back and forth..I was able to pick up what they were speaking about, something about war gibberish, babbling about battles and what divisions they were in. I noticed that Nick made a mistake, he didn't realize that he was speaking to Gatsby.. it was surprising. Gatsby took it out on himself, though. It seemed that Gatsby's system of values was very much different than my own. He didn't judge others by their possessions or their status, he seemed very.. accepting. I saw it as simply a weakness, someone who didn't know where to belong. I may not like these two people personally, but I still found them very interesting.

The Scum In Between

On the way to some party at West Egg, I was shocked with the poverty and scum in between West and East Egg. The Valley of Ashes is what they call it. Its foul, and disgusting, an all out eyesore for the real people that make up this country. While my driver was driving, I had the time to stare out the window at shanty buildings, industrial filth, and the inhabitants of these wretched places. All of them were scurrying to their jobs like little hamsters. A great deal of them probably never even stayed around long enough to finish elementary school. Most of their technical knowledge in life is for menial, petty little things like trades and manual labour. They could all be replaced by machines, or primates or something..

My thoughts began to shift back to the present. My brother, Christopher, gave me this invitation to this party in West Egg. Apparently the house is almost half as large as our Estate back at home.. That's somewhat impressive. It sounded interesting at best, but I still don't like these West Egg types. New Arrivals..they're too used to the regular problems and hardships in a mediocre life. Some of them function on a salary. All of the sudden they expect our acceptance and appreciation, it's ridiculous. I never understood the people that 'got rich'. They carry a god complex around with themselves. They see themselves as accomplished human beings because they played a game of business and innovation and capitalism accepted their spiel. Now they have a huge chip on their shoulders, the 'success' drags them into a different light and it's repulsive. All because of money. Me, I'm not like this. I've been privileged at birth. Money hasn't warped me, because its always been with me! I am superior. People like me are “purer,” and much less biased.

And now we're here. The host's name is Jay Gatsby. Let's see if he's any different. I doubt it. Usually my guesses are right.. Anyone from West Egg is the same.

Introduction

I'm not sure what the average blog opens with, but usually its with an introduction. I feel insulted to have to introduce myself, as if none of you peons know who I am.. My name is Thomas Anderson II, I live in a very refined district of East Egg, New York, along with my equally as refined friends and my influential family.

I'm not used to introducing myself; I usually have someone to do it for me.. This is why I have hired my personal introduction writer, and butler, to write it for me. I have much more important things to be doing right now, so I'm not going to waste my time writing an introduction.

Patsy (The Introduction Writer):

Thomas Anderson II comes from an extremely wealthy family. He is 21 years old, and is eloquently unemployed, as the rest of his overbearing, extravagant family appears to be. The l

ast known relative to take up a solid working occupation was Thomas' great uncle Henry, who was cast out of the family for associating with the working class. His uncle's mother, Thomas' Grandmother, was horrified that Uncle Henry brought home a girl he met that WORKED as a secretary. Henry's mother was outraged, and through clever manipulation of the American legal system, Henry's last name was legally changed to “Brown”, and he was suspiciously dragged on to a plane with a one way ticked to Bangladesh. He is still there, unable to leave the country due to lack of funds, working as a tobacco farmer.

Thomas spends much of his time at the country club, or planning out his own dream amusement park. His cousin Rupert was quite interested in Thomas' passion for an amusement park, he was so interested that he has begun an ambitious project to convert the island of Zanzibar, Tanzania, into one huge tourist/thrill seeking amusement compound with multiple levels. The current inhabitants of Zanzibar will occupy the 'lower' levels while they do menial jobs to maintain the 'amusement compound.' This is Rupert's planned Christmas gift to Thomas.

As you can plainly see, the Andersons are filthy rich, have no concept of effort, hard work or persistence. Any strand of hereditary morals has slipped away for the past generations of Andersons. Each generation grows more slovenly, overindulgent, intolerant and ignorant than the one previous. The only way I, Patsy Robertson Bateman Junior, can get away with this description of the Andersons is because my family has been servants for the Andersons for years, since the early 17th century... I know Thomas well enough to know that he won't read this introduction at all. He Is too arrogant and sure of himself to look over what has been written about him. He expects that it will all be perfect and glorifying.

The Anderson's family's foolishness has, on many occasions, ruined my life. Their irresponsibility and lack of basic morals has contributed to so much evil in this world that it is unbelievable. Because of the Andersons, I lost my marriage with my wife, my dream career..everything I hold dear to me has been lost. To them, my presence on this world is simply to benefit them, nothing more. And for this reason, I have no respect for these people at all. Sometimes I wonder why I haven't just thrown in the towel, and finally finished myself off with a good bullet to the head.. Maybe next week, if things get any worse, I'll park my car in my garage and leave it on, letting the exhaust fumes take me away from this foul life that has been ruined by the narcissistic pigs that I serve.