Nick introduces himself
In my younger and more troubled years, my father gave me some advice. “Whenever you feel like criticizing someone,” he told me, “just remember that not everyone has the same advantages that you have. Some people don’t eat at Culver’s.”
Nick moves to West Egg
It might make sense for me to rent a duplex in a complex of similar duplexes in the middle of a cornfield. It’s in that walkable neighborhood — extending itself through the middle gate, just half a mile from the Hy-Vee — where there are, among other things, two kinds of exception: two brunch restaurants with egg. One in the menu, and separated by a Casey gas station, two egg joints open for four hours a day, five days a week, each named with a clear view of eggs.
Nick meets Daisy and Tom
The house was bigger than I expected, a three bedroom, two and a half bathroom single family townhouse with beautiful black vinyl flooring, sliding doors nice, and a fridge in the garage just for pop. The grass starts at the edge and runs twenty feet to where the public golf course starts, jumping over hostas, mulch, and those folding chairs you put in a bag when you’re done. in use. The foreground is broken up by an old wooden panel painted like an American flag, and Tom Buchanan in chinos and a tight polo shirt stands with his legs apart on his chest. .
Music from my neighbor’s house to summer nights: Jimmy Buffet, Kid Rock, Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet System. Every Friday, five pallets of Bell’s Two Hearted Ale would arrive from Meijer, and at least once every two weeks, a group of neighbors would drop by with hundreds of mugs and Tupperware containers. Placed on tables glistening with spicy chili, pulled pork, and Koegel’s hot dogs, served between cardboard boxes and hot plates, slathered with mayonnaise and the amount of salt. At seven, the karaoke machine arrived—no cheap Bluetooth speaker from Five Below but a recycled Fender from Gatsby’s cover band. Suddenly, one of the party-goers, dressed in paper and frills, grabbed a piano case from the air, and threw it up and down thoughtfully, and throwing it under the arm, he sent it straight into the corn pit. The party has begun.
He saw me staring admiringly at his Ford F-150. “Didn’t you know before, old sport?” Everyone knows it. It was a bright yellow color, rolled to make it appear as if the raptor had lost the external glow, which mimicked the twelve suns. The rear window is completely obstructed by a vinyl sticker where the Honda marks the tank of a young man’s urine. His large flatbed showed no signs of use and from where it hung were two winning metal boxes. Sitting behind the tinted glass of our Oakleys, we went to the gas station to socialize and play the slots.
The Resistance of the Hotel Room
“By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Illini.”
“That’s not right.”
“Yes, I understand you went to the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign.”
“Yes—I went there.”
Then Tom’s voice was full of conviction and abuse: “You must have been there about the time they stopped dressing up a white college kid like Chief Illiniwek and ran around the football field doing an uncultured dance.”
“I only stayed for five months. I quit after breaking my neck in a four wheeler accident. That’s why I don’t understand the lyrics to the Oskee Wow-Wow fight song.
Death of Gatsby
At two o’clock, Gatsby put on his bathing suits and went to the above ground pool he bought on sale at Menards. He stopped in the garage for the sprinkler pump he used all summer to drag his party guests around the lake with his pontoon. He then gave instructions that his Ford F-150 Raptor was not to be taken out of the garage under any circumstances, which was surprising since Gatsby never parked his car inside. of the garage—that’s where the beer table was. Floating in the pool twenty-four feet on his donut tube, he waited for Daisy to call and looked out into the new world, where spirits wandered like powdered sugar. over the dog’s bowl.
So we paddled the rowboats on the back of a neighbor’s jet ski, born in the past.