- Hi Nick, "Old Sport". How are you?
Those words sounded like a storm that scratches the night like a scream as the ghost of Christmas past decides to tell a lie in his victim's ear.
- No one has called me "old sport" for decades. Who are you?
- You really can't see me? I'm the same Gatsby, a little older and less glamorous indeed. But the same guy you met under different circumstances.
Nick Carraway really couldn't be more amazed. He believed that treacherous Tom Buchanan had killed Gatsby using poor George Wilson's hands. And yet, a human rag had called it an "old sport" and no one had done that...since Jay had died.
- You're surprised "old sport". I get it. After all, you killed me in your book and yet here I am. I'm back, but not in the way you thought it would be possible.
- Man... I don't know who or what you are. Are you really kidding me? You shouldn't do this. I am a very, very disturbed guy. I ate the bread the devil made to reconcile me with my past after Jay Gatsby's death and I really don't need to reenter the dark tunnel of guilt over a bad joke told by a tramp who read my book .
- Relax, "old sport". I really like you and I'm just here to tell you two important things. The first is that I am alive. The poor guy who was buried in my place was a nobody who made the mistake of owing someone a lot of money. The wise guys in the mafia took advantage of what happened to me to eliminate two problems - a dead body and the life of the character Jay Gatsby - but they saved my life because I didn't deserve to die.
Impressed and annoyed, Nick Carraway was unable to believe what he was hearing. But he just couldn't get away from that dirty beggar whose soft talk restored within him the bonds of a pleasant connection between himself and a great guy whose stupid, abrupt death had left him deeply depressed. Even the pauses between his interlocutor's sentences reminded him of Gatsby.
- What do you want, Jay? Money? Now I have a lot. It won't be a problem to share the book's profits with you.
- You were always very tense "old sport". I do not want your money. Not even when I was the glamorous and wealthy Jay Gatsby did I really like money. I admit that I enjoyed playing with people's passion for money. But he was just a toy. You, more than anyone else, should know this Nick.
The new pause said something else Nick Carraway wouldn't have liked to hear. And she - yes "she", because every pause is feminine - told him that there was something false in the book he wrote.
- You know Nick old sport (said the beggar putting his arm around his friend's shoulder like only Gatsby used to do) there's something in the book you wrote I really can't stand. Something that sounds like an offense. You say I represented the American dream of a fresh start. Surely writing the book gave you that fresh start. I also started again when Jay Gatsby died. But no one can say that Jay Gatsby himself was a fresh start.
- Why do you say that, my friend? His love for Daisy was real. And you weren't buried in a life of decay brought on by worthless inherited money like Tom Buchanan.
- You didn't really get my point at the time, old sport. And it's going to be hard for you to understand my point now. The truth is, I liked loving Daisy less than I liked spoiling her fake love for Tom. And I just couldn't tolerate Tom's real love for Daisy. At that time I could have and did have any woman. But getting Daisy in that game was really irresistible. And then I got shot... and man, can I say that was the best thing that ever happened to me.
- Why do you say that Jay?
- Because the depression hole you've entered is nothing compared to the bullet hole that put me between life and death and made me realize that there is no love, game, position, glamor or anything more important than... the next breath. The next breath that stops death when it's there by your side waiting for you to stop breathing. "Old sport"... being on the edge of the cliff, dying, and discovering the value of life is the most important thing, the real fresh start. And that's not the American fresh start you mention in the book, because we Americans are fools that we cling to love, religion, hate, happiness, money and all those frivolous things that make us obsessed and unhappy and turn us into zombies.
After saying this, the beggar removed his arm from Nick Carraway's shoulders, greeted him with a wave, and left. Some distance away he turned and said like he really was Jay Gatsby.
- Forget all that, old sport. Nothing I said is valuable. Your book is great. No one who knew the Jay Gatsby you created is going to be interested in the man he has become. But that's life, I suppose. Life to be lived anyway. Goodbye old friend. Enjoy your journey through life.
Nick just stood there, transfixed. The only thing he thought was that he really needed a drink. But he also knew that if he did that he wouldn't be able to stop drinking anymore. Damn Gatsby, you fucked up my life twice. Back at work, the next edition of the book can't be published without a major change - that's what he probably thought. Who knows it would have happened if the "old sport" hadn't been fatally run over by a car that day.
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