Saturday, December 17, 2011

Transformation of the Great Gatsby

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We went on cutting back again over the park toward the West Hundreds. At 158th Street the driver stopped at one slice in a long white cake of luxury apartment houses. Throwing a homecoming glance around the neighborhood, Mrs Wilson gathered up her dog and other purchases and walked right on in.

“I’ll have the McKees come up.’ She announced as we rose in the elevator. “And, of course, I must call my sister and share in her company.”

The apartment was on the top floor. It was magnificent, nothing Tom and I had ever experienced could sum up the beauty of the apartment. It was the best of the best and it was huge, it must have taken up the whole floor. The living room was wide and open with sophisticated ornaments and paintings around the place. It was obvious that Tom and myself were not accustomed to such pleasures in life as Mrs Wilson urged us to take a seat and relax. Of all the extraordinary pictures and ornaments around the place one caught my eye more than any other, it was a picture of an apparent hen sitting on a blurred rock. However, when looked at closely, the hen resolved itself into a bonnet, and a countenance of a stout old lady beamed down into the room. Several copies of ‘Town Tattle’ lay on the large coffee table in the center of the room, along with other exclusive magazines, which mainly referred to Broadway.

Mrs Wilson’s first concern was with the state of the apartment, then turned her attention to Tom and myself. Then she disappeared to find something to drink. Tom’s main concern seemed to be with the safety of the dog. A reluctant elevator boy went for a box full of straw and milk, to which he added on his own accord a tin of large, hard dog biscuits, one of which decomposed apathetically in the milk all afternoon. Not long after Mrs Wilson arrived with several bottles of whisky from a concealed place.

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I have been drunk just twice in my life and the second time was on that afternoon; so everything that happened has a dim hazy cast over it, although until after eight o’clock the apartment was full of cheerful sun.

While Tom and I sat, Mrs Wilson gave a servant a list of people to call for the night ahead. There were no cigarettes, so I went out (on my own accord) to buy some from the drug store on the corner. When I came back, they had disappeared, so I sat down discretely in the living room and read a chapter of a book called Simon Called Peter  either it was terrible stuff or the whisky distorted things, because it didn’t make any sense to me.

Just as Tom and Myrtle (after the first drink Mrs Wilson and I called each other by our first names) reappeared, company commenced to arrive at the door.

The sister, Catherine, was a slim, attractive, worldly girl of about thirty, with flowing red hair and a snowy white complexion. Her eyebrows had been plucked to perfection, so looked like a goddess. When she moved about there was an incessant clinking as innumerable bracelets jingled up and down her arms. She came in and looked and Tom and I with distaste, then realized that Tom and I were with Myrtle. She looked about the room as though the furniture was hers and I wondered f she lived in the apartment as well. When I asked her this she laughed and informed me that she lived in a luxury apartment in some other exclusive part of the city with a friend.

Mr McKee was a pale, feminine man from the flat below. He had just shaved, for there was a white spot of lather on his cheekbone. He was most respectful in his greeting to everyone in the room. He informed me that he was in the ‘artistic game’, and I gathered later that he was a photographer and had made the magnificent enlargement of Myrtle’s mother which hovered like and angels halo on the wall. His wife was a rather short stout woman, lacking something that I could never put my finger on. She told me with pride that her husband had photographed her 17 times since they had been married.

Myrtle had changed her costume some time before and was now attired in an elaborate afternoon dress of cream coloured chiffon, which caught the eye of all she walked past. Tom was now walking around with great enthusiasm in a fine suit that Myrtle must have organized for him. The rough, cautious appearance of Tom had long disappeared now. His laughter, his gestures, affected by alcohol, now seemed to engulf the room, moment by moment, until eventually he seemed to be revolving on a noisy creaking point through the smoky air.

“My dear. It’s time for women to take a stance,” Said Myrtle as she staggered over to her sister, obviously drunk.

“Start to live life with the same freedom of men. All the men in this room would either be cheating or have cheated on their woman. So why should we not live with the same carelessness? We are rich girls, provided we don’t marry poor boys, all will be fine.”

“I like your dress,” Remarked Mrs McKee in an aimless manner as though nothing had been said.

“I think it’s adorable.”

Written by Dirk Drysdale

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