"So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight." (Fitzgerald 136)
Tom, Jordan, and I drove in
silence through the night as we headed towards Long Island. There was
not much to be said at this point so we said nothing. We were just
coming through the city when we felt Tom's coupe begin to lurch.
Suddenly there was smoke fuming from the hood and we pulled over.
"What the hell!" Tom exclaimed
as he exited the car and popped the hood. I went to look with him and
asked Jordan to stay put in the car. Tom and I looked into the engine.
I have never been much of a car expert and by Tom's vacant expression i
assumed he had as much experience with automobiles as I did.
"I don't think it will run," I said to Tom as gusts of smoke continued to radiate from the hood of the car.
"We can't stay here all night.
Not with that joker Gatsby on his way home with Daisy. Come on Wilson's
shop is just down the road. We'll bring him out here to give it a look.
I'm sure he can get it good enough to make it home at least." Tom
looked at me as if he was not asking but telling me. I was not in any
type of mood to argue with him. I felt bad making Jordan walk to the
garage but it seemed as if we had no choice.
"Maybe you should stay here. I'm sure we won't be long," I said to Jordan.
"I'm not staying in this car by
myself Nick. It's fine I don't mind walking." And with that the three
of us started down the road towards Wilson's shop. The walk was long
and once again silent. I thought about Gatsby and Daisy, already home,
discussing what was to happen next. I had witnessed my beloved cousin
use the heart of my best friend for her own selfish game. I had never
thought of Gatsby as perfect or even close to perfection, but there was
one thing about him I was sure of. He was totally and completely in
love with Daisy Buchanan. It was true that she had loved him too once
upon a time but now it seemed as if she was no longer faintly concerned
about the feelings of those around her. She was sick and tired of her
husband, the man she truly loved, cheating on her and not appreciating
her. This momentary love affair with Gatsby was simply an attempt to
make her husband pay some attention to her. As if she was a middle
child lost in the shuffle and starved for attention from preoccupied
parents. I suddenly felt embarrassed to be related to her.
"So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight." (Fitzgerald 136)
Tom, Jordan, and I drove in silence through the night as we headed
towards Long Island. There was not much to be said at this point so we said
nothing. We were just coming through the city when we felt Tom's coupe begin to
lurch. Suddenly there was smoke fuming from the hood and we pulled over.
"What the hell!" Tom exclaimed as he exited the car and
popped the hood. I went to look with him and asked Jordan to stay put in the
car. Tom and I looked into the engine. I have never been much of a car expert
and by Tom's vacant expression I assumed he had as much experience with
automobiles as I did.
"I don't think it will run," I said to Tom as gusts of
smoke continued to radiate from the hood of the car.
"We can't stay here all night. Not with that joker Gatsby on
his way home with Daisy. Come on Wilson's shop is just down the road. We'll
bring him out here to give it a look. I'm sure he can get it good enough to
make it home at least." Tom looked at me as if he was not asking but
telling me. I was not in any type of mood to argue with him. I felt bad making
Jordan walk to the garage but it seemed as if we had no choice.
"Maybe you should stay here. I'm sure we won't be long,"
I said to Jordan.
"I'm not staying in this car by myself Nick. It's fine I
don't mind walking." And with that the three of us started down the road
towards Wilson's shop. The walk was long and once again silent. I thought about
Gatsby and Daisy, already home, discussing what was to happen next. I had
witnessed my beloved cousin use the heart of my best friend for her own selfish
game. I had never thought of Gatsby as perfect or even close to perfection, but
there was one thing about him I was sure of. He was totally and completely in
love with Daisy Buchanan. It was true that she had loved him too once upon a
time but now it seemed as if she was no longer faintly concerned about the
feelings of those around her. She was sick and tired of her husband, the man
she truly loved, cheating on her and not appreciating her. This momentary love
affair with Gatsby was simply an attempt to make her husband pay some attention
to her. As if she was a middle child lost in the shuffle and starved for
attention from preoccupied parents. I suddenly felt embarrassed to be related
to her.
