A Private Gathering

The elevator boy

Today began as a very boring and tedious day for me, with nothing unusual. I spent the day writing free-lance articles for various small newspapers in New York, all of which I am sure you have never heard of. My free-lance work is, of course, how I make a living; I obviously do not obtain money from the blog you are reading right now because none of you pay me! This is fine, however, as I take pleasure in writing these intriguing entries and as a matter of fact, boy do I have one for you today!

After I had spent hours writing uninteresting newspaper filler, I drove down to New York to pick up some of my belongings from a former colleague from the New York Times. I arrived at a strip of apartment houses on 158^th Street where my former colleague lives and I picked up the small box of files and work supplies that he was holding for me. Just as I put the box in the trunk of my car and began to leave, I noticed a young elevator boy struggling to carry a box full of straw and other various items up the stairs to the apartments. I leapt up and immediately offered my assistance, which he politely accepted. We got into the elevator of the apartment building and began to rise.

This is the point in my day where it changed from dull and ordinary to very interesting. The elevator boy and I entered one of the apartments and he took the box from my hands and disappeared. It seemed that I had walked into a private gathering; one could say a small party. The room was crammed with large pieces of fine furniture, the air was filled with smoke, and five or six people were in the room having passionate conversation. I felt awkward and imposing so I immediately decided to leave.  However, just as I turned around, a woman’s hand grabbed my arm and pulled me toward one of the large sofas. I quickly took a glance of the other guests to see if they were surprised to see a stranger amongst them, but to my surprise, it seemed that they either didn’t care or they didn’t notice me.

I recognized the woman who had pulled me into the room; it was Wilson’s wife from the garage in the valley of ashes! She was different, however, almost a different person entirely. The way she acted, the way she spoke, and the way she moved about the room was full of confidence, full of sophistication. It seemed that Myrtle – as I learned her name to be - had switched from lower class to higher class. I overheard some very interesting conversations full of gossipy tidbits. Apparently, Myrtle is having an affair with a man by the name of Tom Buchanan. Tom was at this gathering and I gathered that he is an extremely arrogant and wealthy man. Whiskey was passed around and I went against my better judgment, taking a share of it to look less out of place. I suppose everyone was intoxicated, and that is why no one noticed that I was in attendance. I learned that Tom lived in East Egg in an enormous house with his wife Daisy. Good God, do people have no morals these days, having affairs whenever they feel glum! I recognized Nick Carraway as one of the guests but I think he was too drunk to even wave his hand at me. At some point during the gathering a large commotion began between Myrtle and Tom resulting in Tom breaking Myrtle’s nose! The confusion gave me the opportunity to escape unnoticed and I took it - what a night!