I've moved into my new place in Long Island (not on the damn subway) next to the house of a dubious specimen called Jay or Jeffrey or Jeremiah or something. An air of suspicion hovers about him: some say he saved a baby and mauled to death a polar bear in Svalbard; others conjecture he dealt in the illegal trafficking of elk spleens in pre-WWI Serbia; a small contingent even claim him to be the true inventor of instant coffee and the crossword puzzle.
Despite the mist cloaking his origins and business activities, he is a typical ‘self-made man’ – by which I mean an arriviste wanker who keeps turning up in my driveway in his souped-up Fiat Punto wearing a croquet blazer. Who the fuck drives a Fiat Punto wearing a croquet blazer? I don’t care if it’s the ‘Jazz Age’ or whatever; it’s no excuse to look like a tosser. I’m quite adamant about this.
Anyhow, the man’s invited me a couple of times to ‘come ride’ in his ‘two-seater aeroplane and enjoy the wild thermals over the Atlantic, old sport.’ Interpreting his invitation as a sordid euphemism, as is prudent, I’ve instead spent most of my off-days in the exhausting company of a lady golfer who grunts louder than the doughtiest tennis femme. My neighbour, on the other hand, is sweet for this posh mid-western filly – Daisy or Deidre or Diocletian, dunno – who likes nothing more than to run over poor women in fast cars, like the veritable New York society woman she is fast becoming.
To impress this questionable hussy – she keeps going on about her baby (nobody fucking cares) – my neighbouring vulgarian keeps throwing large house parties. Throughout the preceding day one sees vans revving up to his doorway delivering endless cases of Bud Light. I roughly surmise the idea to be to get the lady so rat-arsed she’ll say yes to a ‘ride’ in his ‘two-seater aeroplane and enjoy the wild thermals’. Wicked cad that he is.
Nick Carraway, West Egg, Long Island, Summer of 1922.
Despite the mist cloaking his origins and business activities, he is a typical ‘self-made man’ – by which I mean an arriviste wanker who keeps turning up in my driveway in his souped-up Fiat Punto wearing a croquet blazer. Who the fuck drives a Fiat Punto wearing a croquet blazer? I don’t care if it’s the ‘Jazz Age’ or whatever; it’s no excuse to look like a tosser. I’m quite adamant about this.
Anyhow, the man’s invited me a couple of times to ‘come ride’ in his ‘two-seater aeroplane and enjoy the wild thermals over the Atlantic, old sport.’ Interpreting his invitation as a sordid euphemism, as is prudent, I’ve instead spent most of my off-days in the exhausting company of a lady golfer who grunts louder than the doughtiest tennis femme. My neighbour, on the other hand, is sweet for this posh mid-western filly – Daisy or Deidre or Diocletian, dunno – who likes nothing more than to run over poor women in fast cars, like the veritable New York society woman she is fast becoming.
To impress this questionable hussy – she keeps going on about her baby (nobody fucking cares) – my neighbouring vulgarian keeps throwing large house parties. Throughout the preceding day one sees vans revving up to his doorway delivering endless cases of Bud Light. I roughly surmise the idea to be to get the lady so rat-arsed she’ll say yes to a ‘ride’ in his ‘two-seater aeroplane and enjoy the wild thermals’. Wicked cad that he is.
Nick Carraway, West Egg, Long Island, Summer of 1922.
