The Great Gatsby: The More Vulnerable Years

In my younger and more vulnerable years, as my good friend Nick Carraway would say, my father gave me some advice that has stuck with me ever since.

"If you want to be somebody, act like somebody." Of course this counsel was lost on me, as my father was not a man I knew long. In the short time we met, we rarely had moments of intellectual conversation.

Our time was better spent in the small moments that shaped me into the strong woman I am today, for a girl has to be strong when proudly bearing the name of Gale Gatsby.

I was not born a Gatsby nor was I married into the name. I chose the calling just as my father did before me. I was born rather as a Gatz. The name of a man my mother once knew and loved for a short time.

At the young age of 9 my mother passed away leaving me only a small worn photo of a man in uniform. The words "Love Jay Gatz" scripted in faded ink on the back like a forgotten memory.

She never told me who the young soldier was but by the gleam of longing and sadness in her eyes, I knew. The man in uniform was my father.

For years, five to be exact, I never paid much mind to the man in uniform. He was a man that my mother had decided was best absent from my life, But years in an orphanage can change a person's mind.

So at the impressionable age of 14, during the summer of 1922, I set out to find the man in uniform. Honestly I never really had a plan as to how I'd find him, but being left free to wander the streets of Manhattan was enough incentive to get me started

The first step to my make shift plan consisted of reclaiming my birth certificate from the head mistress of the Brooklyn orphanage I had called home for only a short time in my life.

The smell of whiskey and cigarettes erected from that woman with a certain stench that I doubt I'll ever have the displeasure of smelling again. Her undignified red curls littered her face and her teeth mirrored a yellow that is yet to be defined. Her voice was a haunting echo that will forever be branded in my thoughts and I pray I never have to hear again.

"Bastard and an orphan, you found the pot of gold kid." Were the words she spoke to me as she handed over my birth certificate and blew a rude ball of deadly cigarette fumes my way.

The unseemly red stamp, reading bastard, was clearly printed on the shameful yellowing piece of parchment that was my birth certificate. Even though my father's name, James Gatz, was easily seen in black ink across the paper, the government still saw it fit to deem me a bastard for the rest of my days.

The juvenile age that I was, came with a certain self determination that is often seen in youth. A determination to be rid of the bastard title.

Being young comes with an undeniable willpower that is lacked through our country's older generations. When you are youthful anything is possible and I will forever believe in that principle.

With only the clothes on my back, a birth certificate, and the photo of the man in uniform I began my search through the long expanse of New York City for none other than James Gatz himself.

After one short week my exhibition proved to have no luck. It seemed to be that no one had ever heard of the name, James Gatz.

Once I had completed my journey from one end of Manhattan to the next I found myself under the persistent blue eyes of Doctor T.J. Eckleburg.

The eyes of Doctor T.J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic- their retinas one yard high. They look out of no face but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose.

The area Doctor T.J. Eckleburg watches is a wide desolate expanse about half way between West Egg and New York where the motor-road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile. And in this wide expanse sits a garage- Repairs. George B. Wilson. Cars Bought and Sold- where I found my first clue as to where the man in uniform was.

I entered the garage damp and worn from the attacks of New York. It was mid-afternoon and the early morning rain had not been kind to me. My small girlish body immediately began to tremble as I let the warmth of the garage embrace me.

It was a small grayish place lacking life. Only one worn haggard ford sat in its depths waiting for the skilled hands of George B. Wilson to complete its troubled form. Before long the owner himself stepped out of the shadows wiping his dirty calloused hands against the waist band of his work clothes.

He was a faintly handsome, but spiritless man. Years of work and pain showed through the tired wrinkles of his face and the small smile he displayed took a great deal of exercise.

"What could I do for you young miss?" He spoke with a breath of a man that had once had a dream, but lost it along the way.

The man was a sad sight to see and as Myrtle Wilson glided down the steps from the romantic overhead apartments I could see the source for his pain.

"Step away George, you'll frighten the girl."

Myrtle Wilson spoke with confidence unlike that of her husband who was more of the mouse in the corner, and he,r the cat ready to pounce.

Her thick figure quickly made its way to me. She was a stout woman with reddish hair and lips lacking qualities of beauty, but the way she carried herself made her so. It was safe to say I admired her. There were too many weak women in this world, we needed stronger women.

"What do you need help with sweetheart?" She asked in a cool voice as she she placed an arm around me. The sweet overwhelming scent of her perfume consumed me in a trance causing me to hesitate as to what my answer might be.

"George get us some chairs."

"Right on it."

She ordered and he responded without delay, quickly disappearing in the depths of the garage to retrieve the chairs.

"No see, that won't be necessary, I mustn't stay long. I'm looking for my father." I replied in a clear stutter desperately needing to get my point across.

"Oh really who is he? I might know him."

"Oh I don't think you will, his name is James Gatz."

"No I'm sorry haven't heard that name before. Is he from West Egg?"

"Not sure really... we've never met."

"Oh how dramatic. We must find him."

Her voice shimmered with excitement as if finding my father was the newest board game that she just had to win. Before I could respond to her comment a black coupe pulled up through the dirt claiming its spot in front of the garage as if it had always owned the place.

"Oh Tom!" Mrs. Wilson ran to the car forgetting my presence entirely. The door of the coupe swung open proudly as Tom Buchanan, a man I often wish had never met, stepped out taking Mrs.Wilson in his embrace.

"Where's ole' George I have some business to attend to before I take Jordan here to New York." Tom, a tall muscular man with the build of an athlete, spoke as he looked past Mrs. Wilson to the dismal garage.

It was the first I had noticed the woman now standing outside of the coupe. She had a lean athletic figure and cropped raven hair.

The raven haired woman looked to have played a sport and I had begun to wonder if the two weren't married. I could tell Mrs. Wilson was wondering the same, as the look of pure envy and jealous rage washed over her face.

"Who's the girl?" Tom questioned his dark eyes boring down on me causing all attention towards me. An uncomfortable feeling began to overwhelm me, as I was not the one for being center of attention.

"Oh Tom I'd like you to meet my friend- what's your name girl?"

"Gale, Gale Gatz." I answered Mrs. Wilson with a shyness in my voice I had not yet been accustomed to.

"She's looking for her father."

"Who's your father?" Tom's overbearing voice asked in a condescending tone. I could tell by the looks on their faces they were judging my dirt covered clothes and face. My appearance was that of an orphan now.

"James Gatz."

"Never heard of him." Tom replied like many before him, not surprising me by the least.

"I've never heard of a James Gatz, but I have heard of a Jay Gatsby." Answered the woman who Tom had previously named Jordan. "He leaves on West Egg and is throwing a huge party tonight. Is he your father?"

"I've never met my father, so I wouldn't be able to tell you honestly."

"A bastard? There are more and more by the day! Before you know it their will be mixed couples and children running the streets!" Tom broke out anger laced in his words. "Tradition! Has this country even heard of the term before?!"

"Now is not the time or place Tom." Jordan spoke in a calm voice causing Tom's temper to settle. I immediately liked Jordan Baker, she had a sense of class and authority that was missing from both Tom and the Wilson's. She was unlike most women, once again I had met another strong woman.

"Tom don't bother taking me to New York, I'm going to help this young lady get ready for a party." Mrs. Baker spoke as she took me delicately by the shoulders leading me to the luxuries of the automobile.

How I ended up in a rich man's coupe and getting ready for a millionaire's party that night, I'll never know. I'm just glad I did.