Nick: When I said the events of that afternoon would stick with me forever, I wasn't kidding. Even two years on, they remain fresh in my mind. The endless stream of photographers, policemen, and journalists, through the day and night, all of them wanting a piece of the tragedy that was the downfall of the great Gatsby.

This media circus was nothing but a grotesque nightmare, and while most of those people were vultures, I had to commend Catherine, who refused to speak ill about her sister. She denied Myrtle's actions to the very end and gave George Wilson one last piece of humiliation by making sure he'd be remembered as a deranged man who tried to imprison and then kidnap his wife. Not that it was entirely false. 

But none of that was important in the wake of Gatsby's death. I was the only one who'd really been on his side since the beginning, and I certainly don't believe this because I'm delusional and have unresolved feelings for him to this day. 

I called Daisy half an hour after finding his body, but it turned out that she and Tom had left town earlier in the afternoon, like two fugitives trying to avoid justice for their crimes. I didn't know if they would ever be back, and I had to get somebody for Gatsby, so I tried Meyer Wolfshiem. His name wasn't in the phonebook, and when I managed to get his office address, it turned out that he'd mysteriously disappeared as well. 

Desperate for some progress, I thought about all of the chance visitors who had made their way through, which is when I heard Gatsby's voice in my head, giving me encouragement like he was my new guardian angel. 

Gatsby: Look here, old sport. You've got to try harder. Think outside the box. I can't go through this alone. 

Nick: But everyone's gone. And none of your other party guests cared about who you really were. 

Gatsby: Don't give up. I believe in you, old sport...

Nick: I sent Gatsby's butler to New York the next morning with a personal letter to Wolfshiem, hoping it would force him to respond. Thankfully, the butler came back with an answer, but I felt the defiance rising in me again when I read it. Meyer Wolfshiem couldn't make it to the funeral after all, which meant it was just me and Gatsby against the world. 

I got a phone call from Chicago that afternoon, and assumed it was Daisy, only to hear the voice of a man I'd never met on the other end.

Man: Hello? This is Slagle speaking. My man Parke's gotten into some trouble because someone over in New York snitched. You know anything about that?

Nick: Look here! Mr. Gatsby's not available. He's dead!

Slagle: Oh, dang it. Who am I going to do business with now?

Slagle hangs up, and Nick throws the receiver down in frustration.

Nick: It was on the third day that a telegram arrived all the way from Minnesota. It was signed 'Henry C. Gatz,' and it said that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he could make it here. 

I realized it was Gatsby's father, and on the evening of his arrival, I was stunned to see a solemn and helpless old man who was clearly exhausted from his journey. I got him refreshments and a glass of milk, but his trembling hands made it impossible for him to eat or drink. 

Mr. Gatz: I saw it in the Chicago newspaper, so I started right away. 

Nick: I didn't know how to reach you. Or that you even existed.

Mr. Gatz: He must have been a mad man...

Nick: Would you like some coffee?

Mr. Gatz: I don't want anything. I'm all right now, Mr.--

Nick: Carraway.

Mr. Gatz: Well, I'm all right. Could you show me where they put Jimmy?

Nick shows Mr. Gatz into the drawing room, where Gatsby's body lies. Mr. Gatz stares for a while before turning around with his mouth ajar, his face flushed, and tears streaming from his eyes. He looks at the opulent surroundings and begins to smile in pride despite his grief. Nick helps him to one of the bedrooms upstairs and takes his coat. 

Nick: I didn't know what you'd want, Mr. Gatsby, so I-

Mr. Gatz: My name is Gatz. 

Nick: Of course, Mr. Gatz. Perhaps you'd like to take him out west?

Mr. Gatz: No. Jimmy always liked it better down East. Were you a friend of his?

Nick: We were close. But not as much as I'd hoped.

Mr. Gatz: I always knew he'd have a big and bright future with all that brain power he had in his head. He could have become one of the greatest men in this country. Like James J. Hill, who built the Great Northern Railway, and will be remembered for at least another century.

Nick: That's true...

Mr. Gatz sighs and lies down on the bed, falling asleep instantly. Shortly afterwards, Nick receives another phone call.

Caller: Who is this? I need to know for my safety!

Nick: This is Mr. Carraway.

Caller: Oh. This is Klipspringer. I was the pianist at Gatsby's party, in case you've forgotten.

Nick: Yes, I know. Listen, the funeral will be tomorrow at three o'clock, here at the house. Please tell anyone who'd be interested.

Klipspringer: I'll try, but I have a picnic or something to go to. I don't want to let my friends down, but I'll do my best to get away if I can...

Nick: Just tell me you're not coming. You don't have to give me excuses.

Nick hangs up. The scene changes to the next day as a Lutheran minister, Mr. Gatz, and the servants wait for another guest to potentially arrive. They give up waiting at five o'clock and make their way to the cemetery in a limousine while following the hearse. 

Once there, they meet an unexpected visitor in the form of Owl-Eyes, the stout man who Nick met in Gatsby's library three months earlier. 

Owl-Eyes: You may have thought I was irrelevant, but I'm the only one who's bothered out of the hundreds of party guests who came that night. They were looking for a good time, but I was after something deeper. Hence, my interest in the library and the books. 

Nick: And so, us few and humble attendees paid our last respects as Gatsby was laid to rest. Then, we drove out into the winter night and watched the snow twinkle against the car windows. The scenery was so unlike the wheat fields and prairies I had grown up with, and it led me to wonder if perhaps us Midwesterners possessed some deficiency that made us unsuitable to life in the East. 

After Gatsby's death, I found that I couldn't stay in or around New York anymore, so I decided to return home. But there was one more thing to be done, and that was to officially part ways with Jordan Baker. 

She was dressed to play golf when I met her, and she looked fit to be photographed. I told her about everything I'd been through and how things could no longer work out between us, but she didn't seem concerned at all.

Jordan: You don't have to worry about hurting my feelings. I'm already engaged to another man.

Nick: Oh, is that so? I guess this is goodbye then...

He gets up to leave, but Jordan waves for him to sit back down.

Jordan: I don't give a damn about you now, but I was thrown off when you called on the telephone and admitted you were only dating me for appearances. Fortunately, I'm over it now and ready to move on, as you can see. 

She reaches across the table to shake Nick's hand, showing off her engagement ring in the process.

Jordan: Oh, and do you remember the conversation we had about driving a car? How a bad driver is only safe until she meets another bad driver? Well, it happened to me, and I was lucky to get away unscathed. I guess you were right, after all. 

Nick: Yes, I suppose I was. Too bad for Myrtle though.

Jordan doesn't answer and lowers her head. Nick stands up and slowly turns away, leaving her behind for what might be forever. 

Nick: I met Tom Buchanan again in late October. He was walking along in that usual aggressive manner of his, and I stopped him because I wanted to know the truth about what happened between him and George Wilson.

Tom: You're crazy, Nick. What's gotten into you?

Nick: Tom, what did you say to George that afternoon?

Tom: I told him the truth. Not that it matters. That filthy charmer threw dirt in your eyes just like he did with Daisy, but he never fooled me. He ran over Myrtle like she was a dog, and he didn't even bother to stop. 

Nick: That's not true. Gatsby was a saint...

Tom: You see what I'm talking about? You don't know it, but I cried when I saw those biscuits that she would never give to her puppy again. By God, it was awful...

Tom storms away, and Nick stares after him in silent rage.

Nick: I couldn't forgive him and Daisy anymore. They were careless people who smashed up things and ruined lives before retreating into the safety of their money and luxury, or whatever it was that kept them gratified, letting other people clean up the mess they'd made. I sure wasn't the same, having earned a good portion of my money through hard and honest work. 

On my last night in New York, I remembered all those gleaming and dazzling parties that echoed from Gatsby's house, a stark contrast to the heavy silence which blanketed the place now. I only saw one car stop outside the driveway, and I supposed it was another poor sod who didn't realize the party was over. 

I packed my trunk and took one last look at that now empty shell of a house before wandering to the beach and sprawling out on the sand. Most of the big shore places were closed and the only lights came from a ferryboat traveling across Long Island Sound.

As the surrounding houses seemed to melt away beneath the moon, I thought of the Dutch sailors who'd come across this green island and cleared the trees to make way for the likes of Gatsby to build their fortunes. He must have felt a similar wonder when he first noticed the green light at the end of Daisy's dock.

He wanted to grasp it so badly that he didn't realize it was already behind him. And so, we all continue to run towards the things that elude us, stretching our arms out, until like boats against the current, we are borne back ceaselessly into the past or something like that.

THE END

(I'm no poet or novelist)