-Nick's POV
- Events will take place during the book

Disclaimer: I do not own the book 'The Great Gatsby' by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

(Chapter 1): Delightful Invitations?

"The rich rules over the poor, and the borrower is the slave of the lender." Pro 22:7

Frankly, I am rather bored to be meeting you
at the regular weekend parties of your polite neighbor.
Let us meet in another different environment to see if we will ever survive.
Fri 1:00 p.m.
Jordan Baker

I reread the invitation that I received this morning to clarify that the letters I'm wording silently are indeed correct and it's not a fragment of my imagination making up illusions I will highly believe, but as I read the white card with Jordan's name on it I know it is not a lie. She really did invite me to go somewhere this Friday at one o' clock. I should not be this surprise for I have encountered her several times in the endless parties at Gatsby's mansion and we normally have small talk before she leaves to greet the other guests, I suppose more important than me, leaving me all alone as before. Though the way she would invisibly wink at me before her exit would make me more significant than all the others, at least for a second, before she ultimately disappears from me. Nevertheless, to invite me personally on a, should I have the right to say, a date is definitely not her usual cool style that I dare to admire.

"She must want something from me, I assume." I say quietly to myself as I again for the hundredth time glance at the card on my gloveless hand. "But what?" I leave it to destiny to play with my life for a moment as I put the highly-valuable letter on my trousers' pocket, steadily walking in to my small house to close the front door behind me and have more hot air greet me.

My home is rather quaint and mostly unimportant, especially comparing to the neighboring mansions, with appealing furniture here and there across the rooms. White walls hold paintings of old art that societies have forgotten who the artist were and there's a few pictures of me on the corners when I was at the University of Yale a life time ago. The glass windows in every room that have open curtains let the sun's hot breath fill the rooms, making the whole room twice as bright. One could even say it has a 'home' appeal to it where someone actually lives in it and not desolate like some other big manors where no one presumably lives inside, giving it a ghostly charm.

I walk to an old-fashion leather chair that is next to the front door to sit comfortably with one leg over my left and I carefully light up a new cigar with the smoke filling up my lungs and half of my home equally as a custom. Smoking always makes me feel at ease and releases unknown tension that I secretly have dwelling inside of my skin. I could be here all day sitting on this dreaded chair, smoking my troubles away when a sly grin escapes my lips. It cannot be helped that I feel this rather new, still strange sensation inside the depths of my core. A feeling that I can get very adjusted to in an extremely short amount of time.

Jordan Baker the famous, honest tennis player of New York. She is rather pleasing to the eye with black short shoulder length hair with wisps of bangs to the side, sharp and strong features, her tan skin that gets painted by the sun's ray when she's out and about, but most importantly simply is because she is rather tall. Her dignified yet casual style when she walks or merely when she sits is impossible to recreate in any other woman regardless of social status. A type of woman I thought I could hardly astonish with my simple lifestyle, yet I must of have secretly surprised her that she remembers me from the party scene out of all the other pleasing gentlemen.

"One can never be too sure of themselves for that is how one can get caught in the traps of fools." I remind myself bitterly, releasing the smoke out of my mouth that I accidently trapped when a sudden knock from the door startles me almost making me drop the cigar to the poor floor.

"Are you there old sport?"

The familiar voice and wording seeps from the other side of the door as I comprehend the words that fill my ears. My neighbor Gatsby. Now this is indeed a surprise, and I hope to say it will be a pleasant surprise for I know he will never visit me on a regular basis especially on a Monday afternoon. His sudden appearance on my front door must be something important if he is skipping work on his trustworthy … well, whatever he works. This day is getting more attractive with each second throughout the afternoon, too bad it is almost coming into an end.

I rapidly get up from the chair, putting the steady cigar on top of an end table and walk to the door to open it. Seeing Gatsby outside of my door with his big smile in his formal, bizarre pink suit will make anyone jump from surprise regardless they have knowledge who was behind the door. His smile must be contagious for I feel my lips curl just slightly.

"Gatsby, what a surprise. Need anything?" I politely greet my guest in front me.

"Why, are you not going to invite me in?" Gatsby questions in his smooth, deep voice lingering on the side my doorway. If only he knows that his obvious euphoria is clouding my concentration by the way he's judging my house with his calculating eyes.

"Um, sorry. Want to come inside?" I take a step to the side to let him enter with his eyes observing my each movement as I feel a tiny sweat drop sliding down on the back of my neck in shame. How could I forget my absolute manners? This is indeed a tragedy the way the sudden guest will remind the duty of his host.

"No, though thank you old sport. I actually wanted to invite you to my house for some … well, sightseeing. What do you say?"

On normal circumstances I would of have accepted his invite without delay since it is simply just because he's the one inviting me, but today is vaguely different. I have a sudden invitation from Miss. Jordan Baker. Could his appearance on my door be somehow related to her hasty meeting with me unexpectedly? Perhaps he knows something about her sudden engagement she wishes with me or more importantly, both of them made a pact together in their secret meetings at Gatsby's hidden lair during the countless weekend parties and I startling have something to do with it. Well, there is no way to get caught in the traps of fools when one becomes smarter than the fool itself, and that, I hope to be me for I sense they are scheming something against me.

With a small smile I reply. "Sure, why not?"

Gatsby's mansion can equally be mistaken for a modern castle with lush gardens springing colorful roses and exotic plants near the gray stone path that leads to the front doors of the manor. Bronze statues of contemporary sculptures in strange designs decorate the nearby running fountain with neatly trim trees and with a dense jungle of unknown trees by the outskirts of the manor that intertwines to the trees to my house. It is a most fortunate that a pleasing gentleman with a welcoming personality resides on this current castle and is my only good neighbor.

"Old sport, you do realize that is bad respect to openly stare at your host's house?" Gatsby's voice interrupts my sightseeing as I turn to face him who is looking straight away, walking in a proud manner with both hands inside his pants' pockets. How amusing that we just traded our duties to each other unknowingly in mere seconds.

"Well, you did invite me for some sightseeing and that is what I'm perfectly doing, for you know, it would be disrespectful not to when I was invited for this sole purpose." I simply respond to his statement, giving my host a small nod in courtesy, but with the way he looks at the ground with his smile still on and slightly shakes his head side to side conceitedly is impossible not to nod in courtesy.

We both accompany the silence to the entrance and Gatsby opens one of the French doors to let me enter first follow by his presence. A house can be easily interpreted by the status of the gardens for that is utterly simple. If a house, regardless of size and structure, has a perfectly clean garden, then the inside must be the same or even more refined than the outside and that is the perfect example that I learn to observe today. The entrance is made out of mother-of-pearl marble floor and white walls with gold trimmings on the edges. Two white stairways on the far sides that welcome a terrace with black railing of intricate designs that shimmers with the sun's shine from Clerestory windows set high on the walls. I pensively look up to the ceiling to view a large painting of traditional religious art of half-naked angels trying to reach their hands to, what I presume, the sinners of the world to save the alleged sin we are born with in a heavenly blue background with a massive chandelier right in the middle of it, distracting the almost pious scenery.

But just by entering this small space suddenly makes me want to kneel down on the floor and pray. This idea frightens me deeply. I never been religious or even have a second to think about spiritual beings in heavens, but why now? Especially inside of my neighbor's house. But I unexpectedly feel so moved by a strange force that radiates inside of this manor that makes me want to pray. However, pray for what?

I suddenly hear light footsteps from my side that highly distracts me to see Gatsby getting a bottle of alcohol and two glass cups from the winery cabinet and I walk next to his side to receive his gratitude with a nod by drinking the whole glass in one swing, then setting it on a nearby table with a small thud. I boredly look around to distract myself from this painful muteness as I wait for Gatsby to finish drinking his glass and for his real intentions of this strange invitation.

A picture on the far side of the room in top of a never used chimney captures my attention as I walk closer to have a better view of it. It is a black and white photograph of a younger Gatsby, smiling the rare same smile I hardly know, dressed in a new, clean soldier uniform with a rifle in his hands. This must be a picture before he was going to the war in World War One. He genuinely looks happy defending his country with the killing of enemy soldiers that are no strangers to him since they both have the same mission – to kill or to get killed. This picture reminds me of my countless photographs I have before departing to fight in the same war though there is no way to be correct since I burned those memories a long time ago.

"Good memories, old sport. Good old memories." Gatsby states quietly also looking at the same photograph of a younger version of the man that is standing next to me. "You know, anyone could take all this from me, take it away and I will still have it all." That is just so typical of him to say something of the sort.

I simply nod at his statement not wanting to disrupt this similar path we both shared, putting my hands on my pockets to feel a familiar paper through my fingers. Jordan's invitation. How could I get so easily distracted on forgetting what was my mission of finding out Jordan's meeting with me? The simple distraction of the rich that in a bizarre manner is still strange to me, regardless if I have any knowledge of it. No, Gatsby presence is enough to distract me for I am not myself when he's around and I do not know how.

"Do you know that Jordan invited me to go with a meeting with her?" I state my words slowly as if to correct myself that these are my words coming out of my mouth and not someone else's. Though, secretly I want to see Gatsby's expression to my words to see how he will react to know if he's behind in these actions.

Gatsby's eyes widen from my statement in surprise. "Uh, that is good for you, old sport." His usual smile comes back to his lips. I could never bear to see him without that smile and it scares me to think I will do anything just to see it. "I see the way you look at her during the parties." He winks so swiftly that I probably imagine it.

Is it that obvious that from a distance away it could be so easily read when I barely accepted myself with my imaginations of being with her just a short moment ago? Then he supposedly was aware of my clandestine infatuation with the tennis player and maybe knows the reasons why for the note. Or am I just thinking too much of this situation?

"Oh, and … do you know why?"

Gatsby laughs from my statement and pats my shoulder before gripping it tightly as if it's most common question in the world. "Can you not tell? She looks at you the same way you look at her."

Now this is indeed a pleasant surprise. A surprise I was not expecting by the latest. Maybe after all I was the fool for not being too noticeable of my surroundings. The smile fades from my lips. "Then why the sudden invite?" Winning another laugh from Gatsby.

"Another time, old sport. Have fun, but not too much fun, alright? I do not want your heart to be broken and I have to sweep the pieces for you know that the rich do not do those dirty jobs. Only the poor."

I half smile as my thoughts imagine an honest tennis player with short black hair in a pink polo with a short skirt playing tennis in a tournament giving me a seductive smile before she hits the green, bouncy ball.

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