The last party of the great Gatsby.

The entire manor was covered in gleaming warm lights, as if it was on fire itself when it was clearly not. The jazz music was bursting out of the casement windows and hundreds of men and girls travelled around from garden to garden, room to room in pride and in fetching demeanor holding on to the cocktail glasses in their gloved or shining hands. They smoked cigarettes and cigars out of blood red metal tins as if it was their last time, they smirked, laughed and flirted with everyone. I rushed towards the manor pulling my hands through a black silk vest, I combed my hair with my fingers which were still damp and took a deep breath on the pavement. My friend told me it was the biggest and the most fancy house in the entire west egg, when I first applied for the job.

 Hundreds of expensive cars in several shades and hues parked outside on the road while the people walked in wearing velvet tuxedos or silk gowns with diamonds and their hair either pushed back with gel or let open if of a female. They held their chin up and their eyes twinkled due to all the money and power they possessed. Of course, it was the Gatsby’s great party. In which came celebrities, vintage and new, young and old, famous or not famous, athletes, men and women and heart broken and those who were profoundly in love with the worthless. Entering the main hall, it made me remember my dream with a gush of tragic force. Gatsby dies, I know it. He will die, I know it. None of my dreams ever proclaimed false. But would he believe me, even If I do tell him? I am just a mere servant who serves drinks to the already drunk. When I walked ahead I could feel the gloom and the presence of the death angel by the long spiral wooden stairs, I ignore it and walk ahead. The party in the garden was bustling as it always did, I have worked here, in hundreds of Gatsby’s parties. But today I suddenly feel hopeless and poignant, my knees ache and my heart wails for I know it the last one of the Gatsby’s fabulous parties. the bar is in full swing, loud laughs and giggles are heard from all directions of the manor. The air is like a perfect mixture of the most expensive perfumes in this world, it makes me feel light headed. I go by the bar and the head waiter asks me to take the champagne tray and walk around the manor if anyone needs one more to make their hangover worst. I took the silver tray with handles containing intricate patterns carved on it and keep it on my white gloved hand, I put the cloth over my arm, the other arm behind my back and travel to a couple of ladies which apparently doesn’t have any glass in their tiny, white and dramatic hands. I nearly trip over a lady’s strawberry pink mulberry silk gown, I shook my head to bring some senses and leaves when I figure out that the lady didn’t realized it. the atmosphere feels imperial as if it was a party thrown by a royal family’s only son before his wedding. I recognize the lady, I have seen her in several flop films poster outside several cinemas in New York. She looks distressed and stares at the sea with her lips pursed together tightly as if she was trying to stop herself from uttering the world’s ugliest secret. As I passed from in front of her, I notice Jordon baker, the tennis player passing a banter to a man who was tall and completely not listening as he stared at the orchestra with bulging eyes. The orchestra is singing an unknown song, players sitting around with their oboes, saxophones, piccolos and viols, I don’t even know the name of a lot of instruments they have. Miss baker take the champagne glass from the tray in my hands and winks, then she continued talking with the goblet waving in the air as she explained something inaudible. She looked appealing in her sky blue knee length chiffon dress which flapped against her knees when the breezes passed by from the sea to her. She wore fawn colored kitten heels and her hair were open, like the waves from Hawaii, they were careless and honest. The man was wearing flannels and looked disgusting and out of place in this party of single lapel and doubled breasted suits. With women and men having a splendid gay time, he preferred his thoughts. Then they both disappeared in to the manor while I distributed the champagne, twinkling and sparkly. Some of the people were the regular comers, some of them were new and alone but then surrounded by people who they just got introduced to and they know they won’t meet them ever again. The grandeur and the loneliness. I spontaneously felt like wailing in middle of the veranda, my work, bring out an utterly different meaning that day. For the first time in my life I was noticing the details about Gatsby’s party and the manor. The food in the white platters, Smoked Salmon Canapes, the fruit slices covered in sweet transparent maroon sauces, cheeses from around the world, socca and a million types of tarts. The drinks from gin rickey to moonshine. The tall green hedges and the paths carved in them. The windows and the velvet drapes behind them, the marbled floor and the gold and crystal chandeliers. The halls, lawns, salons and parlors inside frittering with handsome and exquisite faces. The gigantic library with books as old as the Buddha himself. There is a lady sobbing in the bathroom next to the parlor, I can hear her though the water is still flowing in the sink. A couple is making out in the corridor with the girl on the window sill and the man on his feet, her silk gown is up to her waist and her eyes are closed as they kissed hungrily. When I walk out in the garden, the Gatsby and the man in flannels and miss baker are talking to each other with great enforcement and pleasure. I have never seen Gatsby so delighted and happy, there are several other people around them as well clinking their tall glasses and grinning like a couple of Cheshire cats together. Mr Gatsby was wearing a slim, modern fit black single lapel suit, with lapels deep black. A stiff white cotton shirt and black velvet vest as beautiful and deep as the night sky in the space. He had a perfect bow on his neck, never tilted, never wrong. His oxfords speaking volumes of how rich he was and his perfumed hair gel scented the entire garden, wrapping it in his aura of elegance and beauty. It was july 14^th when I last saw him and then I never saw him again.

After sometime I received a call saying that mr Gatsby was dead, shot in his pool by some lunatic and that, that my dues has been cleared for forever.