It was the height of summer in West Egg, and it was too hot to stay inside, so I stood on my front lawn in the cool night air. I saw a figure emerge from the mansion next to me, a figure whose silhouette I knew well. It was Gatsby, and as he had not seen me, I stood watching him. I saw him staring up at the night sky, his mouth twisted into a horrible grimace. He held a hand to his face, with his elbow crooked upward, as if shielding himself from some unspeakable agony. I was about to cry out to him when he turned and I saw he was only picking his nose.

- - -

If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about Gatsby, a romantic readiness I have never found in another person. But that hardly mattered if you were stuck sitting next to him at dinner. As soon as he took his first bite of food, the tooth sucking would start -- tsssst, skuck, skuck, tsssst, skuck, skuck. It sounded like a horse sucking on marbles. And it would last all through dinner. I'm surprised no one ever mentioned it to him.

- - -

It was testimony to the speculation he inspired that there were whispers about him from those who rarely whispered of anything. Once, at a party, I noticed two women sitting on the stairs whispering to each other as they pointed to Gatsby. I moved close to eavesdrop, and I overheard one woman saying, "Can you believe that ridiculous purple cape he's wearing?" "I know," the other snickered, "who does he think he is, the grape Gatsby?"

- - -

The three of us were sitting on the porch -- Daisy, Gatsby, and myself -- the rain had just cleared, and the sun was setting on the water. "Look there," Daisy said, pointing to a group of pink and billowy clouds along the sea. "I'd like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you on it and push you around." Gatsby perked up at this. "And once the moon comes out, I'd like you to push me real close so I could pull down my pants and flash my flabby ass at it." A long silence followed as Gatsby looked from Daisy to me. "Come on," Gatsby continued, "don't you get it? I'd be mooning the moon. Get it? Mooning the moon." Oh, we got it all right. Daisy looked like she wanted to hit him.

- - -

The absolute worst I have ever seen him behave was at one of his soirees when Gatsby was tanked up on tequila. I was standing with a group of East Enders as one of them -- a tall, dapper gent -- was going on and on about how much more desirable East Egg was to live than West Egg. Gatsby sidled over and said, "Everyone knows East Egg is far better than West Egg, Dickie. But do you know which place is worse than West Egg?" Dickie shook his head and said he didn't know. Gatsby bent forward and, through his gabardine trousers, blasted the loudest fart I have ever heard. "Rotten Egg," Gatsby said, leaving us to scatter from his noxious plume.

- - -

James Gatz -- that was really, or at least legally, Gatsby's name. Once, in a box in his attic, I came across an old school notebook where the young Gatz had worked on inventing his new name. The funny thing was, Jay Gatsby hardly appeared in the notebook at all. The name the young James Gatz seemed fixated on was Kip Glacko. I found Kip Glacko scrawled all over the notebook, with embellishments. I remember reading, "Sub Captain Glacko," along with, "bad ass Glack," as well as, "the galloping Glacko."

- - -

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. But Gatsby also believed drinking tea brewed from his fingernail clippings kept him virile, and that if he ran fast enough with a stopped wristwatch he could travel in time. So we beat on, boats against the current, until one day we finally figure out time travel so we can go back and fix our screwed-up lives.