THE GREAT GATSBY
As depicted by the most arrested man in America, and friends
Don’t bring Tom.
What?
Don’t bring Tom.
“Who is ‘Tom’?” she asked innocently.
The day agreed upon was pouring rain. At eleven o’clock a man in a raincoat, dragging a lawn-mower, tapped at my front door and said that Mr. Gatsby had sent him over to cut my grass. This reminded me that I had forgotten to tell my Finn to come back, so I drove into West Egg Village to search for her among soggy, whitewashed alleys and to buy some cups and lemons and flowers.
The flowers were unnecessary, for at two o’clock a greenhouse arrived from Gatsby’s, with innumerable receptacles to contain it. An hour later the front door opened nervously, and Gatsby, in a white flannel suit, silver shirt, and gold-colored tie, hurried in. He was pale, and there were dark signs of sleeplessness beneath his eyes.
Is everything all right?
The grass looks fine, if that’s what you mean.
What grass? Oh, the grass in the yard.
He looked out the window at it, but, judging from his expression, I don’t believe he saw a thing.