Nick Carraway's "Diary Entry"-Rosa

June 6^th, 1924

It seems as though my seemingly brilliant impression of Gatsby has been slightly scarred in a rather peculiar strand of events this afternoon. His reassuring smile that I had once encountered now resembles a clever mask, faded away, revealing what I suspect to be somewhat of a suspicious truth.

I had plans to meet him this lunch at the cellar on Fourty-second Street, but was mildly surprised at the presence of another man, engaged in a furtive conversation with Gatsby. I was then focused entirely on the strange figure taking great effort to rise out of his chair and wobble slowly to where I awaited, ill at ease. It took much time roaming around his gigantic visage to locate the position of his infinitesimal pair of eyes, attempting to see past the thick forests of rich hair around his nostrils.

I recognized immediately that a Jew stood before me, Meyer Wolfsheim, a man with a sense of oddity, in which his great, flattened nose gazed at me in greeting. I responded with a handshake, out of politeness, only to hurry to my seat afterwards.

The actual lunch itself proved to be insignificant as Wolfsheim’s inexplicable stories had taken most of the space. His nostrils flared at the climax of each anecdote, especially of his friend’s death, Rosy Rosenthal. I had no idea Wolfsheim had been involved in the murders of four people; and many of his later stories had included death or some sort of unsettling notion. Yet, I didn’t see it as mind boggling, as I came closer to believing that anything could happen here in the East. He even asked me a minute later if I wanted to create a business connection with him, in which he attempted to create a look of intimidation, squinting his eyes until they vanished into the troubling atmosphere. I knew then, for sure, that I never wanted to meet the Jew man and his bothersome nose again, as I started to shift uncomfortably away from the table. Gatsby must’ve sensed this, as he tried to throw away the subject all together, and pushed me away with his hurried chatter with Wolfsheim, to answer to my apprehensive condition. I was infuriated at the act of Gatsby keeping secrets with such a man, rather than ease the stress inside the room by being clear of his intentions, and his thoughts. He then left suddenly, to emphasize his ostentatious importance, and answer a phone call, selfishly leaving me to deal with what I never intended to be involved in.

I thought of excusing myself to the restroom right then, but it seemed as though the glare of Wolfsheim’s nose restrained me from moving at all, as he started to gush with enthusiasm over Gatsby, evidently Wolfsheim had fallen for his inevitable charm. I wondered if he knew about his shifty affair with Daisy, when he encouraged me to believe Gatsby was a man to bring home to a mother and sister. During the rest of his speech, I believe the only part I fully understood was his oblivious manner of mentioning endlessly of Gatsby as an Oxford man, and I wondered to myself if he truly knew where Oxford was.

I tried to change the focus of our talk once or twice, only to have given the entire floor to Wolfsheim yet again, as he hastily boasted his unusual cuff buttons at me, made out of human molars. I was reminded again of the various deaths this man was engaged in, and it seemed as though he felt this was a regular thing, even to have warned me to watch my manner against him. He was, as I soon found out, the man who fixed the World Series and still got away with it. A gambler for a living, I was slightly repulsed at this type of behavior, the lifestyle of the East, as I felt very distant at that moment from this fraudulent world. How could a man toy with the faiths of millions, and still show up to a lunch and casually talk about his cuff buttons? A few moments passed and I was irritated at Gatsby for having created this mess.

The highlight of the meal arrived at last, when Wolfsheim noisily devoured his lunch and rose out from his hunched position, anxious to depart. He looked in each direction before taking a couple of steps, and I thought there might have been hit-men in all corners of the restaurant. Nonetheless, he seemed rather dejected by Gatsby’s apathetic farewell, as though Wolfsheim’s glowing image of him started to weaken as well. He then faded slowly into the background as Gatsby and I started to exit, too, and I looked over at him slightly and suspiciously, quickly adjusting my eyes to the faint commotions outside- to wonder if I could take any of this any longer.

It was then that I spotted Tom Buchanan romping about, with his look of familiar indifference that I found comforting at the time. I quickly motioned to him, eager for a conversation without a hint of obscurity, as I was already tired of the day’s mysterious conundrums.

Gatsby seemed hesitant upon my action, but at this point, I didn’t have the same level of concern that I had for him before, and called Tom over anyways. His thunderous approach made our acquaintance over the several feet towards Gatsby and myself, and after addressing each other, Tom started eagerly upon our whereabouts, mentioning Daisy’s name in between. I glanced at Gatsby for a second as he and Tom awkwardly shook hands, and I thought I that I glimpsed at a bit of panic on his face. Panic on Gatsby, great, great Gatsby- that was something to behold.

I directed my attention back to Tom, and then recalled vaguely the events of the afternoon, in which I motioned towards Gatsby to continue. It was after a few seconds of silence that I realized that he had disappeared.

I was confused at his sudden departure, even though I knew he didn’t see himself and Tom on the best of terms, I would believe that he could go through one small introduction. Evidently, I was proven wrong and thought then, and still now that Gatsby had run from his problems. Running far away, from the harsh realities of the world, I question myself on who Mr. Gatsby really is.