Disclaimer: This post is a mess, like a lot of other things; exhaustion and exasperation have outstripped my neuroticism.
This is the first line of the third part of whatever this is: I’d come to believe, in the way one now and then falls into beliefs, that The Gatsby Shoes would keep me out of reach of certain things, and that this was good.
Despite the similarities between Gatsby and myself, I believed there was one essential difference: I had no Daisy. Although I’ve been known to share Gatsby’s tragic flaw—that is, love things too hard and ruin them—I was convinced that this would be different. This was certain from the time I first walked out the door wearing the shoes, and only partly because I hadn’t felt a legitimate threat of intimacy in a long time. Mostly it was because I wasn’t actually anything like Gatsby—I grew up not poor but middle class, never been in the military, never moved to New York, haven’t yet become fabulously/disgustingly wealthy, don’t know anyone named Daisy, etc. The shoes gave me all the romance of Gatsby without any of the heartbreak. This I believed more than I do most things these days.
Their first time out, The Gatsby Shoes were featherlight and delicate, blue like the music, just as promised. The heels clacked across wood floors, tile, and concrete, more solid and reassuring than a stiletto and more assertive than a sneaker. They were present, but not needy. (This is what I told myself, conveniently overlooking the flourishes of ornate perforations on the powder blue uppers—the very definition of attention-seeking.) Gatsby was no longer behind my shoulder, but on my feet. In lockstep.
That night would be special, I thought. Walking out the door, I could have been Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Except my strut looked more like a chicken, because I was wearing booties made for cycling shoes, because it was raining.
The problem with that night and with the nights since was and has been that expectations started to build up in my gut. This, along with most other things, got away from me. In more ways than one, intimacy bitch-slapped me back to reality.
I still sleep in a twin bed, for example.
Something told me, in Carroway’s voice, Really, what did these shoes promise that was any different than what you’ve already been doing? He had a point; I’d been wandering around parties long before lacing up the shoes. They didn’t keep me above anything, either; in fact, I’d since sunk deeper into what that life likes to drown you in, i.e. intimacy. Shoes don’t keep your friend from getting sick, or your family from falling into disrepair, don’t keep the hangovers at bay, or your mind from slamming into the thousands of small problems that are part of being a real person. The only thing the shoes actually changed was that I now realized how empty it felt wandering around a party without talking to a soul, and how I had the shoes to go places but not one place to go.
How does Carroway put it?
“The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.”
It hasn’t collapsed so dramatically. Rather, it is crumbling like the Roman Forum—a piece here, a piece there, full of failing monuments that old men built out of the notion that bricks and mortar, piled sufficiently high and elaborate, would make them unforgettable.
And my head goes: who cares who cares who cares. Ad infinitum.
Listen: Out of my secret longing to be intrepid, magnetic, compelling, and hilarious, and out of my secret fear of being none of these things—or committing the cardinal sin of being boring—I’ve said and done lots of regrettable things. My brain is flypaper for everything except what should stick, and among the things that do is this:
“Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again, and interesting, and modern.”
– Frank O’Hara, Meditations in an Emergency
And after all that, here’s what I’ve walked away with: If there is a Gatsby out there, he or she was made to be unapproachable. That’s the romance of Gatsby, and the tragedy of Gatsby. The one person you think could be the fix, or the last piece, or the secret ingredient, is only that because they’re ungetable. And being ungetable is a stupid thing to be.
And you know what else? I’m tired of walking around with blue shoes and a catastrophic personality.
And Gatsby can go to hell.