Chapter 6 - The Great Gatsby

I don’t remember much of that fateful night.

You know the one – the night I became Max McBride.

And that was the first time I died.

I remember waiting on the dock of Clepsydra.

Scattered remnants of my ship could be seen in the distance.

Blood stained the icy wall of the shore.

Only the dawn was left by the storm.

And then there was the captain.

I stared at him through frightened eyes.

His face was flush and timid.

I couldn’t walk, so he carried me.

He let me in, not Scott.

When I woke, there was no trace of my ship.

There was no trace of me.

“Help me,” I whispered, as I rose to my feet.

But they weren’t my feet, and it wasn’t my whisper.

I had become Max McBride.

Max made me to be him.

Then I was introduced to the crew.

Max had wanted to keep me a secret, but ended up boasting me instead.

Most were skeptical of my existence.

Max was “too fat to pull the same stunt twice.”

(As a side note, I’m not fat!

Not to mention, KOOBAXION WAS INFANTSAUCE THE WHOLE TIME YOU UNOBSERVANT TARDMONGLERS!)

Being Max in appearance, I was able to walk along undetected for an extensive period of time.

But then the co-captain recognized me from a past life.

“You must know Gatsby.”

“Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once.”

“He doesn’t want any trouble with ANYbody.”

It was funny.

“I’m Jay Gatsby; you all know me; you’ve all attended my parties.”

It was funny because nobody knew Gatsby.

We all attended his parties, but I believe that on the first night I went to Gatsby's house, I was one of the few guests that had actually been invited.

But he was a good man at heart.

I know this because, in a way, he saved me.

I pretended to believe her, because I thought maybe she would stop feeling so sorry for herself.

(Which she didn’t.)

Perhaps it was her pitiful self-loathing that drove her into a state of insanity.

It’s her fault for blindly following any part of her “religion” no matter how illogical it is.

Literally.

If “Pelamy” said that she needed to bash her head against a door every Tuesday, she'd do it, because she's a blind, insane fundamentalist.

I tried to explain to her that she shouldn’t be living her life based on some outdated, misogynistic culture.

But she’s a lost cause.

There's a difference between “There may or may not be a god because we can't disprove it” and “I can see Demons because I'm a Vampire Mermaid.”

Scott, I’m glad she makes you happy, but she is crazy.

Is there some other logical conclusion to draw?

Because I’d love to hear it.

It was Gatsby who felt the need to point out that she was stark raving mad.

(I had no part in the publicizing of that message.)

He saved me from t girl who still haunts my memories today.

I only wish we could’ve saved a recently passed friend of mine.

He died while he was still under her spell.

I worry his spirit will never be at rest because of that.

Sometimes I consider telling her that her boyfriend is dead.

That is such a lie.

Contacting her is the last thing I want to do.

I shouldn’t worry about her.

I don’t even care about her.

There’s no reason for anyone to need to (or want to) talk to her.

She’d get really confused if one of us randomly told her, “Scott is dead.”

Scott probably appeared to her in ghost form anyways.

Or maybe he didn’t since he’s a ginger and doesn’t have a soul…

Wait, why the hell I am arguing about this?

I just wanted to call you retarded and now I’m talking about past lives and crazy foot washing chicks.

So here it is.

You’re… retarded.

Anyways, being both Jewish, I knew Alex and I would have some special bond.

(Not that I identify with the Jewish race.

Religious people are crazy.

Like Casey.

Goddammit, she needs to stop showing up in these conversations.)

Anyways, I might’ve broken that bond when I accidentally hospitalized him.

That’s not--!

… Mmmmph…

I’m sure one day we’ll all look back and laugh about it.

Honestly, you try to take a shortcut to the high school and end up at Trader Joe’s ONE TIME, and you get labeled as “mapmatically retarded” for the rest of your life…

… Dicks…

I started to wonder if there wasn't something a little sinister about him after all…

It was Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn.

Besides being generally unsanitary, he was always being a dick, calling me fat, and poor… telling me to grow a pair…

He had a habit of asking me, “Max, what are you doing with your life?” and throwing grandiose statements like, “A bird could take ten craps in your hair and wouldn’t be able to find any of them.”

(I mean, honestly… Speak for yourself.)

And the orgasmic tastiness of Crazy Bread compensated for how greasy it was…

No – Gatsby turned out all right at the end.

It is what preyed on Gatsby…

What foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams, that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.

When I really think about it, I become sorry that he had to die.

He, like many others who will come to pass, really did turn out all right in the end.