Mr. Wesley

AP English III

27 January 2015

Gatsby Party Emulation

            I moved through the dining area, considering the assortment of conversation floating around me. Those gathered, at least visible to me in the moment, seemed to have a community of middle age, between those desperate to ward off the term “elderly”, and those equally desperate to keep their youthful edge, already feeling freshness escape their grasp. A myriad of aged mothers chattered loudly to the side, while still managing to fill up the entirety of the room with their raucous laughter. Occasional hushed tones indicated to me their conversational shifts, from shared grievances of daily life to more scandalous gossip, often about women who were not present to defend themselves.

            The tables were adorned graciously with empty, salted crackers and cheeses, flanked ominously by disorderly rows of cheap wine. The orange glow of the center light fixture cast yellow streaks and bruised hues through purple and beige bottle. As the night progressed, the tide of the bottles would become quickly shallower.

            While the host himself was no where in sight, he seemed to manifest in every guest, each one somehow connected to him, often in menial and meaningless ways, but connected nonetheless—through business, through neighbors, through friends of friends, and that was enough for most to maintain an air of ease in such an exquisite home.  Here and there the errant adolescent wandered aimlessly, strategically shirking any unnecessary small-talk, retreating to respective parents periodically, and eventually fortifying themselves in under-populated rooms before inevitably being forced to relocate.

            I meandered further into the depths of the home, noting the pristine crown moldings and thick draperies adorning each interior space. The richness of the party atmosphere seemed only washed away by the sterile beige and baby blue wallpaper, identical in each room, frosting the entire house.

            Somewhere, deeper in the bowels of the interior, the bark of a dog beat incessantly behind a closed door. The concrete newness of the walls made it difficult for me to interpret the sound, but I guessed that the canine was a well-bred working dog, still in puppyhood, and, having been left untrained, was now forced to decipher the scents of foreigners through the door of a pantry, or perhaps a mudroom.