A Gatsby Never Gives Up

If there is one thing of which I can be certain, it is that a Gatsby never gives up. Never. Even if it seems like there is no hope left.

I was fired from my fifth job since I graduated college. I was told by my boss that I was a ‘lazy, malingering good-for-nothing, who didn’t deserve the prestige of his job’. I find it rather difficult to come up with anything remotely prestigious about a job as a waiter in an unknown café, but I shall let it slide. 

You might think that after five jobs one would lose confidence and hope, but not me. After all, we Gatsbys never give up.

So, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I quickly found a new occupation, one that I was sure I would excel in.

It all started one morning, as I perused the morning newspaper over a rather splendid breakfast of eggs, toast, and tomatoes (more than I could afford, if I might add). There was an advertisement in the paper, about a job as a translator for a French duke, who was coming here, to England. Here was a perfect opportunity for me to get back to work again!

I put on my best suit (a vibrant yellow thing, with white lace at the cuffs and collar), and set out for the interview.

The interview was a short, brief affair. They asked me for my name, which I truthfully told them was Frederick Arthur Gatsby. They then asked me why I wanted a job as a translator, and once again, I told them the honest truth, which was that I was in desperate need of cash. The interviewer was a strange chap. He kept looking at my lovely frilly suit with an air of disdain, and I’m quite positive that he flinched when I told him that I had no prior experience of being a translator. After some more disdainful looks, the man told me I would get the job, ‘but only because there were no other takers’. Of course he was only joking. I’m quite sure that he was delighted to have me. Anyone else for the job would have disappointed him. After all, I doubt anyone else had shown up in such a fabulous suit.

My first day of translating was to be in two days time. I was very excited to have a job as a translator from French to English, and vice versa. I was quite aware, of course, that the only French words I knew were ‘Oui’, ‘Merci’ and ‘Au Revoir’, but I didn’t let such a tiny little drawback bother me.

The day finally arrived. I was dressed in my charming yellow suit again, seated next to the Duke of France, opposite an English Duke, whose name I can’t quite recall.

We Gatsbys are honest chaps, and are never afraid to admit when something goes off to a bad start. Well, I suppose that’s an understatement. The entire interaction went off to a bad start, a bad middle, and an even worse end.

I might have overestimated my ability to intuit what the Frenchman was saying without ever learning the language. There was the additional annoyance of both Dukes glancing at my suit with the same disdainful expression that the interviewer had worn, which was making me rather flustered.

The French Duke jabbered away in French, while my forehead was increasingly becoming wetter and wetter with perspiration. The English Duke looked at me expectantly, obviously waiting for me to translate what the Frenchman had just said.

“Erm,” I stuttered, “well, it’s open to interpretation really, what he said… He didn’t really say anything, you know what I mean?”

The English Duke raised his eyebrows at me, and that was when I noticed that his piercing blue eyes were frightfully intimidating.

“No, no that’s not what I meant,” I whimpered, “he just told you how much he likes… um.. Croissants! Yes, that’s it. He loves croissants and wants them served to him everyday.”

The French Duke was looking at me in a strange fashion. I suppose he didn’t remember saying the word ‘croissant’ in the monologue he had just given. Even the English Duke looked a little sceptical about it all.

By then I was positively drenched in sweat. I asked myself again and again how I had landed myself in such a ridiculous situation, but then I remembered that my yellow suit had been so attractive that the interviewer had absolutely refused to deprive me of the job. Now when I think back, I realise I never should have worn that suit.

I was so caught up in regretting my clothing choices that I barely heard the Englishman speaking. 

“Well go on,” he said, “tell him that he can have all the croissants he wants, and more.”

Now I was in really hot water. It had been easy to make something up in English, but how was I supposed to talk to the other Duke in French?

I turned to the French Duke and gulped, in an effort to dampen my throat which was now dry as bone, rendering me incapable of speech.

“O-oui,” I said rather shakily, “Merci. Au revoir.”

The French Duke gave me one long look. After what seemed like an eternity, he turned his head to face the other duke, smiled graciously, and nodded. And then he got up and walked away to his chambers.

Now it was the English Duke’s turn to smile. 

“Thank you for your service,” he said to me, “ I will send you your payment in a day’s time.”

Finally, my turn to smile arrived. Somehow, I had managed to bluff my way through this situation, and the outcome was spectacular.

“Thank you, sir” I said, bending low into a sweeping bow.

And with that, I sauntered out of the Duke’s residence, looking extremely dapper in my frilly yellow suit.