For English, I had an opportunity to change the plot of "The Great Gatsby" in a creative writing piece. In the book, Myrtle and George are a poor married couple. Myrtle has an affair and then gets hit by a car. George is so depressed that he commits suicide. I wanted to change the story without changing the characters. This was my attempt...
She had been three inches away from dying. Three inches from having the car take the breath right out of her. Three lousy inches.
Myrtle tried to calm her rapid heart and focused on her husband sitting across from her at their kitchen table. She envied his steady breathing.
“You were almost hit by that car,” Wilson drew out the syllables as if each had a meaning of their own. He needed to process things slowly, piece by piece.
“Obviously.” Myrtle wiped her shaking hands on her skirt unnecessarily. “Any idiot could see that.” She expected Wilson to cringe at her abruptness—he always did—but his face remained calm.
“You thought it was him, didn’t you?” He blinked but didn’t break her gaze.
“Who?” It was a silly question; they both knew whom he meant.
“You tell me.”
Silence bore down on them like a thick, hot blanket. Myrtle glanced at the wall clock, annoyed once again at its loud ticking. At night, she could hear it all the way from her bedroom upstairs. She hated it. It was like everything else in this godforsaken hole: outdated or broken.
Wilson sighed heavily. “Why, Myrtle?”
She didn’t know how to answer. She expected one of his little sermons or one of his “I’m disappointed in you” looks that never failed to make her angrier. But an explanation?
She didn’t answer but stared out the window, watching the traffic light turn green, yellow, red. Then the cycle started again. When she first moved in to Wilson’s house, she assumed that she’d get used to having a major road outside her front door. It was important that a mechanic be available all the time, Wilson assured her, so living above the shop made perfect sense. Perfect sense for whom, she wondered.
Wilson pounded his fist on the table. “I want to know why!”
Myrtle jumped at his outburst. He rarely raised his voice, let alone at her. Frustration and confusion flashed against his face.
“I hate you,” she murmured. There. She said it.
“What?” he paled. All anger seeped from his body and he seemed to sag into his chair.
“You asked me why,” she shrugged nonchalantly. “And I told you.”
Wilson stood and came over to her. She allowed him to gingerly touch her hair before slapping his hand away. He opened his mouth to say something but clamped it shut before speaking. He never reacted very strongly to her outbursts. This annoyed her.
Myrtle steeled herself against him. “You promised me things would get better. And are they? No.” They were still living in this tiny Podunk. While the rest of her old friends were renovating rooms and buying new televisions, Myrtle was stuck with old appliances and a pealing linoleum floor. They went shopping at high-end New York stores and got spa treatments on their days off. She, on the other hand, had to work the register in-between cleaning.
Wilson ran a hand through his hair. “Things will get better, hon. You’ll see. I’ll keep working and saving up—”
“No! I’m sick of your promises!” She pushed back from the table. “I’m sick of you!” She started for the stairs but, with a quick thought, spun back around. “I want a divorce, Wilson.”
His firm voice stopped her. “We’re not getting a divorce.”
“Oh yeah?” Myrtle’s eyes flashed. “And why not? I’m not pretending anymore. You know I’m doing behind your back, so why pretend?”
Wilson walked over to her and took both of her hands in his. He kissed them. “I love you, that’s why. We can work this out.”
The brokenness in his voice threatened to undo Myrtle. She steadied her resolve, swallowed and said, “You know why I love Tom?”
His face fell at the name of one his customers. “Why?”
“He’s smart. Went to college, you see. He doesn’t have to promise. He just does, plain and simple.” Myrtle gave her husband a smirk. “Plus, he can afford a suit.”
Wilson shook his head. “I can’t help that I couldn’t afford a suit. I spent all my money on the ring.” He eyed the cheap crystal on her finger and smiled faintly.
“ Just let me go, Wilson. I hate it here. If you love me at all, you’ll let me leave. If not, I swear I won’t let the next car miss me.”
Shocked, Wilson let her hands drop and nodded dumbly. It was all she needed: within twenty minutes, Myrtle was lining her few suitcases by the door. She stood for a few minutes, hoping Tom wouldn’t be late.
“Myrtle?” Wilson came down the stairs and fumbled with something in his hands.
“What?” She snapped. She really didn’t have time for his pathetic reasoning.
He looked at his feet and thrust the wad of cash towards her. She took it and waited for him to explain. She knew he was fighting tears and despised him for it. Wretched weak man.
“It’s money I’ve been setting aside since we got married. I was waiting… until it was enough...” He smiled grimly. “I’ll be here when you’re ready to come home.”
“I’m not going to,” Myrtle reminded him as she stuffed the bills into her purse and dug around for some lipstick.
He shrugged. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
When Wilson heard Tom’s car pull away from the parking lot, he realized he’d never felt more alone. He sat back down at the kitchen table, trying to remember what she’d said. I’m sick of you! He shuddered. How had he been so blind? He’d tried to please her, but it was like filling a bathtub with the drain open. But someday, she’d come back. Someday, she’d realize how much he loved her. And maybe, just maybe, she’d reciprocate.
He leaned back in the chair and listened for the voice he knew he wouldn’t hear. Instead, it was the slow methodical ticking of his favorite clock that made him bury his face in his hands and cry.
