So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past. A revelation I had been blessed and plagued with ever since the horrid end of Jay Gatsby. His demise brought upon by his pure glorification of nostalgia and the selfish, careless bunch that condemned him. A conclusion to the only man I had exempt from criticism. Unlike the Buchanans or the other high-class city folk. By them, I was driven. Driven to escape their corruption by returning to my home, the Midwest. To the Dukes of Buccleuch, I had returned.

For the next six years I had seen no girl, no friends, nor any relatives besides my father. All I had done was work at the family's hardware business. Sitting in a simple office next to my father's. Doing paper work from dawn until dusk with my mouth shut with my mind in chaos. As much as my aunts and uncles were proud of my hard work, my father on the other hand was deeply concerned.

Through my last book, he was able to understand my reasoning to return. Yet, because of this, our discussions had been different. Reserved and snobbish as they still were, the latest colloquies would be met with questions. Inquiries I would be troubled in answering.

"Nick,", my father once started, "if you knew all of these affairs were occurring, why did you not intervene?"

I was about to reply when I had begun to think about it. It did not concern me, I pandered, I was not sneaking about like Tom or Daisy. What would even be the point of telling anyone? One would take it as gossip. Another would already know of it, anyway.

This I had thought but would fail to speak on. Leaving my father to sigh and abandon me to my insufferable panders.

By the third year of my return, father gradually saw what damage the city had on my mentality. I had stopped going to family gatherings. I would just sit in my room all day. Lying in bed either wondering or reading. At this, father would suggest a vacation with the whole family. "It would be a splendid idea, Nick.", he would often say, " The fresh air would work wonders for you."

I would smile in gratitude at his thoughtful suggestion. And then return to my daily duties of solitude.

By the fifth year, our conversations would be more robust. Admittedly, this is of my own doing. There were be times when my father would discuss certain matters with me and then I would just have these sudden outburst. They would not even be about the city or the Buchanans, or Gatsby. Father grew more worried. My two aunts and two uncles had just gotten started.

"Something needs to be done!", cried my aunt Clovia, as uncle Henry would point out, "This boy will be the next owner of our business!" Then my uncle Charles would ask, "In God's name, is the heir to our empire to become another madman in an asylum?"

So many things said in their discussions. So, a bevy of suggestions were created and aborted as to what was to be done.

Finally, after about two weeks of debating, everyone agreed that I needed to go away for a while. I was reluctant but I had cooperated willingly. Besides, I could choose my destination, the time span and the company. With little enthusiasm, I had chosen a resort Wisconsin where I could clear my mind for about four months. All with the company of a young, trustworthy cousin by the name of "Bernice".