The Other Side of Paradise

My beautiful companion then proceeded to list all of the changes that she'd experienced that were arguably as impactful as modern-day global interconnectedness—like the ability, for the first time, to instantly talk to somebody miles away or, better yet, visit them by air. And radio networks, which introduced mass media and all the social manipulation that implied.

Of course, the most significant event for Julia was the 19th Amendment, which gave half the country's residents the same rights as the other half. Females were second-class citizens in America until the 19th was passed on August 26, 1920, which—if you're keeping score... is exactly 132 years after the ratification of the Constitution.

Until then... the estrogen-bearing members of our species couldn't serve on a jury or hold a job while pregnant, let alone follow any career they pleased. They lost their citizenship if they married a foreigner - including English speakers like Canadians. In fact, it wasn't until '27 that ladies-only restrooms were required in public buildings.

Stack those transformations against the weird political and societal trends of our era, and you can see that my beautiful little friend was talking about genuinely radical social change. She understood the nuances of that and was writing about it, which was further proof of how smart and perceptive she was.

Julia understood the big picture and she was trying to reason out how we, as people, fit into it. She had important things to say, and she knew how to say them. Meaning, the woman had everything required to be a true writer.

Julia abruptly stopped talking and looked at me, horrified. It was like she had done something shocking. It took me a second to understand her reaction. Then it dawned on me... as backward and improbable as it might sound to 21st-century ears—that proper young women in that era were taught never to express their opinion, particularly where it contradicted a man. It just isn't done—Dearie.

I'd missed the implications of Julia's modern thinking because every woman in my era—at least the ones who weren't married to their own brother—thought and acted in exactly the same fashion, and they weren't shy about letting you know it. Nevertheless, in Julia's mind, rather than proving to me that she was an intelligent and visionary personality, she thought she had committed a major social faux pas.

I had to deal with that misperception, pronto. I laughed and said, "You think that you're over the line with your modern thinking - don't you? Well let me tell you Missy, you have just confirmed that we belong together because we share the same worldview."

Julia looked puzzled, then relieved. I took her hand, which was also a social no-no in that era, and said, "Your perceptiveness and your understanding of the human condition, male and female, as well as your obvious interest in the forces that shape our lives tells me that you aren't just a pretty little girl from Toledo, Ohio, you are a genuine deep thinker. So, forget your obvious female attractiveness. I want to share your beautiful mind."

Julia seemed to melt right in front of me. If you haven't been living under a rock for your entire life, you know what I'm talking about. Her eyes went soft and then began to mist and her dainty other hand instinctively reached out to ardently grip mine. I had the totally irrelevant thought, "This woman is seriously strong - must come from living on a farm."

We'd finished our coffee, and I was trying to think of something to prolong our time together when the thought struck me that we needed to visit Brentano's. I mean... if Julia was who I thought she was she would love books. So, I dropped a buck on the table, which was a huge over-tip for the waiter, and we walked over to the curb. I whistled, "Here, boy," and the Rolls purred to a stop in front of me. Yep... it was a dog in a prior life. I decided to name it Buster.

Brentano's was practically brand new in that era - with shelf after shelf of books on display... why the place was almost as intellectually stimulating as a Kindle bookstore. That's sarcasm if you didn't get it.

Julia wandered around, looking like the cliched kid in the metaphoric candy store. I was surprised that she had never been to Brentano's. But Julia was limited to where people took her, and it was obvious that the men she'd known prior to meeting me weren't interested in her literary talents.

I, on the other hand, was astounded to discover that Scott Fitzgerald was sitting alone at a little table in the back of the large room. He had published The Great Gatsby in April of '25, and it wasn't selling. So, he was back in the city trying to drum up interest through a book event... and nobody had shown up.

Really - I mean it... I know that Gatsby is considered to be the Great American Novel in this era. But it was a commercial bust back in '25. So, I was able to walk right up to where Fitzgerald was sitting and introduce myself. And yes... you can imagine how THAT freaked me out.

Fitzgerald was the 1920s equivalent of a rockstar thanks to two books that he had published - one in 1920 and the next in 1922. Those had cemented his legend as the leading author of the Jazz Age, a term that he himself had invented. And he was as fabulously rich and famous as any modern media celebrity.

He had classic Irish good looks, with the slicked back hair, parted in the middle, that was all the rage with the East Coast preppies. He was shorter than I pictured - maybe 5'7 and he had a twinkling eye for the ladies. So, you can imagine how he reacted when I walked up with Julia in tow. Julia didn't recognize Fitzgerald until I told her who he was. She was awestruck.

Fitzgerald pumped my hand like I was his long-lost friend. I could guess what his motives were. But I introduced him to Julia anyhow. I said, "This is my friend, Julia Richmond. She is an aspiring author." Julia blushed like a schoolgirl and dimpled prettily as Fitzgerald took her hand and said earnestly, "What have you published?" She looked down and muttered sadly, "Nothing, really."

He turned to the guy standing next to the table and said, "Why don't you take a look at her stuff, Max?" Max was Maxwell Perkins, the publisher of Scribner's Magazine. Julia could have never expected the chance to appear in that magazine.

Perkins, who was no fool, said, "Let's set up a time, Doll, and we can talk." Julia looked like she was about to faint. She gulped and said timidly, "Any time is good for me. Shall I call you?"

I wasn't going to let that happen. I remembered how susceptible my beautiful little friend was to Ziegfield's bullshit. So, I said, "We can arrange a time. I'll give you a ring tomorrow." Nobody questioned that statement since I was the man.

I was about to leave when Fitzgerald said, with a suspicious amount of eagerness, "I say... why don't you two come out to my place this weekend? I'm having a party." At the time, Fitzgerald was living on the Riviera with his wife, Zelda. But he still had the mansion on Long Island, which he'd bought after he made it big with The Beautiful and Damned.

Wowsers!! I had just been invited to a genuine Jazz Age party by the guy who had invented the term. My problem was that the only plans I could confidently commit to were for the present moment.

I had no idea how the mystical force that had brought me to 1925 worked... but at the end of every other visit, I had always returned to the Plaza - like Cinderella when the clock struck midnight. Even worse, I had no assurance that I could ever come back - no matter how much incentive I had.

There was also the issue of my beautiful but very naive friend. Julia had already proven that she was a sucker for any famous guy's sales pitch, and Fitzgerald was looking at her like he wanted to get to know her a WHOLE LOT better. If his party was anything like the ones in his novels, then it was going to be a debauch and there would be no likelier spot for a seduction than the Great Neck manor that Fitzgerald used as the model for his heroine Daisy Buchanan's downfall - Gatsby's West Egg Mansion.

Daisy... I mean, Julia said excitedly, "We'd be happy to come!! What time?" Fitzgerald said lazily, "Oh... just show up whenever you like. We start drinking early." That was no understatement. Fitzgerald and his wife consumed unholy amounts of alcohol, which was illegal, of course, but perfectly available.

I said to Julia, "I'll have to check my calendar first..." meaning, find out whether I would still be present in this era, or 98 years in the future. Fitzgerald said, blithely, "Come if you can. Either of you are welcome."

I'll just bet!!

It was getting to be evening and I assumed Julia was hungry. So, I whistled up Buster and we motored down to Delmonico's. Not inspired I know... but give me a break! It was the only restaurant that I knew for sure existed in '25. Julia was underdressed for the place. But the Maître'd took one look and found us a table. Of course, I rea$oned with him to get the seat.

Julia sat there in the muted light of the place, eyes shining, as she said, "I don't want this day to end." It was approaching twenty-four hours, and I was worried that Julia's evening would end in dramatic fashion - when I suddenly vanished from my plush chair. I thought, "all in now...."

I said, "I never want it to end, period. I know that this is very forward, and I don't want to drive you away. But I have been in love with you since the moment I laid eyes on you. Our time today has only reinforced that feeling. You are precious to me."

Julia's beautiful face went through a series of contortions, and she burst into tears. I handed her the pocket handkerchief that all guys sported back then, and she sniffled into it for a minute. Then she raised her gorgeous hazel eyes and said, "That makes me happier than I have ever been in my life." It was inevitable at that point. I was committed to the Twentieth Century.

***** I awoke in a plush hotel bed. The only question was, "Plaza, or Algonquin?" I remembered that I had gone to sleep in the Algonquin. Now it was morning - and I was somewhere. But the big question was where.

I recalled dropping Julia off. We had parted under the streetlight in front of her cheesy rooming house. It was like something from a romantic black and white film. I held both of her hands, looked into her deep intelligent eyes, and said with all the sincerity I could muster, "I'll pick you up at noon tomorrow and we can motor out to Fitzgerald's party."

Her eyes had a glow of utter feminine satisfaction as she kissed me lovingly on the cheek and said, "I'll be there with bells on." I almost flinched at that trite old phrase. I had to keep reminding myself that this was the 1920s, when that was considered cool-kid slang.

I was truly fearful that I would open my eyes and find Ashley sleeping next to me. So, I tentatively reached my hand over to the other side of the bed and felt - nobody! That didn't mean anything since Ashley might have spent the night sleeping with Horse Nostrils. I said to myself. "Stop being such a pussy," and popped my eyes open. I have never been so happy to see ornate 1920s décor.

It was becoming clearer that the transition back to the future occurred when I had a specific reason to return to the 21st Century. The first time I returned was because I was afraid that my key card wouldn't work. The next time was because I needed to confirm that Ashley was indeed a treacherous slut. So, maybe all I had to do in order to stay in 1925 was to not want to leave. That would be easy. Because I had the world's best incentive - Julia.

It would've been enjoyable to have it out once and for all, with my cheating wife. But the consequence of my sudden disappearance from her over-privileged life was probably the best revenge. I mean... the optics of a cheated-on husband permanently disappearing off a bench in Central Park would certainly put a damper on the Congressman's re-election plans. Why... the adulterous bitch and her dad, and maybe even Horse Breath might end up as "people of interest" - what a lovely thought.

I had arranged to pick up Julia at her boarding house at noon. I was five minutes early. But Julia was already standing on the street looking expectant, as the Rolls swung around the corner of 9th and West 24th. It was obvious she couldn't wait. Whether it was to see me, or to get to Fitzgerald's party remained to be seen. But I was optimistic.

Julia had on a white silk blouse and pleated dress combo with her long, beautiful auburn hair done up in some kind of intricate arrangement that showcased her graceful neck and the perfect symmetry of her beautiful face. She was wearing one of those blue preppy cardigans, white low-heeled shoes, and hose to finish off the ensemble.

Julia's face broke into a sunny smile as we purred up. I swung the door open, and she got in - trailing a whiff of perfume that evoked pagan rituals performed by ancient forces at the dark of the moon. That scent combined with her unfashionably full body - remember... skinny and flat chested was all the rage back then - made me spring something inappropriate.

I said, "Good morning, my dear little friend. I trust you slept well," She hugged my arm with possessive glee and said, "I dreamed about you all night." Then she hesitated and said tentatively, like it really mattered, "Do you still love me?"

Women!! That was probably the most ridiculous question since the dawn of gender relationships. My feelings for Julia Richmond went a lot deeper than her beauty. She was sweet, talented, and humble, with a wicked intelligence that rivaled even Dorothy Parker's. But, unlike Dotty, she still had faith in people. Better yet, my girl was a free thinker in an era when women were taught not to contradict conventional wisdom.

Julia was considerate and kind and honorable - to a fault. The fault being that she bent over backwards - in Ziegfield's case literally - to ensure that she was doing what she thought was right. And you couldn't budge her once she made up her mind. In many ways, a woman with Julia's mindset belonged in the 21st, not the 20th Century.

Then the thunderbolt struck me. I was in 1925 because that was where my zeitgeist, or soul or whatever the fuck you call your sensibilities - fit. And Julia was more suited to my era - but she was trapped here.

So, maybe I was back in '25 because some crazy cosmological force had decided that we belonged together - and brought me to that time. I was good with that explanation since it gave me this superb life-companion and I was never one to look a metaphorical gift horse in the mouth.

The drive out to Great Neck was nothing like it would be today. For one thing, most of the expressways, bridges, and tunnels weren't there. So, my faithful Rolls took us up Lexington to the Queensborough Bridge, and hence eastward along Northern Boulevard. We passed Flushing Bay, and the Murray Hill section of Queens. Then we progressed below Little Neck Bay to Fitzgerald's mansion on Gateway Drive in Great Neck.

We passed south of Willets Point in Flushing along the way. This was the Valley of Ashes - where most of the waste of the Boroughs of Brooklyn and Queens' was disposed of through a massive trash burning operation. Back in '25, that entire area was swamp, and it was so far removed from the City that the desolation affected nobody - except the few people who lived there. It was a badlands of ashes and smoke, exactly as Fitzgerald described it. Fitzgerld must have driven through it many times on the way in to the city - hence the source of the extended metaphor.

The city cleaned the whole area up in '39 and then held two World's Fairs there. The Mets moved in, in '64. The contrast between what was outside my window now, and what I remembered from occasional trips to Shea Stadium was disorienting.

In Fitzgerald's book, the Gatsby mansion was on the eastern shore of Great Neck looking across the bay at the western shore of Sands Point, which was where Daisy's mansion was located. But Fitzgerald's real mansion - the one he used as the model for Gatsby's place, was actually right smack in the middle of Great Neck. It was an impressive Italianate building set back off the road on a curving drive and surrounded by carefully tended landscaping.

There was nobody to greet us when we arrived. But that wasn't really necessary since the door to the mansion was wide open, and we could hear loud music and voices echoing down a long marble hallway leading out to the sweeping back lawn. Julia grabbed my hand as we made our way out of the French doors and on to the patio. She was clearly nervous. It was endearing. A woman whose beauty would command a room was actually painfully shy.

It was close to one-thirty in the afternoon. But it was obvious that the party had been going on for some time. The patio was littered with half empty liquor bottles and there was a big wooden, His-Master's-Voice, record player blasting out jazz tunes. There were several couples playing croquet and badminton, all wearing some variation of white, and three well-dressed men and a woman drinking at a large table with an umbrella over it. Fitzgerald was sitting with them.

The instant Fitzgerald saw us - or more accurately Julia - he came bounding toward the patio full of good cheer. His wife, Zelda, was currently fucking French pool boys in their house in Cannes... which he eventually turned into the plot of his last novel, "Tender is the Night." So, you do the math.... He said, effusively, "Jolly good... you made it!!" and took Julia's hand in both of his.

Julia blushed almost purple and said, "Thank you for inviting us. I have never seen a place so beautiful." It was clear that Julia was out of her depth and who wouldn't be. The 21st Century is chock full of media stars courtesy of the internet. But there were just newspapers and a few specialized celebrity magazines back then - and in all of them... Fitzgerald was the nation's literary golden boy.

Julia wasn't attracted to Fitzgerald as much as she was in awe. She was from a town where the most noteworthy author was the lady who wrote the Nancy Drew mysteries. So, being face to face with the fellow who was responsible for such romantic claptrap as "This Side of Paradise" and "The Beautiful and Damned" was the 1925 equivalent of meeting Danielle Steele standing on Nicholas Sparks's shoulders.

Fitzgerald said eagerly, "Come along... there are people I want you to meet." And he proceeded to drag Julia, back to the table he had been sitting at. I followed behind unnoticed. This was starting to remind me of that memorable moment in the Lobby of the Plaza, 98 years in the future, when I was also nothing but an extraneous piece of luggage. Was that just four days ago?

There were two men and a woman sitting around the table. One guy was as tall as I was, which was exceptional for the time. The other was a rumpled little fellow. The woman was cut from Ashley's mold, pretty but superior. Neither man acknowledged my arrival, although both checked out Julia.

Fitzgerald said cheerily, "These are my friends John and Edward and Edward's wife Elaine. Meet Frank Sullivan and Julia Richmond." Both men nodded vaguely in my direction. I was uninteresting.

Fitzgerald seated Julia between himself and the tall guy. I got the seat next to Edward and his wife. This was really beginning to feel familiar. Julia was the one exception from the Plaza debacle. She appeared lost. The guy named John said, sounding predatory, "So, what are you doing here little lady." Julia, who looked like she was about to cry, mumbled, "Mr. Fitzgerald invited us."

The tall guy said, amiably, "That's good enough for me. My name is John Dos Passos, and this is my friend Ed Cummings. We are both writers like Fitz, here."