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rishiaca · 8 months

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Mastering Your Future : Exploring Career Paths with a Statistics Master’s Degree

[what can one do with a master’s degree in Statistics]

In the current digital data-driven times where every click, every purchase, and every interaction leaves a digital footprint, there’s never been a greater need for statistical analysts. A master’s degree in Statistics isn’t just a degree; it’s a passport to a world full of opportunities. From finance and healthcare to technology and marketing, the ability to extract valuable insights from massive data sets is covered by every industry.

Statistics

With a Statistics Master’s degree in your hands, you are an architect of knowledge. But the path doesn’t end there. Statistics is often thought of as a science of uncertainty. But it is actually more than that. It’s a structured, rigorous framework for understanding and understanding complex information. It’s the science of problem-solving in the real world. And it’s also the science that informs critical decisions and drives innovation.

The Benefits of a Master’s Degree in Statistics

A Master’s degree can give you the edge you need to succeed in the job market today. It gives you the knowledge and advanced skills you need to stay ahead of the competition. Plus, it gives you the chance to go deeper into a certain field, which makes you more appealing to employers who want to hire someone who knows their stuff. Plus, most master’s programs help you develop the skills you need to succeed. Critical thinking, problem solving, and research skills are all really important in today’s world. Finally, having a Master’s degree can get you into higher-paying jobs, take on more responsibilities, and become a leader. All of this can help you reach your professional goals and make you more successful in the long run.

Understanding a Master’s Degree in Statistics

What is a Master’s in Statistics? A master’s in statistics (MSI) is a graduate degree program that focuses on advanced theoretical, methodological and practical knowledge and skills related to statistics. It’s usually intended for students who have a solid background in math and statistics and wish to advance their knowledge in this area.

Here’s what you need to know about a Master’s degree in Statistics : -

Program Overview

Duration and Fees :

The average master’s in statistics program lasts for two years, but some programs are part-time or accelerated.

The cost of tuition varies depending on the school and the country you’re attending. In the US, you can expect to pay between a few thousand and over five thousand dollars a year. In India the cost of a Msc can vary a lot depending on the school, the program, and the area of study. Generally, if you’re an Indian national, you can expect to pay between Rs 10,000 and Rs 50,000 a year. But if you’re going to a private school, you’ll probably have to pay more, usually between Rs. 50,000 to Rs. 2,00,000 or more per year. International students, on the other hand, usually have to pay higher fees, which can range from Rs 1 lakh to Rs 5 lakhs a year depending on the school and program. Fortunately, there are scholarships and financial aid available to help cover costs

Course Structure : In general a master’s in statistics program include, Core courses which cover the fundamental topics in statistics such as probability theory, statistical inference, regression analysis, and experimental design. Elective Courses where students can choose from a range of elective courses to specialize in areas such as biostatistics, data science, machine learning, or econometrics. Many programs require students to complete a research project or thesis which involves conducting original research in a specific area of statistics.

Admission Requirements : Generally, a bachelor’s degree in mathematics, statistics, or a related field is required. Some programs may require specific undergraduate coursework in mathematics and statistics. You’ll usually need to provide letters of recommendation from professors or professionals who can attest to your academic abilities and potential for success in the program. Many programs may require GRE (Graduate Record Examination) scores, although this requirement can vary by institution.

Programs availability : If you’re looking to get a Masters in Statistics degree, you have two options: online or offline :

Offline programs usually involve taking classes on campus, where you’ll meet with professionals and classmates. These programs usually have a structured curriculum and set class times. Below is a list of some of the offline MSc in Statistics programs available in India and abroad :

In India, The Indian Statistical Institute in Kolkata offers an MSc in Statistics. This institute is well-known for its statistical research excellence and academic excellence. The University of Delhi offers comprehensive statistics programs.

Abroad, Stanford University in the US offers a MSc in Statistics with a strong focus on theoretical and practical aspects. Universities such as the University of Toronto offer a MSc in Applied Computing, with a focus on Statistical Machine Learning. This program combines statistics and machine learning skills for data driven careers.

Online programs are offered through distance learning, so you can do your coursework remotely. This is great for working professionals and students who want to learn at their own pace. There are lots of M.I.S. programs available both abroad and in India. Universities abroad like Stanford University and UC Berkeley in the US, Oxford in the UK, and Melbourne in Australia offer great online options. Plus, you can get your M.S. in Statistics from any of the online platforms : Coursera, edX, etc. so you can study from different universities around the world while still keeping your study schedule flexible.

Career Options with a Statistics Master’s Degree

As the demand for decision-making based on data continues to grow, a Master’s in Statistics can open up a variety of career prospects. Below are a few of the career paths highlighted that you can pursue with a Statistics Master’s degree with their average payscale and key job details :

Statistician/ Statistical Analyst:

A statistician collects, analyzes, and interprets data to support important decision-making in various industries. A statistician designs experiments, conducts surveys, collects data, and then analyzes the collected data using statistical methods and software. A statistician identifies trends, patterns and correlations within the data. A statistician helps organizations in fields such as healthcare, finance, government and research to solve complex problems, optimize processes, and make evidence-driven recommendations.

The salary of a statistician varies depending on experience, location and industry. An entry-level statistician earns an annual salary between $50,000 and $70,000. An experienced or specialized statistician can earn between $70,000 and $120,000 or more.

A statistician’s job requires a Master’s degree in Statistics (or a related field) and strong analytical skills. A strong understanding of statistical software (such as R or Python), communication skills and a strong understanding of problem solving skills which are essential for success in the profession.

Data Scientist

A data scientist is responsible for extracting valuable information from large and complex data sets. They collect, clean, and analyze data using statistical methods and machine learning techniques. Data scientists design experiments, build predictive models and develop business solutions based on data. They collaborate with stakeholders to turn data insights into actionable solutions, helping organizations make better decisions and stay ahead of the competition. In order to be a data scientist, you need to be proficient in programming languages such as Python or R. You also need to be familiar with data visualization tools and have a strong background in statistics. A master’s degree in Statistics or Computer science is often recommended.

The salary of a data scientist varies depending on the level of experience, location and industry. While entry-level data scientists typically earn around $90-110,000 a year, experienced data scientists who have worked in the field for several years can earn well above $140,000 a year. This is one of the most sought-after careers in today’s data-centric world.

Actuary

Actuaries are professionals who work in both finance and insurance industries. Their main job is to evaluate and manage risk through the use of mathematical models and statistical analysis. Actuaries look at data relating to insurance policies, pensions, investments, and financial instruments to determine probabilities and estimate potential losses. Actuaries assist organizations in making informed decisions by proposing pricing structures, establishing insurance premiums, and developing risk management plans.

Actuaries need to have strong analytical skills, problem solving abilities, and mathematical, statistical, and financial knowledge. Actuaries usually hold professional certifications. Salaries for actuaries can vary depending on experience and industry but tend to be between $100,000 and $150,000 to $1,000,000 per year.

Biostatistician

The role of a biostatistician in biomedical and healthcare research involves the use of statistical methods to analyze clinical trials and other healthcare related research data. Biostatisticians work closely with researchers, physicians, and other healthcare professionals to conduct experiments, create data collection procedures, and conduct statistical analysis to generate meaningful conclusions. They also play an important role in regulatory submissions of new drugs and therapies to ensure compliance with strict statistical requirements and guidelines.

Ph.D. in Statistics or master’s in related fields (Science, technology, engineering, and mathematics) along with proficiency in statistical software packages like SAS or R.

Biostatistics jobs pay between $70,000 and $120,000 a year, depending on how much experience they have, where they’re based, and how complex their research projects are. Plus, having a good background in biology and a good grasp of medical terminology can help them work well with healthcare professionals and help advance medical research and patient care.

Market Research Analyst

A Market Research Analyst is responsible for helping businesses make smart decisions by gathering, analyzing and interpreting data about consumer behavior, market trends and competitive environments. They design and carry out surveys, interviews and focus groups to collect data, and then use statistics and analytical tools to get actionable insights. They also evaluate the success of marketing plans and product launches to help companies improve their strategies. To get the job, you'll need a bachelor's or master's degree in marketing, business or statistics, as well as strong analytical, communication and problem solving skills. You'll also need to be good with data analysis software and have a good understanding of consumer behavior.

The salary for a Market Research Analyst varies depending on experience, location and industry, but it's usually between $50,000 and $80,000 for senior positions. It's a great and rewarding career for those who love data-driven decisions and market insights.

Econometrician

Econometricians play a pivotal role in the field of economics by applying advanced statistical and mathematical techniques to economic data. They are responsible for developing, implementing, and interpreting econometric models to analyze economic trends, evaluate policy impacts, and make data-driven forecasts. Their work helps government agencies, financial institutions, research organizations, and consulting firms make informed decisions regarding economic policies, investments, and market strategies.

Econometricians typically need strong quantitative and analytical skills, proficiency in statistical software (e.g., R or Python), and a deep understanding of economic theory. A Master's or Ph.D. in Economics or a related field is often required for entry into this profession.

In terms of salary, econometricians can earn an average annual income ranging from $80,000 to $120,000 or more, depending on factors such as experience, location, and the specific employer. Senior econometricians with substantial expertise and experience can command higher salaries, especially in industries where their insights and predictions are highly valued.

In Conclusion,

To sum up, a Master’s degree in Statistics will open up many doors for you in today’s data-driven and ever-evolving job market. If you want to work as a data scientist, biostatistician, financial analyst or any other job that relies on statistics, then this versatile degree will equip you with the skills and knowledge you need to excel in different industries. Your future with a Statististics MSc is only as good as your imagination and your resolve.

#masters degree #data scientist

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fleetroot-blog · 1 year

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How Toll And Traffic Fines Work In UAE And How Fleet Management Helps To Monitor Them In Real-Time

Paying traffic violations, toll fines, speeding penalties (etc.), is something that we deal with every day. In fact, we have almost ‘accepted’ it as a part of our daily lives!

However, for Fleet Management Companies it can have serious repercussions – they manage a vast number of vehicles across complex operations every day and these costs of traffic violation can spiral out of control very quickly.

Therefore, identifying high-risk drivers and rectifying their behavior is the order of the day. Adopting an effective and fair Violation Management Program helps Fleet Management Companies to manage violation costs, gain insight from past history and pre-empt – and, hopefully, prevent- possible future incidents, especially those that compromise fleet and societal safety.

Fleet Management: managing fines and violations, managing driver behavior

For Fleet Management Companies (FMC), the cost of conducting business includes toll violations, parking tickets, red-light camera infractions. While it may not seem a major expense if you consider the vast fleets that such companies operate you will understand the significance of this cost!

Estimates put toll violations (60%) in the lead, followed by parking violations (22%), red-light cameras (12%), and speeding cameras (8%).

The problem with violations is that these are issued to the vehicle and not to the driver. Thus, the owner of the vehicle – either the fleet or fleet management company — becomes liable.

The fleet or FMC generally pays immediately to avoid licenses/registration being debarred or penalties and then bills the commercial fleet. Thereafter, the commercial fleet must figure which driver was responsible for the ticket, whether the charge was fair and whether to contest it, and then decide whether to claim it from the driver — all this is a cumbersome and tedious process with poor closure.

Importantly, when a fine is paid on a driver’s behalf, it is effectively an admission of guilt even if the driver might want to contest the ticket. For example, a red light camera might have caught him at a crossing when he allowed an ambulance to pass, or a funeral procession had the right of way through the red light. But, once the fine has been paid the driver has been denied due process. Ultimately, transferring liability – when fair – will save money for the fleet, plus, increase driver’s accountability.

The American Transport System estimated the average fleet violation fine is $75. For Spread over thousands of vehicles, this cost suddenly becomes a huge liability

Fleet Managers are always under cost pressure. The cost of fines and violations are variable and unless controlled can drive up P&L costs. The two most important tenets of an effective Violation Management Progam are (1) identifying high-risk drivers and (2) managing/correcting their behavior

1) Identifying drivers with high-risk behavior

Camera-issued violations to fleet vehicles result in glossing over scrutiny of high-risk drivers from a fleet’s attention. If these drivers cause lawsuits or accidents later, it could mean millions of dollars in expense, loss of lives, damage to company reputation (etc.)

Transferring liability to the driver (that is accountable) is important since 60% of the time, the liability is transferrable to the driver. Although the vehicle is booked for a violation, it is a driver commits it, and, a violation management program is required. Using an automated fleet-management software to tabulate violations, drivers, causes, costs (etc) can provide insight and enables managers to provide training, incentives (etc.) to correct behavior

Using a centralized Cloud-based fleet management system – via a license plate or a transponder – eliminates violations

2) Managing and correcting high-risk behavior via training & penalty

Managing fine payouts, saving money, transferring liability (etc) are goals of a violation management program, but, the larger goal is to prevent such violation, especially since it impacts fleet safety. Some (minor) violations like parking tickets will keep cropping up but mores serious offenses that compromise safety – eg running a red light – shouldn’t be accepted

Enforcement with penalties will change driver-behavior since that is the root-cause (speeding ticket, accident, camera image). A training program for drivers should use available historical data to help improve behavior

An efficient – and, fair – violation management program will also get buy-in from drivers. If they must trust that their opinion is heard, and, that they aren’t punished unfairly or for violations they had no control over they will become open to such systems

UAE: Traffic Violations, Methods Of Payment in Dubai & Abu Dhabi

A) Dubai: Road Tolls, Fines, Payment options.

Due to mindful and stringent law enforcement by the Dubai government, Dubai is among the safest places globally. Credit is also due to the government for simplifying regulations as much as possible and a citizen can check fines in Dubai online anytime. It quickens collection, saves time and money, and is a lot more efficient.

If you have (or, acquire) a Dubai driving license, you must learn to check for fines online. In general, you would do well to apply this to all rules of compliance and not just penalties related to traffic rules. This can often create confusion but staying aware of procedures helps in avoiding mistakes and also dealing with them suitably.

In recent times, the government has attempted to simplify the process of checking fines and paying them. Some methods are listed below:

1) Roads and Transport Authority (RTA) Website: They oversee transportation in Dubai, and the RTA website and app give you information on fines registered against your vehicle via license or fine number, plate details, traffic file number. You can pay online

2) Dubai Police Website: The RTA and Dubai Police work collaboratively and have adopted technology via Smart Police Stations. The Dubai Police website has also been upgraded to facilitate inquiries about fines or Black Points and reports are emailed. You can check and pay fines here. Online inquiries are free. Hard copies are charged at AED5

3) Ministry of Interior Website: several ways to check and pay fines in Dubai on the website via Smart Application, Website and Interactive, Site Self-Service Kiosk (In-person), Service Centres

B) Abu Dhabi: Road Tolls, Fines, Payment Options

In October 2019, Abu Dhabi launched new road tolls. Four tollgates were placed at bridges in its capital in an effort to discourage people from driving and encouraging them to use more eco-friendly options like public transport, car-pooling, electric cars, etc.

1) New road toll: A cashless road toll, similar to Dubai’s Salik system where drivers are charged whenever they pass through mandated spots.

2) Tollgate locations: The tollgates are located at bridges Sheikh Khalifa, Mussaffah, Sheikh Zayed, and Al Maqta.

3) Toll-cost: A charge of Dh4 during peak periods. An off peak fee of Dh2 during other times and remaining days

4) Toll operation: Vehicle registration will incur a fee of Dh100 – Dh50 fee. Toll fees can be paid via e-wallet. Users receive a confirmatory text message on the registered mobile number.

5) Penalties for not registering: Those with insufficient credit are allowed 5 working days to replenish their e-wallets and also a grace of 10 working days. After that, unregistered vehicles using tollgates will incur fines of Dh100 for day1, Dh200 for day2, upto a maximum of Dh10,000. For vehicles registered outside Abu Dhabi, fines for crossing tollgates with inadequate funds will be Dh50 per day.

6) Maximum daily fine: A maximum of Dh16 per day, regardless of number of times tollgates are used.

7) Can I use the “Salik” tag to pay? No. The toll charging-systems of Abu Dhabi and Dubai operate independently. Vehicles registered in Abu Dhabi will be registered in their online system.

8) Exemptions: Ambulances, defense, armed forces, police, Ministry of Interior, authorised school-buses, public buses, passenger buses (26 people), licensed taxis, electric vehicles.

Fleet Management Software: streamline your violation management process

Using a centralized Cloud-based server and a modern GPS enabled Fleet Management System to manage this process enables Fleet Managers to manage and contest appeals, upload information, avoid escalation charges, and, set timelines for appeal processes. Importantly, it helps avoid future mistakes by identifying dangerous spots. It also maintains detailed data for Fleet Managers to gain insight for constant improvement.

Conclusion: For Fleet Managers, it is imperative to design and implement an effective – and just – Traffic Violation Management Program by solving the problem at its roots i.e. by identifying high-risk drivers and rectifying their behavior. Using a dedicated modern Fleet Management System is the way to go.

Read more about How Toll And Traffic Fines Work In UAE And How Fleet Management Helps To Monitor Them In Real-Time

#fleet management system #fleets #uae

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audio-luddite · 1 year

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Why so expensive?

Because people are willing to pay that much! There is a fundamental disconnect between value and price. This is true generally and not limited to audio equipment. Look at cryptocurrency, often significant prices but zero inherent value.

There are products that claim they are the best bar none. And they may be much less expensive than others that also claim to be the best. The judges in this competition are not objective. In fact they take pride in not being objective.

To be sure many of the solutions to the problem of reproducing sound are exotic in the extreme and use very costly parts. The issue there is are they solving real problems? Is an amplifier Chassis CNC machined from a solid billet of alloy better than one fabbed from sheet metal? It will be more expensive but both do the same job.

Lets look at speaker cables for example. Objective blind tests when they have been done show that no exotic woven by virgins wires sound any better that just heavy gauge wire. Some cables have an audible interaction with amplifiers but that is in every case an issue with the amplifier being sensitive to particular and peculiar loads. It is known that very broad band (expensive) amplifiers have picked up radio signals from their cables and caused serious effects. It is not the cable it is the interaction of one piece of equipment with another.

I can discuss this at length and have previously. Heavy wire is better, end of discussion.

Another favorite target of mine is expensive and exotic power cables between the wall plug and your devices. One can spend thousands on 6 feet of wire when it is at the end of a chain of 30 feet of common single strand copper or even aluminum conductor from your breaker box. That last 16% of length makes a real difference! Give me a break. Again interaction with compromised hardware design.

Those are the small targets. Turntables that cost large fractions of a million dollars are out there. If someone spends that kind of cash there is a powerful drive to rationalize and justify it. Of course it's better.

There are brand loyalties. I like the Audio Research Brand. I am confident they always made good stuff. I also know that some brands are not as assured as to quality or better voicing. Think about the accepted fact that output transformers cause distortion. That is compensated for with feedback usually. The distortion it causes is pleasant. McIntosh amplifiers all have transformers even the solid state ones. They are a powerful brand. For a few years Audio Research and McIntosh were owned by the same parent company but went their own way.

The bottom line is that price may buy you prestige, but it is not the path to ultimate quality.

When I started out in this a thousand years ago I devoured the judgements of The Absolute Sound as holy writ. But I was able to experience many of the devices they reviewed first hand. I knew what they meant. I formed my own preferences and started to make my own judgements and yes to call bullshit on some of their rulings.

It is important to educate yourself to the idea that it is your personal preferences that drive this hobby. Then you can proceed with confidence and economy.

I know that many old designs are still used. There may be "better" parts but the concepts and methodologies are not new. A fine machine can be built with full complimentary symmetry Class AB bipolar transistors today, and many thus are at the top rungs of "The lists". They are subtly different from 40 years ago, but fundamentally the same.

The conclusion from that is buy that 40 year old stuff and have it checked out. In my case give her a tweak or two. (Not the ARC Preamps though) The new stuff is really the same even if many times the price.

I was entertained by a recent review of a tube amplifier that that bragged about "solid state detail." That was a bald face admission that tube amps mask detail. I can vouch for that with personal experience too.

I have a system that is composed of old units. It is not an old system it is fresh. I know it is high end and resolves any detail that may be found on the source. It is far less expensive than one could spend for the same of even less performance.

So high end audio is expensive because it can be.

#high end audio #expensive audio #audiophile

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smokealarminstallation · 1 year

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Cctv Camera Dealers Near Me

Having a camera installed can be a costly process. This is especially true if you are looking to install a surveillance system for your home. In order to save money, you should shop around and compare the prices offered by different cctv camera dealers near you.

Common uses of cctv cameras

Various types of cameras are available for various purposes. These devices can be used to monitor the public for safety reasons. They are also used to deter criminals.

CCTV cameras can be used in hospitals to monitor patients, thereby helping the medical staff to treat them immediately. They are also used in parking lots to prevent theft and damage to vehicles.

CCTV cameras can also be used in the workplace to ensure proper security and access control. Employee-related incidents are common in the workplace. In addition, disputes are bound to arise between managers, employees and other stakeholders. Having a surveillance system can provide evidence in the case of disputes.

CCTV can also be used for traffic observation. Traffic officials can collect statistics and make traffic plans. CCTV cameras can also help city engineers to understand the flow of traffic and traffic congestion.

CCTV cameras are also used to identify a suspect in the event of a crime. Images from CCTV cameras are used in the courtroom to provide evidence of the crime. CCTV can also be used to monitor traffic on highways. They can be used to detect accidents, traffic congestion, and red light jumping.

CCTV cameras are also used in schools to ensure student safety. They can help detect unacceptable student behavior. They also help city engineers understand traffic flows and make improvements in the traffic system.

Evidence in a court of law

Whether you’re a plaintiff or a defendant, evidence in a court of law is a vital component of any case. From blood samples and video surveillance recordings to witness testimony and documents, there are many types of evidence. The rule of evidence varies depending on the jurisdiction, but in general, evidence can be presented to a competent tribunal or jury.

Evidence in a court of law can be classified into two categories: tangible evidence and non-tangible evidence. The former is generally used in criminal proceedings and the latter is used in civil cases. Both have their own rules and nuances.

The best type of evidence is the confession. This is usually only admissible if it’s obtained legally. The court may also exclude evidence if it was obtained through illegal means. Nevertheless, confessions were the best of the lot until the twentieth century.

In the United States, the Federal Rules of Evidence govern admissibility of evidence in federal courts. The standard of proof is called the “credible evidence standard.” This standard requires a jury to find the evidence to be credible, that is, it must be reasonable and probable.

The most common objection to admissibility of evidence is a lack of relevance. If the evidence is irrelevant to the case, the defendant may be able to challenge it.

Cost of installing a cctv system

Whether you’re buying your first CCTV system or you’re looking to upgrade your old system, it’s important to know the cost of installing a CCTV before you splurge. The cost of installing a CCTV depends on the brand, type, and location of the installation.

The cost of installing a CCTV can range from hundreds to thousands of dollars, depending on the type of camera and installation method you choose. Some systems are installed by contractors, while others are installed by homeowners themselves. In some cases, the installation of a CCTV system may require an electrician. The cost of installing a CCTV system also varies depending on the city in which you live.

Aside from a CCTV camera and DVR, there are many other components that go into the total cost of installing a CCTV system. For instance, you’ll need to purchase HD copper wires, a hard disc, connectors, and a power supply. Also, you’ll need a power source, which may include batteries or solar panels. Lastly, you’ll need a good technician.

The cost of installing a CCTV system may vary depending on the quality of the product and where you live. It may also be a good idea to shop around before buying a CCTV system. Some companies charge a premium for their services, especially if you live in a city or state where labor costs are higher.

#cctv camera #cctv #security camera

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snowgreys · 2 years

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Breakaway music festival 2021 lineup michigan

#BREAKAWAY MUSIC FESTIVAL 2021 LINEUP MICHIGAN FULL#

Premium VIP Breakaway Music Festival tickets cost as much as $0 a ticket. Cheap Breakaway Music Festival tickets start at $0 for a GA ticket to the festival. Festival parking passes are typically not included and priced separately.įans can expect to pay an average of $0 a ticket.

#BREAKAWAY MUSIC FESTIVAL 2021 LINEUP MICHIGAN FULL#

VIP festival passes typically include air-conditioned restrooms, shaded seating, full cash bars and special food and drink access. These premium passes give you access to VIP areas. Breakaway Music Festival ticket prices for VIP seating can run several hundred dollars up to over a thousand dollars per person. You can purchase VIP passes that will cost considerably more but provide VIP amenities. These tickets give you access to all the outdoor stages and tents. General admission passes vary in price depending on the year. Breakaway Music Festival passes give you access to every concert at the festival. Let TicketSmarter help you find Breakaway Music Festival tickets for a great price. How much are Breakaway Music Festival tickets? You’ll find a range of prices to choose from when picking out single-day, multi-day passes and parking for the music festival. TicketSmarter has Breakaway Music Festival passes for great affordable prices. Don’t wait to buy your tickets and miss out on headliners like Illenium, Quinn XCII and Kygo. The event brings in a wide-reaching ensemble of styles and energy. All music fans can find an artist they enjoy at the festival. See electric musical performances when you purchase Breakaway Music Festival tickets. The event has even been stationed at the Charlotte Motor Speedway in Charlotte, North Carolina. The festival has taken place at venues like Belknap Park in Grand Rapids, Michigan and Historic Crew Stadium in Columbus, Ohio. Past Breakaway festival performers include big names like Travis Scott, Halsey and Kendrick Lamar. The festival also offers a mix of breakthrough artists and major stars. Headliners come from a wide variety of genres like EDM, pop and hip-hop. The unique musical setting allows fans to leave it all behind for a moment. The wide range of artists offers something for everyone. The festival typically takes place for two days in each city. There are events hosted throughout the midwest including Ohio, Michigan, The Carolinas and Tennessee. Your EDM Premiere: LA Power Producer Dr.Grab your Breakaway Music Festival tickets to experience the fastest growing multi-city music festival.← Super Future Drops Immersive ‘Equilibria Mixtape’ on SSKWAN Ahead of EP Release.Photo via Alive Coverage for Breakaway Music Festival Breakaway Music Festival – Grand Rapids, Michiganīreakaway Music Festival – Columbus, Ohioīreakaway Music Festival – Charlotte, North Carolina We’re not just an EDM festival, we’re more of a contemporary festival with whatever is really trending in music.”Įxplore the lineups below and get tickets to Breakaway Music Festival in your area here. “We love the idea that we’re not strictly a one-genre festival,” Lynn shares. Also, Swae Lee, Two Friends, Wax Motif, Gryffin, Lane 8, Trevor Daniel and more.Īs mentioned, Breakaway’s concept brings people from different areas and with various musical tastes together. Plus, Chelsea Cutler, Gryffin, 24KGOLDN, Madeon, Sofi Tukker, Channel Tres, Elderbrook, John Summit, Sonny Fodera, Two Feet, Alexander 23, Bonnie x Clyde, Sam Feldt, Sidepiece and more.īreakaway North Carolina, taking over Charlotte Motor Speedway on October 1 & 2, features yet another impressive lineup of acts with Martin Garrix, G-Eazy, and The Chainsmokers leading the pack. Next month, Breakaway Ohio is set to take place at Historic Crew Stadium over September 3 & 4, featuring Kygo and Illenium on headlining duties. That happened with Louis the Child and a ton of different acts where we’ve been able to help elevate their career through the Breakaway platform.” Being able to share that experience firsthand with these artists - where they go from the opener to the headliner. Lynn lists Michigan’s own Quinn XCII as a major highlight, “He started off as one of the opening acts for the festival and now he’s headlining his own day. The lineup also includes Gryffin, Big Wild, Chelsea Cutler, Madeon, Loud Luxury, Dion Timmer, Frank Walker, Gettoblaster, Elderbrook, Alexander 23, Drummxnd and DŸLAN. This weekend, Breakaway Michigan returns to Belknap Park in Grand Rapids over August 27 & 28 with two major headliners, EDM sensation Illenium and acclaimed singer-songwriter Quinn XCII. That was the thesis of Breakaway and now we’ve scaled to a lot more cities.” “That’s why we love being in places like Columbus and Grand Rapids, bringing what we think is a true festival experience to smaller markets in people’s backyards. “One of the things we like to do is bring really awesome experiences to secondary markets,” Lynn explains.

#Breakaway music festival 2021 lineup michigan

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twoflipstwotwists · 3 years

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For Dana Nessel, that new legal strategy is treating an out of control gymnastics club in the same way you would treat a gangster running a crime ring. If there is a coach using his status as an adult to coerce a child athlete into doing something she doesn’t want to do, why not call that “human trafficking of a minor” and “forced labor.” If you break a gymnast to the point of injury, why not label it as “forced labor causing injury?” Do that dozens of times so you can pocket the thousands of dollars parents pay you to get results, why not call that a “criminal enterprise?”

By her own admission, Dana Nessel knows these charges are unconventional in a case like this. But Nessel is confident that the charges will stick. Her team has spent two years reviewing case law and believe they have the proper foundation to argue in court that these laws are indeed applicable. Dana Nessel is laying the groundwork in Michigan, and providing a template that the Attorney Generals in 49 other states can follow.

#john geddert #tw abuse #interesting thoughts about the situation #sorry about formatting I’m on mobile

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not-close-to-straight · 4 years

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Lost and Found (Thirteen)

Tony’s Birthday Party!

MASTERLIST HERE

************

The night of Tony’s birthday party, the Malibu house was lit from the inside out, the doors and walls opened up to make room for the DJ and the dance floor, the walk out balconies and pool patio swirling under colorful projectors, and the driveway lined with lanterns and spotlights. Cars were already jamming up the neighborhood roads as drivers with backseats full of party goers waited their turn to drop off clients at the front doors, and around back the last of the delivery vans had finally finished unloading cases of overpriced alcohol and celebratory champagne for Tony’s birthday toast.

The music was thumping, the lights pulsing, the carefully planned and outrageously priced decorations already in danger of being ruined by a too tipsy stumble or general drunken shenanigans and everybody was hyped to spend the night celebrating the birthday boy…

...except the birthday boy himself.

Despite the lights pouring in from the rest of the house, Tony’s bedroom was still mostly dark. He’d opened the windows to try and breathe the cool night air, but outside already smelled like overly expensive cologne and nearly smothering perfume. The ocean was right there, right at the bottom of the cliffs, but the crash of waves was muffled beneath the sound of the party. The stars were most likely bright, but the spotlights from the driveway reflected past Tony’s window and overshadowed them with a wash of color and the full moon stayed hidden behind a passing cloud.

Tony sat slumped in his favorite chair swirling ice around a glass of nearly empty soda, suit jacket carelessly open and tie still somewhere on the bed, eyes blank and jaw tense as Natalie moved silently around his room picking out cuff links, a watch, and a compact of make up to hide the worst of Tony’s Monaco bruises.

It was supposed to be Pepper helping him tonight, Pepper who had always carefully coordinated his outfits so his socks matched the pocket square and the pin-striping on his shirt and the cuff links she had made for each birthday. It was supposed to be Pepper reminding him to behave for the love of God and no Tony, you don’t need a speedo under tear away pants, you are a billionaire not a Chippendales dancer. Pepper who was supposed to click her tongue and fix his tie but instead it was Natalie with her barely there smiles and enigmatic eyes and unnerving ability to look right through him.

“You don’t seem particularly excited for your birthday.” Natalie perched on the arm of Tony’s chair and tilted his chin up to dab concealer at his brow line. “Something on your mind?”

“I feel like you know the answer to that question already.” Tony grimaced when she probed at a particularly tender spot. “Since you seem to know everything else, including a dead language, how to put Happy on his ass, and the exact moment I’m having a melt down.”

He raised an eyebrow challengingly but Natalie only hmmm’d and kept cleaning him up, so Tony finally blew out a breath and admitted, “I don’t know anyone down there. Two hundred people at my house tonight and other than Pepper and Rhodey I wouldn’t be able to pick any of them out of a line up. It’s not so much intimidating as it is sorta depressing. House full of strangers.”

“Not uncommon for someone as famous as you.” Natalie countered, and pushed back a lock of Tony’s hair to get to his forehead. “An event like this is attended by either good-time acquaintances who don’t mean anything to any of us, or full of schemers and plan-makers looking for a chink in our armor and a weakness in our psyche. Which would you rather it be?”

“Would it be so much to ask that it’s full of friends?”

“Do you have any friends, Stark?”

“Touche.” Tony caught the almost fleeting flinch of apology on the redhead’s implacable expression, and waved it off. “Don’t worry. Not the worst thing that’s been said about me. Sorry you’ve been relegated to babysitting duty, by the way. This can’t be fun for you.”

“Is that what this is?” Natalie snapped the compact shut and put it back on the dresser. “Babysitting duty? Ms. Potts told me to simply assist you with whatever you needed to be ready for your birthday party.”

“Yeah.” Tony scratched at his chin idly. “That’s Pepper-speak for ‘you’re on babysitting duty’.”

“Do you usually require a babysitter at your own birthday party?” Natalie held up two watches, and Tony pointed towards the one he wanted. “I would say you’ve been remarkably self restrained this evening considering there’s several thousand dollars worth of alcohol downstairs.”

“I don’t drink as much as I used to.” Tony swirled his soda glass again. “Also, last year I gave a lap dance to the British Ambassador’s wife and nearly started an international incident, which is probably why Pepper left any dignitaries off the list this year and why I’ve decided to leave the hard alcohol to everyone else.”

Natalie visibly tried to smother a smile, but it escaped as a smirk anyway. “Well, if that’s the case, I prefer the term nanny. It pays much more than babysitter.”

“Oh, is Pepper not paying you enough?” Tony waved off Natalie’s help and fastened the watch around his wrist. “Cos I can talk to her about that. I know she’s the CEO but I feel like I still have some influence on Stark Industry things. It’s my name on the building after all.”

“I saw your paycheck last week.” Natalie held up Tony’s jacket and he stood to shrug into it. “You are officially the mechanic of Stark Industries and I don’t think mechanics have any say in CEO dealings.”

“The mechanic.” Tony smiled a little. “I’m okay with that.

The jacket fit looser than it had only a few months ago when Pepper had it made, the waist at the pants a little baggy instead of perfectly tailored so Tony went to find a belt. “Natalie?”

Natalie’s eyes narrowed when she saw the belt, narrowed further when she saw how tight Tony had to cinch it. “What else can I do for you, Mr. Stark?”

“You could call me Tony, for one.” Tony smoothed his shirt down and wet his lips anxiously, chest tightening in near grief as he thought about all the last things he’d been checking off his list lately. “If uh-- if this was your last birthday, what would you do?”

“My last birthday?”

“Okay not-- not your last birthday. Maybe that was a bad example,” Tony glanced over Natalie’s shoulder when the door opened and James peeked his head around. “If you wanted to make this birthday extra special or extra memorable. What would you do?”

“Oh.” Natalie’s smile almost seemed sad as she brushed the lint from Tony’s lapel. “Well if I wanted an extra memorable birthday, I’d simply do whatever I want, with whoever I wanted and not care what anyone thought about it.”

“Have anybody particularly in mind?” Tony swallowed when James stepped all the way into the room, damn near breath taking in his custom fit dark blue suit, silver fingers gleaming out from beneath the tailored cuffs. “For that memorable birthday?”

“Someone I can never have.” It was a startlingly vulnerable admission from the usually unreadable woman, Natalie’s lips curving up even as her eyes dimmed in sadness. “But it doesn’t matter, I don’t celebrate my birthday anyway. Far too busy dodging whip wielding maniacs in exotic locations while trying not to snap a high heel with my new employer.”

Tony finally looked back at Natalie, cocking his head curiously. “You don’t seem the type to worry about snapped high heels. In fact, you seem like the type to break them on purpose and use the pieces as a weapon.”

“Well you don’t seem the type to make small talk with a secretary when there is someone far more interesting waiting to speak with you.” she countered smoothly, then stepped away and clasped her hands. “Will that be all, Mr. Stark?”

“...that will be all, Ms. Rushman.”

Natalie excused herself quietly, and even though Tony frowned when he saw her give James a wide wide berth at the door, the frown immediately softened and disappeared when James pushed the door mostly closed and crossed the room to lay a sweet kiss on Tony’s lips.

“Hey.” James’s smile was just a tiny bit goofy when he pulled away. “Happy birthday Tony.”

“Yeah.” Tony cleared his throat and offered the soldier an almost equally goofy smile. “Happy birthday to me. Wow.”

“Wow, y’self.” James drawled, looking Tony over with an appreciative light in his pale eyes. “You look beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” Tony repeated skeptically, but James didn’t miss a beat, brushing his knuckles lightly just lightly over Tony’s cheek and nodding.

“Beautiful. Sure do like you in a suit.” Then with a flash of devilish, “Sure do like ya out of a suit, too.”

“I gotta say, I’m a big fan of the way you get all--” Tony made a motion over James as he turned to the bar to refill his drink. “--flirty and Brooklyn sometimes. Big fan and I hope it goes on all night long. But before we get into that--”

“--that?”

“--anything about flirting.” Tony corrected with a faint blush, and James’s heart skipped a beat or two seeing the flush of pink. Fuckin’ beautiful. “Before we get into that or into the birthday party or anything, I think we should talk about what happened at Secretary Pierce’s party.”

James stiffened almost imperceptibly, shoulders straightening and jaw setting, but he shook it off and tried to relax again even though the touch of drawl was gone from his words when he replied, “It’s fine, Tony. We don’t need to talk about it.”

“We do.” Tony corrected-- or started to correct, but it caught in his throat when he saw the blood toxicity monitor still at the bar, the screen thankfully blank but it’s presence alone enough to make his stomach twist. “We uh-- shit. No, we do need to talk about it because--”

Just put it away, it’s just a monitor. Just a number. It’s my birthday, I should just put it away and think about different things like how good James looks in that color.

Keep it together, Stark.

“--because I’ve been pretty MIA lately and I don’t want you to think I didn’t notice what he was doing to you.” Tony swept the monitor off the counter and back behind the bar for later. He could find it later. “Pierce was being a prick and I don’t know why but don’t ah-- don’t think I haven’t been around the last couple days because I was mad or anything.”

Yuck, Tony didn’t really like apologizing for anything and especially not for being too busy for the normal relationship bullshit, but this wasn’t really a normal relationship-- if it could be called a relationship at all-- and maybe if he had started apologizing for things like going incommunicado before right now, karma wouldn’t have deemed it necessary to strike him down via poisoning and his mind slowly failing him and--

--keep it together, Stark.

“I missed you.” Tony said instead of everything else, and that was definitely more honest than he meant to be but it was worth it because James’s relieved smile stretched from ear to ear. “And I’m sorry about movie night last night. I know we were supposed to hang out but I went to bed early. Sorry.”

“I missed you too, was weird not to see you after seeing you so much--” pointedly, and Tony flushed again. “--th’last few days.” James took the soda Tony handed him, glad the conversation had steered away from Pierce and the way the man had made the uncomfortable crawl up James’s spine and clamor at the back of his head. “You did make it to movie night by the way, you were just so tired after meeting with Colonel Rhodes you fell asleep before the openin’ credits finished.”

“I woke up in bed.” Tony pointed out, and James admitted, “Cos I carried you in here. You were all tuckered out.”

“Tuckered out.” Tony repeated with a chuckle. “Oh man, I love that. Well, thank you.”

“Ain’t no thing, Tony.” There was the Brooklyn again, easy and smooth and feeling natural the more often it slipped into James’s speech. It had been happening a lot lately around Tony-- easier words and looser laughter and a nearly foreign urge to be gentle, a long buried want to be sweet and maybe even tender. Tony made James want to be tender and that wasn’t a word James had thought he knew a few weeks ago.

Gentle and tender which only made the knowledge and instincts about killing and murder and cold, purposeful mayhem all the worse.

But James didn’t want to think about all that right now because right now Tony was coming back towards him and holding up a set of cuff links for James’s shirt, mentioning how he thought they would look nice and laughing about how James couldn’t be the only person at the party with cuff links. Tony was laughing and talking and faking it, changing the subject from Pierce or whatever had gone on in the closed door meetings with Colonel Rhodes and Pepper that led to him being so exhausted. Faking it and not quite lying but coming close enough that it hurt James’s heart just a little bit.

Tony shouldn’t be faking anything when it was just them, when they’d already been vulnerable and danced together and everything else together and held hands in public leaving the party the other day.

Tony shouldn’t be faking anything, even if James loved his smile and the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners with a grin and how pretty Tony’s mouth was.

He makes me tender.

Tony was stressed despite the smile, stressed despite the crinkles, stressed despite how gorgeous red his mouth was in the lamplight. Whatever Colonel Rhodes had been yelling about from behind the lab doors was stressing Tony out. Whatever reason Pepper had for leaving a boardroom discussion in tears was stressing Tony out. The growing noise from the party downstairs and the constant honking from the still-coming line of cars in the drive was stressing Tony out and James hated it.

Fuck, he makes me tender.

“What if we just don’t do this, sweet thing.” James stilled Tony’s hand at his wrist because it was the fourth time the link had slipped and Tony was starting to look frustrated. “No cuff links, no fancy clothes. No party.”

"There’s two hundred people downstairs.” Tony closed his eyes for a minute to concentrate, then tried the cuff links again. “Enough alcohol to get the whole of New Jersey absolutely sloshed. I ordered caviar, and by me, I mean Pepper and by caviar I mean so many fancy foods, Pepper would actually kill me dead if I cancelled the party and she lost all that money.”

“Tony.”

“Besides, this is a big deal. Big blow out for my birthday? It’s the tabloid event of the year, the women wear all sorts of crazy dresses they got from insane designers and set the summer fashion line based on whatever they are still wearing by the end of the night. Business deals are struck and I’m pretty sure a few pregnancies happen and I-- I can’t cancel it.”

Tony was rambling now, voice shaking and head shaking as he kept going. “I can’t cancel it. It will be fun, we just have to get in the mood is all. I know it might be hard on you getting pushed into this sort of thing but hey, it’s like Monaco without the villain. Better food, better drink, no bad guys. It will be fun. I promise.”

Tony was faking it again, almost lying again. Stressed and slipping, rambling and unable to concentrate and James shuffled closer so he was looming over Tony, non threatening but wholly protective and not going to be ignored.

“Tony.” he lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Tony, what if we just don’t? You don’t want to be here anyway, I can see it in your eyes, same way you didn’t want to be at Pierce’s party or in the crowd at Monaco. So maybe don’t cancel the party but what if you and me just leave?”

“Just leave?” Tony’s throat jerked as he swallowed. “Seriously?”

“We could slip out the back door.” James offered. “That feels like somethin’ I used to do-- shirk responsibilities and get lost doin’ other things instead, maybe ditching school or church and playing a prank. Bet I’m good at disappearing without anyone noticing, so let’s just go.”

“Kiddo James was a trouble maker, huh?” Tony finally smiled a tiny bit. “Well, where would we go?”

“Don’t think it matters.” James reached for Tony’s hand and wound their fingers together, squeezing lightly. “Let’s get lost for a little bit, you and me.”

“Lost.” Tony looked down at their hands, then out the window where the waves were lapping silver against the beach. “Yeah, I could be okay with lost.”

******************

It was sort of embarrassingly easy to steal a few trays of food from the party and a couple bottles of wine. It certainly said something about the assembled guests if they didn’t notice the birthday boy and a massive, silver armed soldier sneaking around the edges of the room and making off with piles of food and alcohol, something about how they had only come for the prestige and photo opportunities rather than to celebrate Tony himself.

But tonight both Tony and James were glad for the anonymity, Tony relieved to escape the crowd without being accosted by well wishing strangers, James relieved to hold onto Tony’s hand as they hurried down the back stairs and towards the sandy stretch.

The party had really kicked off by now, the DJ turning the music up and the shouts carrying down from the house and into the night air, but Tony tucked the drinks beneath one arm and held onto James with the other to pick his way across the uneven ground to a tucked away area sheltered from the worst of the noise by a rocky outcropping. It was sandy and soft, big enough to stretch out but close enough to dip their toes in the water and Tony balanced the bottles on a couple flat rocks while James spread the food out around on the other side.

Down here the music and noise got lost in the sound of the waves, the party lights finally fading as the last of the clouds drifted away from the moon and when all they could hear was wind, Tony finally exhaled a sigh of relief and let the tension bleed out from his shoulders.

“...this was a good idea.”

Pants were rolled up to calves, expensive jackets shucked, cuff links and ties balled up in the sleeves so they wouldn’t get lost. Bare toes met cool sand and when Tony opened the wine and offered the first drink to James, the soldier tipped it back and took a long swallow straight from the bottle, then grinned a crooked, “Happy birthday, Tony.”

“Happy birthday to me.” Tony took the bottle back and drank deep from it as well, wiped his mouth and turned to say--

--nothing, cos James met him halfway in a sweet, slow kiss that was somehow infinitely more exciting than the pile of presents waiting upstairs.

“Yeah.” Tony licked his lips and grinned. “Happy birthday to me.”

The caviar was delicious even though James choked on the first bite when Tony mentioned how much it cost. Maple caramelized figs with topped with bacon had them licking their fingers and Tony split his sides laughing when James tried an oyster and declared it ‘went down like a giant booger’.

“I don’t want to know how you know what a giant booger tastes like.” Tony informed the soldier, and tossed away the first bottle of wine to open a second. “Please don’t ever say that again.”

“Don’t try and feed me it, then.” James retorted suspiciously, and pushed the oysters off to the side to eat more of the deviled eggs instead.

The trays of snacks emptied quickly as they traded bites back and forth, tossed lighter pieces in the air and tried to catch them, started and finished another bottle of wine that didn’t seem to affect James at all but turned Tony into a rumpled, giggled adorable mess.

It was easy and it was relaxed, much better than the party upstairs and despite the lack of noise or party goers, much more fun than the planned event ever could have been. When the teasing conversation comfortably waned, James and Tony just listened to the faint music and the louder crash of the waves, each lost in their own thoughts, each acutely aware of the man next to him, each wholly comfortable being lost so long as the had each other for company.

Easy.

Tony broke the silence first, crumbling an avocado toast wedge between his fingers and mentioning, “My Mama never liked Alexander Pierce. She always complained about needing an extra long shower to wash the oil away whenever he’d come over for dinner. Said he was slimy.”

“Ma’s always know best.” A flash of someone warm filtered through James’s mind, the name Minnie--no, Winnie?-- and a beautiful smile. “What was your Mama’s name?”

“Maria.” Tony scooped the filling from a deviled egg and ate it off his fingers. “Maria della famiglia Carbonell.”

“Italian.” Why did James know that?

“Yep.” Tony tossed James the white of the egg and chuckled when the soldier promptly ate it. “Italian. Every bit as beautiful and fierce as all the stereotypes and at least twice as funny as anyone ever thought. She taught me to play the piano and also the best place to stab someone if they got too close to you.”

James barked a surprised laugh and Tony smiled fondly. “She even taught me to mend my own clothes just in case I ever found myself in a position where our billions of dollars couldn’t buy me a new shirt.”

Tony’s hand when to his chest when he thought of Afghanistan and how he’d wished for his Mama’s guidance in the cave. “She was perfect. An angel.”

“And your Pa?”

“Howard. You know about him already.” Tony grabbed at some sand and let it run through his fingers. “Brilliant. Genius. Cut-throat. I never once thought I’d miss the bastard but here I am wondering if he’d be proud of the way I’m handling all his sins.”

Bitterness creeping into the words, and James frowned, “His sins?”

“The guy in Monaco.” Tony hadn’t meant to bring Monaco up tonight, not for his birthday and certainly not when they were sitting in the moonlight at the beach, but it was too late now. “Turns out his dad worked with my dad back in the day on the arc reactor. There were some probably sketchy accusations, some definitely sketchy behavior afterwards and here we are decades later. I’m dealing with Vanko’s sort of rightfully pissed off son and I had no clue until Rhodey sat me down and walked me through it.”

“That’s what you’ve been meeting with him about.”

“That and the Iron Man thing you’re still being really calm about.” Tony slanted a sideways look at James. “You really don’t have any questions about how I suit up and save the world on a weekly basis?”

“Dunno.” James lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “For some reason it seems like Iron Man isn’t the craziest thing I’ve ever heard of. Can’t explain it.” And after a beat, “Besides, don’t change who you are, right? You’re still Tony.”

“I’m still Tony.” He smiled a little bit and they were quiet again, working through another bottle of wine.

By the time Tony spoke again the words were a little slurred, “By the way, I like when you call me sweet thing.”

“Oh yeah?” James leaned back on one elbow, then shifted to his side so he could see Tony better. “Why’s that?”

“I don’t think any of my other--” Tony made a vague motion. “--relationships or hook ups or anything like that called me nicknames. Or pet names. Nothing other than Tony. One time a date called me Daddy and asked to be spanked--” wine came out James’s nose and Tony grinned. “But not sweet thing. Or sweet heart. I like it. Like them both.”

He cleared his throat, brushed a little sand off his pants. “Keep calling me it?”

James hooked his finger under Tony’s chin and brought him down for a gentle kiss, “Oh sure thing, sweet thing.” and Tony scrunched his nose in delight.

“Imagine that, I like everything about those words.” James laughed at him and Tony budged closer for another kiss, half delirious with the thrill of their hidden, almost innocent moment. “How um-- how old were you for your first kiss?”

“You know I don’t know that.” James protested lightly and Tony mumbled in agreement. “But you’re the one I remember, so I guess you count as the first. What about you?”

“Oh I’ve been kissing since I was old enough to smile at pretty girls.” Tony quipped. “Pre-school. Kindergarten. All of it. Everyone wanted to kiss me. I had rosy cheeks and curly hair and had the finger guns and winks down by age four. I was a real ladies man.”

“Finger guns?” James asked, and when Tony mimed the motion, he snorted, “That’s dumb, Tony. People like that?”

“Everyone likes finger guns, James.” Tony retorted, and dropped one eye in a wink and pew-pew’ed at the soldier. “See? Doesn’t that make you want to kiss me?”

“Hell sugar, everything makes me want to kiss you.” James decided and Tony had to look away so he wouldn’t be so obviously smitten over such a sweet comment. “When was the first time you kissed a fella, Tony?”

“Christ, I love how you talk.” Tony gulped back some wine. “Not that I don’t find the pissed Russian thing you do super hot, but the Brooklyn thing just does it for me.”

He was drunk for the first time since before Afghanistan, the liquor going straight to his head and making his tongue loose and Tony fell back in the sand to look up at the stars as he answered, “I’ve never kissed a fella. Not before you.”

“What?”

“Remember how I rambled on about twenty five years of camping out in the closet and how my Dad said a bunch of stuff and sometimes it's all I hear in my head?” Tony nodded towards to the sky. “Yeah well, that all came around cos I tried to be with a guy one time. I was young and drunk and he was older and a creep but it was college so I figured, why the hell not?”

“...what happened?” James’s left hand clenched into a fist, a surge of rage nearly black filling his soul. “Tony, what happened?”

“Nothing that would make you go all murdery right now.” Tony turned onto his side so they were facing each other and patted at James’s hand. “I got in over my head and panicked, I told you how my Ma taught me self defense? I ran all the way back to me and Rhodey’s room and made him promise never to say anything to anyone and it wasn’t until later that I realized I'd never even been kissed. Had only gone far enough to start getting pants off but somehow we skipped the kiss altogether.”

Tony tapped at James’s fingers idly. “Glad for it now. Kissing you is way better.”

Christ James loved how Tony was soft and sweet like this, tipsy and loose, eyes shining, lips and tongue stained red from the wine. He was beautiful always, but more beautiful tonight on his birthday, in the moonlight, admitting that kissing James was better.

James knew he had been the best at several things in the past, but all of them felt like bad things, like dangerous things and things he shouldn’t brag about being the best at.

But kissing Tony?

“C’mere, sweet thing.” James pulled Tony in for one kiss and then another, shifting closer across the sand until their knees knocked and their feet twisted up, breath coming faster as their mouths met and lingered, lips parted and tongues tangled and when Tony broke apart to gasp, “Every teen summer rom com was right, kissing at the beach is the best.” James admitted, “Don’t know if I ever saw a teen movie, but I sure agree about the kissing part.”

The embrace stretched slow and languid until James moved to spread their coats on the sand, rolled onto his back and brought Tony down onto his chest so their hands could wander and bodies could move slow and easy together, reveling in the syrupy slow arousal building between them

Tony had never imagined a moment like this would ever be possible for him. Not after college, not after Howard, not after years of being himself and now that he was Iron Man. Moments like this weren’t possible for people like him, but here he was anyway, smiling into a kiss and getting ahold of frankly ridiculous muscles and for the first time in forever, Tony was lost in a moment he didn’t want to ever end.

A moment like this wasn’t possible and yet…

“You sure taste sweet, sugar.” James murmured into his ear and Tony tucked his head into the soldier’s big chest and snuggled in close. “Yeah, c’mere. I’ve got you.”

“Mmmm.” Tony sighed when James’s hands landed low on his hips, rubbed comfortable circles into his lower back. “This might be the tamest birthday I’ve ever had.”

“Disappointed?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Tony fell asleep curled up in James’s arms and the soldier stayed awake holding him close for a long time after, mind and heart racing.

He should be drunk after several bottles of wine, but he wasn’t even the littlest bit tipsy. Tony had stopped acting stressed out, but their night together hadn’t quite erased the worry furrows on his brows. Iron Man was on James’s mind a lot more often than he wanted to admit, but it was only because the thought of something happening to Tony made the part of James that ached to be tender hurt in an awful way.

He couldn’t be tender when Tony was in danger, no he had to be the person that had nearly killed Natalie the other day, the person that had come close to ripping Vanko apart with his bare hands.

And then there were the black lines at Tony’s reactor that the genius never wanted to talk about but James knew were getting bigger, longer, stretching thicker across the scarred skin and marring the gorgeous body. It couldn’t be good, that sort of thing was never good and James’s heart sank to his toes the longer he thought about it.

Tony was hiding things from him, things James maybe didn’t have the right to know yet but he couldn’t shake the feeling that if he didn’t find out soon, it might be too late.

He had just barely found Tony, and was still in the process of finding himself. The bad days were further and further in between, the moments where he snapped into something horrifying less and less extreme and every kiss shared with Tony brought James one step closer towards himself, he just knew it, he could feel it in his soul.

So why did it feel like everything was going to be taken away before he was ready to let--

“You okay?” Tony stirred in his arms. “James?”

“Real swell, sweet thing.” James whispered and Tony smiled sleepily, “I love when you talk old timey.”

“Go back to sleep.” James kissed Tony’s forehead and finally closed his eyes too, letting the sound of the water and wind calm his thoughts again.

There would always be time to worry later.

Tonight he wanted to lay here and wonder if he remembered what it felt like to be in love…

….or if this was the first time he’d ever been ready to say the words.

*************

SAY SOMETHING ABOUT THE CHAPTER!

(for the record, neither @striving-artist nor I can believe no one caught Brock Rumlow last chapter mentioning being worried about interference from ‘big and blond’.... *cue dramatic music, anyone?*) **************

@ships-galore @ceealaina @izziebladez @cwar1864 @hausoffro @tonystarkisanangel @multishippinglife @girlnic @iam93percentstardust @paranormalmoonlight5 @igotloki @moosette05 @wayward-student-philosopher @kaz-brekkers-gloves @atomicfandombomb @1fuckingshitup69 @agentlokii @livewire28 @tulipsnbigcats @kimstark @alex-stark-rogers @bibbarnes @heeeyitskay @goindownshipping @justaniche @actual-demon-belial

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#ncts fics #winteriron #tony stark #bucky barnes

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btsslowburnfic · 4 years

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BTS Reacts: Visiting the Pumpkin Patch/Apple Orchard-Hyung Line

It’s Fall AF where I live. I don’t know if these are a thing in the rest of the world, but here in Midwest USA I’ve already been to two apple orchards and a pumpkin patch. Happy Fluffy Friday ^_^

-Jin- You were so excited. Chuseok had just ended and Jin still had 2 days off. You decided it was time to usher in the new season with a trip to the Apple Orchard. “Why don’t we just go to the grocery store and buy apples?” your boyfriend jokingly complained as the two of you drove out into the country. “It’s not the same! It’s about the experience.” you adjust your sunglasses as the car winds down a curvy road. “The experience of picking apples? Isn’t this just them getting free labor?” You roll your eyes. “Whatever. This place also has a concession stand, animals, and a giant slide and zipline.” Suddenly you have his interest. “Oh? Really?” “Yep. So much more than just picking apples.” you say as the car turns down the first dirt road to the orchard. It’s a weekday so it isn't too busy. You mask up and pay the nominal admission fee. “Oh my God, Jin LOOK THEY HAVE ALPACAS” you squeal as you rush over to the petting zoo area. Jin jogs over behind you, “Just like RJ. These must be his brothers, AJ and MJ.” You laugh as you dig through your bag for a coin. “And look,” you gesture to the machine with food in it, “We can feed them!!!!!” You twist your coin in and little pellets fall out the bottom. You walk over to the fence and place your palm flat for the animals to come over and eat. “So cool. I’ve never seen a real alpaca up close.” you marvel at their size as they head over. Jin snaps a picture of you feeding them and then has you take a picture of him with them to post on Weverse later. “I can’t believe there’s not an RJ in the car,” Jin laments his missed photo opportunity while posing with AJ and MJ. “Perfect. Triplets.” you joke and hand him his phone back. “Alright, let’s wash our hands and pick some apples!” Jin groans, “They have bags of apples in the gift shop that someone else already picked.” “Oh my God are you still whining about apple picking?” you playfully shove him. “Fine. Let’s wash our hands and then do the zipline and then pick apples.” you amend your statement. He kisses your forehead. “Much better.” The two of you scrub the alpaca saliva off and head up the hay stairs to the zipline. “Look how big the orchard is!” you exclaim from the top of the hay bales. Jin slowly walks up behind you. “Yeah and think. People already probably picked all the apples up front, we’d have to walk all the way over there,” he gestures unnecessarily with his long arms towards the back of the orchard, “just to find them.” “We CAME here to PICK APPLES,” you grit your teeth and try to look annoyed since at this point you knew he was just teasing you. He gets strapped into the zipline. “I’m just saying, it seems like a lot of work.” You roll your eyes at him, “Hey Jin, baby?” “What?” he turns back from getting ready to slide down the cable and smiles at you. “I just think you look cute.” you answer and lean over to kiss him. And then shove him down the zipline. “Byyeeeeeeee!” you yell and wave as you hear him shrieking. The attendant looks at you quizzically. “He’s fine. He’s fine.” you assure them as they get you strapped in. You jump off the platform and through the air. When you arrive at the other side you see Jin pouting which makes you start to laugh. You turn in your zipline gear and walk over to him. “What’s the matter, pretty pouty man?” you put your arms around him. “You shoved me down a zipline.” he whines. “Ahahaha I did.” You lean back to look at him, amused that he’s trying really hard to keep pouting. “It was so mean.” “It was. I am terrible. Can you ever forgive me?” you place your hands on his chest and look up at him. “Only if you don’t make me pick apples.” he says with a straight face. You scowl at him and pull away. You hear his trademark laugh following you down the hill.

-RM/Namjoon- “Pumpkin patch. Pumpkin patch. Pumpkin patch!” you start chanting as you walk over to your husband on the couch. “Is that what today is?” he pulls you down next to him and you snuggle into his side. “Joonie,” you whine, “you said if the weather was nice we would go.” “I’m just teasing baby, here,” he shows you on his phone where he’s been researching the ratings of the pumpkin patches in town. You loved how much research he always put into everything. “I’m so excited. I haven’t been to one in years.” you smile. “Did you pick one?” “Yep, and I charged the fancy camera so we can get some nice pictures today as well.” “You are the best!” you lean over and kiss him on the cheek. “Let me grab some boots out of the closet and then I’ll be ready to go.” You are surprised that one of the highest rated ones is only a few minutes outside the city. You drive the short distance and arrive at a beautiful farm sprinkled in red, yellow, and orange leaves. “Oh my God, this is beautiful.” you say as you exit the driver’s side. Namjoon already has the camera out and shoots some photos of the barn and trees. “I’m so glad you brought the camera,” you say as you nervously watch him handle the thousands-of-dollars camera. “But make sure you use the wrist or neck strap.” “Are you saying you don’t trust me to hold an expensive item without breaking it?” he pretends to act shocked. You smile and walk over. “I would never say that,” you place the strap around his wrist and laugh as you look up at him. “Never.” He laughs. “I totally would have. Or left it sitting somewhere. Thanks for talking me into taking today off.” He takes you by the hand as the two of you head down to the farmhouse. e There is a small general store full of breads, james, hay bales, and scarecrows. Much fall. So knickknack. You walk over to the counter where a farmer is sorting produce, “Excuse me sir, which way to the pumpkin patch?” “Head out the back of the barn. You can either ride the wagon back there or walk.” The two of you exit the barn and find yourself in the middle of a group of about fifty small children and their chaperones. “Oh.” Namjoon says, his eyes involuntarily going wide. “It must be a school trip. That’s ok. We can walk back there, I think they’re waiting for the wagon.” The two of you ease your way through the tiny mob and start walking down the gravel. “Alright. We have to beat that wagon before the field has 50 fewer pumpkins,” you say as you pump your arms and channel your inner speed walker. “And get some pictures without random children in them,” he adds. By the time the two of you walk the Kilometer to the patch you two are slightly out of breath. “Alright. Let’s find the perfect pumpkin.” you say as you survey the patch. The two of you wander the fields scouting out the perfect size and color pumpkin. Namjoon takes some photos of the field and you. “Ok, time to trade,” you say, gesturing to the camera. “I don’t know.” he suddenly acts shy. “Oh come on, you have to. You’re wearing your plaid shirt, it’s like you purposefully dressed to be a pumpkin patch model.” you grin as you take the camera from him. You snap some photos of him and the rural landscape. You hear the throttle of the tractor and a bunch of kid voices getting closer so the two of you each grab a pumpkin and start walking back to the farmhouse. The wagon of children all wave excitedly and point at the two of you and your pumpkins. Namjoon laughs and waves back with his free hand. “Did you have a good time?” he asks as the two of you enter the general store. “I did. I felt a little rushed because of the kids but that’s ok. It looks like they’re having fun.” You smile. “You’ll be such a great parent someday,” he smiles as he leans over to kiss you.

-Suga/Yoongi- “More coffee.” Yoongi’s gravely morning voice requests after you remind him it’s apple orchard day. He had gotten out of bed and was now doing a great impression of a rock as he sat at the kitchen table with his face in his hands. “Honey, they have cider at the orchard.” “Cider doesn’t have caffeine,” he responds. “Coffee.” You run your fingers through his hair and smile “Fine, fine.” you walk over to the Nespresso and make a cup of coffee for him. You take the mug over and slide onto his lap. “I’d be careful if you want to make it to the apple orchard.” he growls into your ear and squeezes your waist. “Yoongi,” you giggle and stand up. “There’s time for that after the apple orchard.” you wink and walk over to your purse. “We need to leave here in 45 minutes.” “Why? Are we on a schedule?” “A little bit. We’re meeting up with Tae and Jimin.” “Oh yeah? Cool.” he monotonously responds as he continues to wake up more and more with each sip. -- It’s a beautiful fall day with a light breeze blowing and the sun shining. It’s perfect for what you have planned. The ride up was nice but quiet. You were super nervous about how the afternoon was going to go. "Are Tae and Jimin here yet?" Yoongi asks as he pulls into the parking lot. You check your messages. "Yep. They're already out in the orchard and say we should head out to meet them." you exit the car and wait for yoongi. The two of you hold hands as you look for the best way to get into the orchard. You weave in and out of the apple trees looking for your friends. “It’s so beautiful today.” he says quietly. “It really is. Do you remember the last time we came here?” He smiles, “Oh yep. I remember. Speaking of, do you have your epi-pen with you?” “Of course,” you pat your purse. Eventually you find where Tae and Jimin had set up. “What’s all this?” Yoongi gestured to the blanket and basket sitting in the clearing. “Tae and Jimin set this up, they went to the car and said to have a seat and wait for them.” “Are you sure this is their stuff?” he mumbles. “Yep. They sent me a picture,” you flash it to him. “Let’s go find them.” he starts to pull you the other direction. “No. We should really stay and wait for them. I don’t want to get lost.” you say as you head over to the large hounds tooth blanket and have a seat. “Since when are you worried about being lost? We wandered the streets of Dublin for hours.” “I just want to make sure we don’t miss our friends. Come sit with me,” you pat the spot on the blanket carefully. Yoongi looks toward the entrance one more time and then gives in, coming over to sit next to you. You check your phone one more time. Satisfied, you slip it into your purse. You stiffen as a bee flies over to the blanket. “Aish, I got it.” He pulls his sleeve over his hand and swats it away. “If I see another one, we’re getting up and moving. Actually, an apple orchard was a terrible idea to come to with your allergy.” “I know, I know. I thought about that too but I wanted to come here today. I remember the last time we were here.” “Yeah, I thought you were going to die.” Yoongi says, trying to sound casual, but you can detect the slight shake in his voice. You shrug and take him by the hand, “But I didn’t. And that’s the day I knew that you were the one for me.” You lean over and kiss him gently on the lips. “You stayed calm and helped me inject myself and then took me to the hospital and stayed even though I kept begging you to just leave while delirious and crying.” He smiles shyly, “Yeah, it was what, like our second or third date? I called Namjoon to cancel going to practice and he yelled at me for even being out on a date and then I hung up on him.” “What? You never told me that before,” you exclaim. You had no idea you’d caused any drama. “I didn’t want to worry you.” he replies, gently pushing your hair behind your ear. “Well, that’s why I wanted to come back here today,” you begin as you grab a small box out of your purse. “I knew on that day that you would do anything to protect me and just how much you care about me even though it was so early in our relationship. I don’t deserve you, but if you’ll have me, I’d like to make forever official with you,” you open the box and present him with a small black band. “Are you proposing to me?” he asks quietly. “I’m trying to. Am I doing a bad job?” you ask nervously, suddenly worried he’s going to say ‘no.’ He smiles and takes the band out and looks at it. “No. I’m just surprised. And happy.” he puts it on. “So….is that a yes?” you ask nervously. He looks up at you with wet eyes. “Of course.” he leans over and the two of you kiss, it slowly turns into a make-out session until you hear someone clear their throat. You pull away smiling and look over at Taehyung and Jimin. “They’re actually here?” he says surprised. “Congratulations!” Jimin yells and attacks Yoongi with a hug. “Did you get any pictures?” you ask Tae. “Oh yeah. Lots of them,” he smiles at you. “You did a great job planning this.” “You were all in on this!?” Yoongi exclaims, throwing Jimin off of him. “Yep! I wanted Taehyung to take pictures and Jimin wanted to join as well.” “Aish, I’m lucky to have such great friends,” he leans over and quietly in your ear, “and such a wonderful fiance.”

-JHope/Hoseok- Your boyfriend is sitting on the couch dragging his feet about going out today, "It's not a haunted corn maze, right?" Hoseok asks you for the 50th time with a disgusted look on his face. You let out a sigh and put your hands on his shoulders. "No babe it's just a normal corn maze where we wander around and try to get to the other side." "... I don't know." "I think you are emotionally scarred from Run BTS," you say as you press a kiss to the top of his head and move to sit next to him. "We don't have to do the corn maze if you don't want to.” You take his hand in yours. “Let's just go and pet the pumpkins. If we decide to do something else while we're there that's fine too." "OK sounds good. I saved some cool carvings on my phone," he pulls it out to show you a few intricate designs he's saved. "ooo very cool. We'll need at least 2 big pumpkins and a few medium. Are you ready?" you ask as you put your bag over your shoulder. He grabs a cap and follows you out the door. ------ The pumpkin patch is just outside the city and is famous for its corn maze. This year it is in the shape of an underwater scene with fish, whales, and dolphins. You point out the picture at the entrance to Hobi emphasizing the “family friendly” parts of the poster. “I’m not saying we have to. I’m just showing you what it looks like.” you emphasize as the two of you walk over to the barn area. There are chickens and horses lazily wandering around the yard. “Have you ever been to a farm before?” he asks you as you take photos of the animals. “No. Is it obvious?” you laugh. “I’ve seen horses before but not just like wandering around with chickens and stuff.” “You’re cold,” he states rather than asks. “Here,” he takes off his sweatshirt and hands it to you. “Now you’ll be cold.” you say as you put on the still-warm sweatshirt. You not-so-secretly loved taking your boyfriend’s hoodies. “I’m fine. Besides, if we walk through that giant maze I’m sure we’ll work up a sweat. And the sun is coming out.” he smiles at you. He just radiates happiness, it’s one of the things you love about him. “You’ll try the corn maze? Really?” you turn and face him, wrapping your now-warm body around him. “Yes, I’ll try it.” he kisses you on the tip of your nose. “I read and it says they have emergency exits if we need to leave.” You laugh, “Well hopefully we won’t have to use them, but it’s nice to have the option.” The two of you wander over to the sign marked “Entrance” and take a few pictures for posterity and then begin wandering around. You hit several dead ends and Hoseok flinches a few times turing around corners. “Babe are you still worried there are zombies in here?” you ask, trying not to laugh because you know even though it’s silly, he’s scared. “..No. Just making sure we don’t run into people. Alive or otherwise.” You laugh. “Hey, here’s one of the emergency exits, “you gesture to a sign above the dead end the two of you have just walked into. “No. Not yet. We’re not giving up.” his voice sounds determined. “We’re going to conquer this corn maze. Or at least try for another 30 minutes, I’m getting hungry.” he grins as you two double back. You set a timer on your phone but when it goes off the two of you have a feeling you are getting close to the exit because you have moved pretty far along the treeline. You had the wherewithal to take a photo of the maze back at the Pumpkin Patch entrance so you know the exit is on the North side of the maze. “I think this is it!” he yells excitedly, pulling you by the hand and breaking out into a run. You turn one last corner and the two of you emerge victorious. He takes your hands and raises them above your head in true champion fashion. You take a picture of your sweaty happy smiles in front of the exit sign. “I knew we could do it!” you exclaim and lean over to kiss him. “Hey Hobi,” you say, catching your breath still. “Yeah?” “Let’s just eat food and get pumpkins from the farm store. I don’t want to hike to the back of the farm to the pumpkin patch.” “Oh thank God,” he says, “I thought I was going to have to beg you not to.” he laughs. “Seriously. I want one of everything from the concession stand.” you say as the two of you walk back towards the farmhouse. “Ahaha me too. I love you.” “I love you too.”

#bts fanfction #bts fanfic #bts rm x you #bts jin x you #bts hoseok x reader #bts suga x you #bts yoongi x reader #bts namjoon x reader #bts reactions #bts scenarios #bts fluff

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cheese-greater-official · 3 years

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The Great Gatsby .. I think antibucci Summary: Literally just the great Gatsby. Nothing else here. Absolutely no changes. Definitely use this for class, or reference. The Great Gatsby is public domain now after all. Anyways here's the totally unaltered and complete book of the Great Gatsby. I swear nothing was changed, most definitely. Of course credit to F Scott Fitzgerald for writing this commentary on both his life and the world he was in. A lot of this can still relate today, so keep an open mind when reading. Notes: I'd like to preface this by saying... This is really I mean REALLY just the Great Gatsby. I swear. There is nothing going here that is out of the ordinary! Nothing at all! Chapter 1 Chapter Text Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her; If you can bounce high, bounce for her too, Till she cry “Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover, I must have you!” - Thomas Parke D'Invilliers. In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought — frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction — Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament.”— it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No — Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the

wholesale hardware business that my father carries on to-day. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him — with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe — so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why — ye — es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog — at least I had him for a few days until he ran away — and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees—just as things grow in fast movies—I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the "Yale News"—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the "well-rounded man." This isn't just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western Hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented

rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby's mansion. Or rather, as I didn't know Mr. Gatsby it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eye-sore, but it was a small eye-sore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbor's lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed and I'd known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he'd left Chicago and come east in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance he'd brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came east I don't know. They had spent a year in France, for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn't believe it—I had no sight into Daisy's heart but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking a little wistfully for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red and white Georgian Colonial mansion overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold, and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy, straw haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining, arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. "Now, don't think my opinion on these matters is final," he seemed to say, "just because I'm stronger and more of a man than you are." We were in the same Senior Society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. "I've got a nice place here," he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm

he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep pungent roses and a snub-nosed motor boat that bumped the tide off shore. "It belonged to Demaine the oil man." He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. "We'll go inside." We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding cake of the ceiling—and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless and with her chin raised a little as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. "I'm p-paralyzed with happiness." She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I've heard it said that Daisy's murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate Miss Baker's lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth—but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered "Listen," a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way east and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. "Do they miss me?" she cried ecstatically. "The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath and there's a persistent wail all night along the North Shore." "How gorgeous! Let's go back, Tom. Tomorrow!" Then she added irrelevantly, "You ought to see the baby." "I'd like to." "She's asleep. She's two years old. Haven't you ever seen her?" "Never." "Well, you ought to see her. She's—" Tom Buchanan who had been hovering restlessly about the room stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. "What you doing, Nick

?" "I'm a bond man." "Who with?" I told him. "Never heard of them," he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. "You will," I answered shortly. "You will if you stay in the East." "Oh, I'll stay in the East, don't you worry," he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. "I'd be a God Damned fool to live anywhere else." At this point Miss Baker said "Absolutely!" with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. "I'm stiff," she complained, "I've been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember." "Don't look at me," Daisy retorted. "I've been trying to get you to New York all afternoon." "No, thanks," said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry, "I'm absolutely in training." Her host looked at her incredulously. "You are!" He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. "How you ever get anything done is beyond me." I looked at Miss Baker wondering what it was she "got done." I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. "You live in West Egg," she remarked contemptuously. "I know somebody there." "I don't know a single—" "You must know Gatsby." "Gatsby?" demanded Daisy. "What Gatsby?" Before I could reply that he was my neighbor dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips the two young women preceded us out onto a rosy-colored porch open toward the sunset where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. "Why candles?" objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. "In two weeks it'll be the longest day in the year." She looked at us all radiantly. "Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it." "We ought to plan something," yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. "All right," said Daisy. "What'll we plan?" She turned to me helplessly. "What do people plan?" Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. "Look!" she complained. "I hurt it." We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. "You did it, Tom," she said accusingly. "I know you didn't mean to but you did do it. That's what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great big hulking physical specimen of a—" "I hate that word hulking," objected Tom crossly, "even in kidding." "Hulking," insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here—and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West where an evening was hurried from phase to phase toward its close in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. "You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy," I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. "Can't you talk about crops or something?" I meant nothing in particular by this remark but it was taken up in an unexpected way. "Civilization's going to pieces," broke out Tom violently. "I've gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read 'The

Rise of the Coloured Empires' by this man Goddard?" "Why, no," I answered, rather surprised by his tone. "Well, it's a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don't look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It's all scientific stuff; it's been proved." "Tom's getting very profound," said Daisy with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. "He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—" "Well, these books are all scientific," insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. "This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It's up to us who are the dominant race to watch out or these other races will have control of things." "We've got to beat them down," whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun. "You ought to live in California—" began Miss Baker but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair. "This idea is that we're Nordics. I am, and you are and you are and—" After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod and she winked at me again. "—and we've produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art and all that. Do you see?" There was something pathetic in his concentration as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me. "I'll tell you a family secret," she whispered enthusiastically. "It's about the butler's nose. Do you want to hear about the butler's nose?" "That's why I came over tonight." "Well, he wasn't always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night until finally it began to affect his nose—" "Things went from bad to worse," suggested Miss Baker. "Yes. Things went from bad to worse until finally he had to give up his position." For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk. The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom's ear whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing. "I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn't he?" She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation. "An absolute rose?" This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing but a stirring warmth flowed from her as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house. Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said "Sh!" in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond and Miss Baker leaned forward, unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether. "This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbor—" I said. "Don't talk. I want to hear what happens." "Is something happening?" I inquired innocently. "You mean to say you don't know?" said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. "I thought everybody knew." "I don't." "Why—" she said hesitantly, "Tom's got some woman in New York." "Got some woman?" I repeated blankly. Miss Baker nodded. "She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner-time. Don't you think?" Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots and Tom and Daisy were back at the table. "It couldn't be helped!" cried Daisy with tense gayety. She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me and continued: "I looked

outdoors for a minute and it's very romantic outdoors. There's a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He's singing away—" her voice sang "—It's romantic, isn't it, Tom?" "Very romantic," he said, and then miserably to me: "If it's light enough after dinner I want to take you down to the stables." The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at every one and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn't guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking but I doubt if even Miss Baker who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy skepticism was able utterly to put this fifth guest's shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police. The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee. Daisy took her face in her hands, as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl. "We don't know each other very well, Nick," she said suddenly. "Even if we are cousins. You didn't come to my wedding." "I wasn't back from the war." "That's true." She hesitated. "Well, I've had a very bad time, Nick, and I'm pretty cynical about everything." Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn't say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter. "I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything." "Oh, yes." She looked at me absently. "Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?" "Very much." "It'll show you how I've gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. 'All right,' I said, 'I'm glad it's a girl. And I hope she'll be a fool—that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool." "You see I think everything's terrible anyhow," she went on in a convinced way. "Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I know. I've been everywhere and seen everything and done everything." Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom's, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. "Sophisticated—God, I'm sophisticated!" The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged. Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the "Saturday Evening Post"—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamp-light, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms. When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand. "To be continued," she said, tossing the magazine on the table,

"in our very next issue." Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she stood up. "Ten o'clock," she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. "Time for this good girl to go to bed." "Jordan's going to play in the tournament tomorrow," explained Daisy, "over at Westchester." "Oh,—you're Jordan Baker." I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago. "Good night," she said softly. "Wake me at eight, won't you." "If you'll get up." "I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon." "Of course you will," confirmed Daisy. "In fact I think I'll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I'll sort of—oh—fling you together. You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing—" "Good night," called Miss Baker from the stairs. "I haven't heard a word." "She's a nice girl," said Tom after a moment. "They oughtn't to let her run around the country this way." "Who oughtn't to?" inquired Daisy coldly. "Her family." "Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick's going to look after her, aren't you, Nick? She's going to spend lots of week-ends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her." Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence. "Is she from New York?" I asked quickly. "From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white—" "Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?" demanded Tom suddenly. "Did I?" She looked at me. "I can't seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I'm sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know—" "Don't believe everything you hear, Nick," he advised me. I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called "Wait! "I forgot to ask you something, and it's important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West." "That's right," corroborated Tom kindly. "We heard that you were engaged." "It's libel. I'm too poor." "But we heard it," insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. "We heard it from three people so it must be true." Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn't even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come east. You can't stop going with an old friend on account of rumors and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumored into marriage. Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms—but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he "had some woman in New York" was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart. Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red gas-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud bright night with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight and turning my head to watch it I saw that I was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbor's mansion and was standing with his hands in

his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens. I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I didn't call to him for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and far as I was from him I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness. Chapter 2 Summary: Just chapter 2 of the Great Gatsby Notes: (See the end of the chapter for notes.) Chapter Text About half way between West Egg and New York the motor-road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud which screens their obscure operations from your sight. But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to fatten his practice in the borough of Queens, and then sank down himself into eternal blindness or forgot them and moved away. But his eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days under sun and rain, brood on over the solemn dumping ground. The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small foul river, and when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on waiting trains can stare at the dismal scene for as long as half an hour. There is always a halt there of at least a minute and it was because of this that I first met Tom Buchanan's mistress. The fact that he had one was insisted upon wherever he was known. His acquaintances resented the fact that he turned up in popular restaurants with her and, leaving her at a table, sauntered about, chatting with whomsoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her I had no desire to meet her—but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one afternoon and when we stopped by the ashheaps he jumped to his feet and taking hold of my elbow literally forced me from the car. "We're getting off!" he insisted. "I want you to meet my girl." I think he'd tanked up a good deal at luncheon and his determination to have my company bordered on violence. The supercilious assumption was that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do. I followed him over a low white-washed railroad fence and we walked back a hundred yards along the road under Doctor Eckleburg's persistent stare. The only building in sight was a small block of yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land, a sort of compact Main Street ministering to it and contiguous to absolutely nothing. One of the three shops it contained was for rent and another was an all-night restaurant approached by a trail of ashes; the third was a garage—Repairs. GEORGE B. WILSON. Cars Bought and Sold—and I followed Tom inside. The interior was unprosperous and bare; the only car visible was the dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched in a dim corner. It had occurred

to me that this shadow of a garage must be a blind and that sumptuous and romantic apartments were concealed overhead when the proprietor himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands on a piece of waste. He was a blonde, spiritless man, anaemic, and faintly handsome. When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his light blue eyes. "Hello, Wilson, old man," said Tom, slapping him jovially on the shoulder. "How's business?" "I can't complain," answered Wilson unconvincingly. "When are you going to sell me that car?" "Next week; I've got my man working on it now." "Works pretty slow, don't he?" "No, he doesn't," said Tom coldly. "And if you feel that way about it, maybe I'd better sell it somewhere else after all." "I don't mean that," explained Wilson quickly. "I just meant—" His voice faded off and Tom glanced impatiently around the garage. Then I heard footsteps on a stairs and in a moment the thickish figure of a woman blocked out the light from the office door. She was in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her surplus flesh sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crepe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering. She smiled slowly and walking through her husband as if he were a ghost shook hands with Tom, looking him flush in the eye. Then she wet her lips and without turning around spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice: "Get some chairs, why don't you, so somebody can sit down." "Oh, sure," agreed Wilson hurriedly and went toward the little office, mingling immediately with the cement color of the walls. A white ashen dust veiled his dark suit and his pale hair as it veiled everything in the vicinity—except his wife, who moved close to Tom. "I want to see you," said Tom intently. "Get on the next train." "All right." "I'll meet you by the news-stand on the lower level." She nodded and moved away from him just as George Wilson emerged with two chairs from his office door. We waited for her down the road and out of sight. It was a few days before the Fourth of July, and a grey, scrawny Italian child was setting torpedoes in a row along the railroad track. "Terrible place, isn't it," said Tom, exchanging a frown with Doctor Eckleburg. "Awful." "It does her good to get away." "Doesn't her husband object?" "Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He's so dumb he doesn't know he's alive." So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York—or not quite together, for Mrs. Wilson sat discreetly in another car. Tom deferred that much to the sensibilities of those East Eggers who might be on the train. She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin which stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in New York. At the news-stand she bought a copy of "Town Tattle" and a moving-picture magazine and, in the station drug store, some cold cream and a small flask of perfume. Upstairs, in the solemn echoing drive she let four taxi cabs drive away before she selected a new one, lavender-colored with grey upholstery, and in this we slid out from the mass of the station into the glowing sunshine. But immediately she turned sharply from the window and leaning forward tapped on the front glass. "I want to get one of those dogs," she said earnestly. "I want to get one for the apartment. They're nice to have—a dog." We backed up to a grey old man who bore an absurd resemblance to John D. Rockefeller. In a basket, swung from his neck, cowered a dozen very recent puppies of an indeterminate breed. "What kind are they?" asked Mrs. Wilson eagerly as he came to the taxi-window. "All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?" "I'd like to get one of those police dogs; I don't suppose you got that kind?" The man peered doubtfully into the basket, plunged in his hand and drew one up, wriggling, by the back of the neck. "That's no police dog," said Tom. "No, it's not exactly a police dog,"

" said the man with disappointment in his voice. "It's more of an airedale." He passed his hand over the brown wash-rag of a back. "Look at that coat. Some coat. That's a dog that'll never bother you with catching cold." "I think it's cute," said Mrs. Wilson enthusiastically. "How much is it?" "That dog?" He looked at it admiringly. "That dog will cost you ten dollars." The airedale—undoubtedly there was an airedale concerned in it somewhere though its feet were startlingly white—changed hands and settled down into Mrs. Wilson's lap, where she fondled the weather-proof coat with rapture. "Is it a boy or a girl?" she asked delicately. "That dog? That dog's a boy." "It's a bitch," said Tom decisively. "Here's your money. Go and buy ten more dogs with it." We drove over to Fifth Avenue, so warm and soft, almost pastoral, on the summer Sunday afternoon that I wouldn't have been surprised to see a great flock of white sheep turn the corner. "Hold on," I said, "I have to leave you here." "No, you don't," interposed Tom quickly. "Myrtle'll be hurt if you don't come up to the apartment. Won't you, Myrtle?" "Come on," she urged. "I'll telephone my sister Catherine. She's said to be very beautiful by people who ought to know." "Well, I'd like to, but—" We went on, cutting back again over the Park toward the West Hundreds. At 158th Street the cab stopped at one slice in a long white cake of apartment houses. Throwing a regal homecoming glance around the neighborhood, Mrs. Wilson gathered up her dog and her other purchases and went haughtily in. "I'm going to have the McKees come up," she announced as we rose in the elevator. "And of course I got to call up my sister, too." The apartment was on the top floor—a small living room, a small dining room, a small bedroom and a bath. The living room was crowded to the doors with a set of tapestried furniture entirely too large for it so that to move about was to stumble continually over scenes of ladies swinging in the gardens of Versailles. The only picture was an over-enlarged photograph, apparently a hen sitting on a blurred rock. Looked at from a distance however the hen resolved itself into a bonnet and the countenance of a stout old lady beamed down into the room. Several old copies of "Town Tattle" lay on the table together with a copy of "Simon Called Peter" and some of the small scandal magazines of Broadway. Mrs. Wilson was first concerned with the dog. A reluctant elevator boy went for a box full of straw and some milk to which he added on his own initiative a tin of large hard dog biscuits—one of which decomposed apathetically in the saucer of milk all afternoon. Meanwhile Tom brought out a bottle of whiskey from a locked bureau door. I have been drunk just twice in my life and the second time was that afternoon so everything that happened has a dim hazy cast over it although until after eight o'clock the apartment was full of cheerful sun. Sitting on Tom's lap Mrs. Wilson called up several people on the telephone; then there were no cigarettes and I went out to buy some at the drug store on the corner. When I came back they had disappeared so I sat down discreetly in the living room and read a chapter of "Simon Called Peter"—either it was terrible stuff or the whiskey distorted things because it didn't make any sense to me. Just as Tom and Myrtle—after the first drink Mrs. Wilson and I called each other by our first names—reappeared, company commenced to arrive at the apartment door. The sister, Catherine, was a slender, worldly girl of about thirty with a solid sticky bob of red hair and a complexion powdered milky white. Her eyebrows had been plucked and then drawn on again at a more rakish angle but the efforts of nature toward the restoration of the old alignment gave a blurred air to her face. When she moved about there was an incessant clicking as innumerable pottery bracelets jingled up and down upon her arms. She came in with such a proprietary haste and looked around so possessively at the furniture that I wondered if she lived here. But when I asked her she laughed i

Feel free to delete the first one. I would do anything for you if post this. The Great Gatsby in all it’s glory

im aware i was probably supposed to read the whole thing to find out if you changed anything and tnhen find out you hadnt and id wasted an hour of my life but i am way too lazy to do that

#ask #im not gonna post the other one merely because of how bad i feel for my followers #long post

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quixotic-writer · 3 years

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The Impractical Gattosby: Chapter 1

~Oh???? My god???? This was fucking INCREDIBLE!!!! Thank you for this spectacular submission! I’m truly blown away! Please please PLEASE post this on AO3 or Wattpad because I want you properly credited with this work and I want so many others to read this!

In Murr’s younger and more vulnerable years his father gave him some advice that he’s been turning over in his mind ever since.

“James, whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told him, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”

He didn’t say any more but they’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and he understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence he is inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to Murr and also made him the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that at college, Murr was unjustly accused of being a ferret, because he was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently he has feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when Murr realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon—for the intimate revelations of young men or at least the terms in which they express them are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. He is still a little afraid of missing something if he forgot that, as his father snobbishly suggested, and Murr would snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

And, after boasting this way of his tolerance, Murr came to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes but after a certain point he didn’t care what it’s founded on. When he came back from Staten Island last autumn he felt that he wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; he wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gattosby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from Murr’s reaction—Joe Gattosby who represented everything for which Murr has an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “comedic genius"—it was an extraordinary gift for confidence, a type of shamelessness such as Murr has never found in any other person and which it is not likely he should ever find again. No—Gattosby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gattosby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out his interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.

Murr’s family were prominent, well-to-do people in the northeast for three generations. The Murrays are something of a clan and they have a tradition that they’ve descended from Italian and Irish nobility, but the actual founder of his line was his grandfather’s brother who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War and started the wholesale business that Murr’s father carries on today.

He never saw this great-uncle but he’s supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in Father’s office, sporting a shiny bald head. Murr graduated from Georgetown University in 1915, and after he decided to go to New York and learn the motion picture industry. Everybody he knew was in the motion picture industry so he supposed it could support one more single man. All his aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep-school for him and finally said, “Why—ye-es” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance him for a year, using the funds that would have otherwise gone towards purchasing for him an automobile, and after various delays he went to New York, permanently, he thought, in the spring of twenty-two.

The practical thing was to find rooms in the city but it was a warm season and he had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that they take an apartment together in a commuting town it sounded like a great idea. He found the place, a weather beaten cardboard apartment at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Los Angeles and he went out to the country alone. Murr had a dog, Penny, at least he had her for a few days until she ran away, and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman who made his bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.

It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than Murr, stopped him on the road.

“How do you get to Staten Island?” he asked helplessly.

Murr told him. And as he walked on he was lonely no longer. Murr was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on him the freedom of the neighborhood.

And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees—just as things grow in fast movies—he had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. Murr bought a dozen volumes on motion pictures and cameras and they stood on his shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton and Rudolph Valentino knew. And he had the high intention of reading many other books besides. He was rather literary in college—not only was he an English major, but one year Murr wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the “Georgetown News"—and now he was going to bring back all such things into his life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the "well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

It was a matter of chance that he rented an apartment in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous boroughs, identical in contour and separated only by water, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western Hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Upper New York Bay.

Murr lived at Staten Island, the—well, the less fashionable of the two boroughs, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. His apartment was at the very tip of the island, only fifty yards from the Bay, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on his right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gattosby’s mansion. Or rather, as he didn’t know Mr. Joe Gattosby it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. His own apartment was an eye-sore, but it was a small eye-sore, and it had been overlooked, so he had a view of the water, a partial view of his neighbor’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.

Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable Brooklyn glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening he took the Staten Island Ferry there to have dinner with the Vulcano-Quinns. Sal Vulcano was his former brother-in-law from when Murr had married Sal’s sister for three days, and he’d known Brian “Q” Quinn in his Monsignor Farrell High School days.

Sal’s husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever worked for the Fire Department of New York—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family was enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d come to Brooklyn in a fashion that rather took one’s breath away: for instance he’d bought three cats named Benjamin, Brooklyn, and Chessie. It was hard to realize that a man in Murr’s own generation was wealthy enough to do that.

Why they came to New York, Murr doesn’t know. They had spent a year in France, for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Sal over the telephone, but Murr didn’t believe it—he had no sight into Sal’s heart but he felt that Q would drift on forever seeking a little wistfully for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable fire to fight.

And so it happened that on a warm windy evening he rode the Staten Island Ferry over to Brooklyn to see two old friends whom he scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than Murr had expected, a cheerful red and white Georgian Colonial mansion overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold, and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Brian Quinn was at the front porch.

He had changed since his Monsignor Farrell High years. Now he was a sturdy, dark-haired man of thirty with a rather magnificent beard and a supercilious manner. Two shining, arrogant hazel eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his newsboy cap and silk American-flag print scarf could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body.

His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were guys at high school who had hated his guts.

“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” They were in the same Improv Club, and while they were never intimate Murr always had the impression that Q approved of him and wanted him to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.

They talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.

“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.

Turning me around by one arm he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep pungent roses and a snub-nosed motor boat that bumped the tide off shore.

“It belonged to Mrs. Calabash, my neighbor.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”

They walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding cake of the ceiling—and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.

The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two men were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white and their clothes were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. Murr must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Q shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room and the curtains and the rugs and the two men ballooned slowly to the floor.

The younger of the two was a stranger to me. He was extended full length at his end of the divan, completely motionless and with his chin raised a little as if he were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If he saw me out of the corner of his eyes he gave no hint of it—indeed, Murr was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed him by coming in.

The other man, Sal, made an attempt to rise—he leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then he laughed, a loud boisterous laugh that soon had him falling to the floor, and he laughed too and came forward into the room.

“Oh my gawd, I’m p-paralyzed with happiness.”

He got up to only laugh and almost fell to the floor once again, as if he said something very witty, and held his hand for a moment, looking up into Murr’s face, promising that there was no one in the world he so much wanted to see. That was a way he had. Sal hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing man was Jost. (Murr has heard it said that Sal’s murmur was only to make people lean toward him; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)

At any rate Casey Jost’s lips fluttered, he nodded at Murr almost imperceptibly and then quickly tipped his head back again—the object he was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given him something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to Murr’s lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from him.

Murr looked back at his former brother-in-law who began to ask him questions in his low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. His face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright green eyes and a bright passionate mouth—but there was an excitement in his voice that men who had cared for him found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that he had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.

#submission #suki speaks #and also the submission name was F. Thot Fitzgerald which SENT ME INTO ORBIT I LOVED EVERY BIT OF THIS #anon

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sciencespies · 3 years

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To Boost Black Men in Medicine, Advocates Turn to Sports

https://sciencespies.com/nature/to-boost-black-men-in-medicine-advocates-turn-to-sports/

To Boost Black Men in Medicine, Advocates Turn to Sports

Emily Laber-Warren, Undark

Aaron Bolds didn’t consider becoming a physician until he tore a ligament in his knee while playing in a basketball tournament when he was 15. His orthopedic surgeon was Black, and they hit it off. “He was asking me how my grades were, and I told him, ‘I’m a straight-A student,’ and he was, like, ‘Man, this is a great fallback plan if basketball doesn’t work out,’” recalls Bolds, who is African American.

“He looked like me,” Bolds says, “and that was even more encouraging.”

If not for that chance encounter, Bolds, 34, a doctor at Mount Sinai Health System in New York, might never have gone into medicine, he says. When he was growing up, there were no physicians in his family or extended social network to model that career path. And at the schools he attended, he says, his aptitude for science didn’t trigger the kind of guidance young people often receive in more privileged contexts.

What Bolds did get attention for was his athletic ability. He got a full basketball scholarship to Lenoir-Rhyne University in North Carolina, where his team won a conference championship. But when he transferred to Bowie State University in Maryland, where he also played basketball, an academic adviser discouraged his pre-med ambitions, Bolds recalls, saying his grades were low and he lacked research experience.

Bolds is not alone in finding in athletics a fraught lever of educational opportunity. Whereas Black players comprise more than half the football and basketball teams at the 65 universities in the top five athletic conferences, and bring in millions of dollars for their schools year after year, the graduation rates for Black male college athletes are significantly lower — 55 percent as compared to 69 percent for college athletes overall — according to a 2018 report from the USC Race and Equity Center. Many Black college athletes end up without either a professional sports contract or a clear career path.

Now some educators and advocates are looking to reverse this trend by connecting sports, an area in which African American men are overrepresented, and medicine, where the opposite is true. As of 2018, 13 percent of the U.S. population, but just 5 percent of doctors — according to the Association of American Medical Colleges — identified as Black or African American. (The AAMC data notes that an additional 1 percent of doctors identified as multiracial.) Decades of efforts to increase diversity at medical schools have made progress with other demographics, including Black women — but barely any with Black men. “No other demographic group is broken down with such a large split between men and women,” says Jo Wiederhorn, president and CEO of the Associated Medical Schools of New York. “And none of them have stayed stagnant, like that group has.”

According to data the AAMC provided to Undark, the proportion of Black men enrolling in medical school hasn’t changed much since 1978 — with only some headway being made in the past few years.

The absence of Black male medical professionals ripples across the health system, experts say, contributing to widespread health disparities. African Americans tend to be diagnosed later than White people with everything from cancer to kidney disease, leading to more advanced disease and earlier deaths. Meanwhile, a recent study suggests that Black men who see Black male doctors may be more likely to follow medical advice. Other research also suggests that racially concordant care, in which patients and doctors have a shared identity, is associated with better communication and a greater likelihood to use health services.

“We are in a crisis point, nationally,” says Reginald Miller, the dean for research operations and infrastructure at Icahn School of Medicine at Mount Sinai. “I don’t think it’s a stretch to suggest that the health of communities of color are directly proportional to the number of practitioners available to see,” he says. “It’s just that straightforward.”

Last year, the National Medical Association, a professional organization representing African American physicians, embarked with the AAMC on a joint effort to address the structural barriers to advancement for Black men. “We need to look at this with a unique lens,” says Norma Poll-Hunter, senior director of workforce diversity at the AAMC.

There is no single solution to such an entrenched and multifaceted problem, Poll-Hunter says. According to her, some medical schools have adopted a holistic admissions process that evaluates many personal factors rather than relying on standardized test scores, which can exclude promising Black candidates. In addition, she says, students of color need better access to high-quality K-12 science education, particularly in under-resourced public schools. “There are a lot of barriers that exist early on,” she notes, “and that then creates this narrowing of the pathway to medicine.”

But the novel strategy of wooing athletes is slowly gaining traction. Advocates point out that high-performing athletes possess many of the skills and attributes that doctors, psychologists, physical therapists, and other medical professionals need — things like focus, a commitment to excellence, time management, and problem-solving skills, as well as the ability to take constructive criticism and perform under pressure.

“When you say, ‘What’s your ideal medical student?’ it’s not just a kid who’s academically gifted. It’s a kid who’s got resilience, attention to detail, knows how to work on the team,” Miller says. “Because science and medicine are team sports.” And by virtue of being athletes, these young men are already attuned to nutrition, fitness, and other aspects of human biology.

Two former NFL players, Nate Hughes and Myron Rolle, recently became physicians. And there is evidence that competitive sports experience contributes to medical success. A 2012 study of doctors training to become ear, nose, and throat specialists at Washington University, for example, found that having excelled in a team sport was more predictive of how faculty rated their quality as a clinician than strong letters of recommendation or having attended a highly-ranked medical school. Likewise, a 2011 study found that having an elite skill, such as high-achieving athletics, was more predictive of completing a general surgery residency than medical school grades.

Advocates of the athletics-to-medicine pipeline point out its practicality. Thousands of Black men are already in college, or headed there, on athletic scholarships. It would only take a small percentage of them choosing medical careers to boost the percentage of Black male doctors to better reflect the proportion of African American men in the general population, they say.

No one thinks it will be easy. One obstacle, advocates say, is a lack of role models. Black sports celebrities are household names, but some young athletes may never encounter a Black medical professional. “People don’t believe they can become what they don’t see,” says Mark R. Brown, the athletic director at Pace University.

And for the best chance of success, many say, these young men need to form and pursue medical aspirations as young as possible, along with their athletic training. “Those kids who are able to do both, the rewards at the end are enormous,” Miller says. But the adults in their lives may not believe the dual path is possible. “The second that a kid says to a science teacher or someone else that he’s an athlete,” Miller says, “they go into a different category. ‘They’re not really serious about science and medicine, they’re just here, and so I don’t expect this kid to really achieve.’”

Rigid course and practice schedules also make it challenging for busy athletes to undertake demanding and time-intensive science majors, observers say. What’s needed is “a cultural change, and not just a cultural change with the athletes. It’s a cultural change with the whole structure,” Miller says. “Everybody’s excited about the idea” of the physician athlete, he adds, “because it makes sense. But when the rubber hits the road, it is challenging.”

Donovan Roy, the assistant dean for diversity and inclusiveness at the Western Michigan University Homer Stryker M.D. School of Medicine, was one of the first people to envision the potential of directing Black athletes toward medical careers.

Roy, 48, who is Black and a former college football player, grew up in the working class, primarily Black and Latino community of Inglewood, California. Attending an elite private high school on a football scholarship was eye-opening. He vividly remembers the first time he ever saw a walk-in pantry, at a friend’s home. “It was stocked like a convenience store,” he recalls. “Five different types of Hostess, Ding-Dongs, sodas, every type of snack that you ever wanted.” Equally startling was speaking with another friend’s mother, who was a lawyer. “I’d never seen a road map to success in my community,” he says.

Roy’s athletic talent continued to open doors — at 18 he got a scholarship to the University of Southern California — but poorly prepared by the under-resourced public schools he had attended through ninth grade, he struggled academically, and left both USC and later another university that he also attended on an athletic scholarship.

Eventually Roy found his footing, and when he did, he became a learning specialist. After working through his own academic struggles, he wanted to help others with theirs. Roy took a job as a learning skills counselor at UCLA’s medical school. There he helped the students who were struggling with classes like anatomy and genetics. In early 2015, he returned to USC as the director of academic support services at Keck School of Medicine.

Something Roy noticed at both these medical schools stuck with him, though it would take a few years for the observation to crystallize. A certain kind of student sought help despite, by ordinary standards, not needing it. These were the athletes, and many of them were Black or Latino. “They always talked about, ‘How can I excel? How can I get better?’” he recalls. They “were getting 90s and they wanted to be 100.”

Roy began a doctoral program in education in 2015, the same year the AAMC published a damning report about the lack of Black men entering medical school. This was a crisis Roy understood both personally and professionally. For his dissertation, he decided to interview 16 Black male students at Keck School of Medicine. What was it about them, he wanted to understand, that had gotten them there against all odds?

The answer, he discovered, was what academics call social capital. For medical students from privileged backgrounds, social capital might take the form of a family friend who arranges a summer internship at a biotechnology lab, or a well-funded high school that offers advanced placement science classes. The young men Roy interviewed did not, for the most part, have access to those sorts of resources.

“Growing up, I didn’t see a Black male with a college degree until I got to college,” medical student Jai Kemp said in a separate interview Roy conducted for a documentary he’s making on the topic. The social capital these young men leveraged to get to medical school took the form of parental support, science enrichment programs and clubs, peer social networks, faculty mentors — and the perks that come with athletics. “For me it was just sports that got me through,” Kemp said.

The pieces started to fit together. Roy knew from his own experience all the benefits athletes get, not just entrée to educational institutions, but travel, enrichment, and academic advantages like tutoring and early class registration. Athletes also tend to possess social cachet on campus and, with more exposure to different types of people, may feel comfortable in environments that seem foreign and forbidding to other young people from disadvantaged backgrounds. Roy also recalled the drive for academic excellence he had observed in the athletes who came to his tutoring programs. “I got this epiphany,” he says. “Why don’t we look at student athletes in order to increase Black males’ representation in medicine, because they have the most social capital and the most network on predominantly White campuses.”

Donovan Roy at the Western Michigan University Homer Stryker M.D. School of Medicine, where he is now the assistant dean for diversity and inclusiveness. While working on his doctoral degree, Roy interviewed Black men in medical school and discovered one key to their success: social capital.

Mark Bugnaski

But when Roy began talking to his medical school colleagues about recruiting athletes, who according to a report from the Center for American Progress — a liberal think tank — make up 16 percent of Black male college students receiving athletic aid in the Big 12 athletic conference, he says most weren’t receptive to the idea. The same thing happened when he got up the nerve to make the suggestion publicly at a 2018 conference in Orlando, Florida. The idea ran against type. “I think people tend to lump athletes into this box,” he says. “They just think that athletes are big meatheads.”

Roy knew this truth viscerally, because with his offensive lineman’s build of 6-feet-6-inches and 300-plus pounds, he sticks out in academic settings. “People stare,” he says. “They do not expect me to be in the role that I am in.”

What Roy didn’t know was that the idea was percolating elsewhere, including at the National Collegiate Athletic Association. Brian Hainline, the NCAA’s chief medical officer, says he and Poll-Hunter of the AAMC are in talks with several universities about launching a pilot program to support African American athletes interested in medical careers.

Meanwhile, in 2018 Miller founded the organization Scholar-Athletes with Academic Goals (a.k.a. SWAG, a name he hopes will resonate with young people). The initiative connects promising athletes with a range of available programs to help them pursue and succeed in science and medicine. Recently, Miller worked closely with leadership at Pace University to create a program, expected to launch next year, to support Black college athletes interested in attending medical school. Pace officials want the initiative to become a magnet for out-of-state athletes and a model for other schools. “My hope is that two years from now, colleges and universities will call” and ask, “Wow, how did you do this?” says athletic director Brown. “Once we have some success, and proof of concept, then I think it can really grow.”

Bolds graduated medical school in 2018 and is now doing his residency at Mount Sinai. His focus is rehabilitation medicine, and he plans to tend to injured athletes and serve as a team physician. He got a business degree while in medical school, and his long-term goal is to open his own interventional spine and sports medicine practice specializing in preventing and rehabilitating injuries in both athletes and non-athletes, as well as helping serious players enhance their performance.

But there were tough moments along the way, such as the encounter with that academic adviser, which Bolds says only served to motivate him. At the time, he thought, “Wow, this person doesn’t believe in me. So let me make them a believer,” he recalls. “That was, moving forward, really a turning point for me, honestly. Because I knew that people aren’t going to believe in you unless you give them a reason to.”

Bolds began to apply an athletic mindset to his pre-med classes. “That same grind of having to get up, 5 a.m., get to the gym, get shots up before anybody gets there, to put in that extra time — I was doing that with my studies,” he says. “I would get to the library before anybody.” Once Bolds turned his grades around, professors began to notice and help him, he says. Still, he says, his score on the MCAT, an entrance exam required by nearly all U.S. medical schools, was borderline. Instead of giving up, he attended multiple events at Howard University’s medical school, where he met people who advocated for him. It was the only medical school he got into.

Whereas Bolds had to bushwhack, he saw other Black students fall off the medical path — and his fellow Black teammates avoided it entirely. Many athletes find themselves enmeshed in a profit-making system that may not prioritize their education. The NCAA has been criticized in recent years for its long-standing policy which prohibits profit-sharing with college athletes — a policy that was only recently reversed under interim guidelines. Others have said that Black labor has been especially exploited.

In his residency, Bolds is focusing on rehabilitation medicine, and is pictured here working at Mount Sinai’s sports medicine clinic.

Jeenah Moon for Undark

As of 2014 reports, fewer than 2 percent of athletes in the NCAA will go on to play professionally. But for self-serving reasons, critics say, (Clemson University’s football team, for example, made $77 million in average annual revenue from 2015 through 2017) universities often direct athletes to “academic paths of least resistance.” Many schools practice “major clustering,” in which players are steered to the same relatively undemanding major, such as communications, so they can devote themselves almost entirely to their sport. Major clustering is more pronounced among athletes of color, according to a 2009 study of football teams at 11 universities. At six of those schools, the study found, over three-quarters of the non-White football players were enrolled in just two academic majors, although dozens of majors were offered.

Sheron Mark, an associate professor of science education at the University of Louisville, co-authored a 2019 case study of two young Black men who arrived at college on basketball scholarships, with the intent to pursue respective careers in computer science and engineering. But both found it difficult to balance academics with athletics because of pressure and blandishments from coaches and faculty advisers.

“For so long, they’ve been sold this message that you don’t have many choices, that banking on a professional sports career is one of very few options for you if you want to advance your station in life,” says Mark of many Black athletes. It’s important to have a plan B, she says, since “the odds just aren’t in their favor.” But coaches can discourage academically demanding majors because they may cut into practice time, and college athletes are not always capable of pushing back, she says, because their financial packages are tied to fulfillment of their team responsibilities.

Many Black college athletes are already strong candidates for medical school, advocates say, but others may need extra academic support to compensate for deficits acquired at under-resourced K-12 schools. They may also need post-graduation training to take science classes they did not have time for while working long hours as athletes — with some working 20-plus hours a week. “How are they being mentored and guided and protected in planning for their futures?” Mark asks. “They are high achieving in sports, they want to be high achieving in academics. Why don’t we support them?” When people wonder whether student-athletes can cut it in science and medicine, Mark’s response is: “It’s on us. It’s on us to help them do so. That’s how we can grow their representation.”

That’s what Pace University intends to do. The school already nurtures academic success in its athletes, who collectively had a B+ average last school year, but premedical studies have never been a great fit, in part because afternoon practices can conflict with long lab classes, says athletic director Brown. As part of the school’s new initiative, Pace science departments have pledged to offer flexibility in course section offerings in order to accommodate football commitments. Athletes of color from any sport will be welcome, but football was prioritized because it is the largest and one of the most diverse teams and has the most complicated schedule, Brown says.

The school also plans to adjust its advising, tutoring, and library services to ensure that pre-med athletes won’t falter when they struggle with personal issues or tough classes like organic chemistry. “Rather than saying, ‘Oh, chemistry, nobody likes chemistry, you’re right, you should just drop that,’ instead now it’s going to be, ‘Yeah, you’ve got to buckle down. And here’s how we’re going to do it,’” says Hillary Knepper, the university’s associate provost for student success.

Meanwhile, Brown will be directing his coaches to actively recruit Black and Latino high school athletes who are interested in medicine. In the past, Brown says, his coaches were less likely to select such students because of anticipated scheduling challenges. But now Pace is trying to establish a partnership through which a nearby medical school would give preferred consideration to pre-med athletes who have completed the Pace curriculum. “With our new approach, you’re not only going to have the ability to do it,” he says, “but you’re going to have a support system, to make sure that you follow the path.”

Some advocates for the athlete-to-doctor paradigm see this work as part of the larger movement for social justice. “Look what Jackie Robinson did, right? Look at Muhammad Ali, look at Colin Kaepernick,” Roy says. “Athletics has always been the vehicle for social change.”

Medical professionals can influence public policy, accumulate wealth, and help empower others in their orbit. “The impacts ramp up really quickly, from just that individual benefiting,” Mark says, to “your family, your neighborhood, your social network, and society — people you won’t even meet, and across generations.”

Studies suggest that African American doctors are more likely to choose to work in underserved communities. They also may be more attuned to, and motivated to combat, the disparities in health care. A study published last year, for example, suggests that Black newborns are half as likely to die when they are cared for by a Black physician.

Bolds is keenly aware of the health disparities for Black communities, and he jumps at opportunities to mentor other young Black men, to show them that they, too, can become doctors. “It seems like there’s so many steps that just are never-ending,” he says. But, he adds, to see someone “that you can connect with that’s at that finish line or has already passed that finish line — I think that’s very key to their success.”

One of the people Bolds has connected with is Darius Ervin, a talented Black basketball player from Crown Heights, Brooklyn, who is now a sophomore at Cornell University. The two met when Ervin attended a virtual event late last year, sponsored by SWAG, at which Bolds spoke. Afterwards, the two chatted, and Bolds now checks in periodically with Ervin, who says he appreciates the encouragement. “Those are people that have once laced up shoes and got on the court and played just like how I did, and now they’re in the hospital helping people,” he says. “Being able to speak to those people gives me the visual, allows me to see that it’s an opportunity and it’s definitely possible for me to do.”

UPDATE: A previous version of this article referred imprecisely to the institutional affiliation of Donovan Roy. He is at the Western Michigan University Homer Stryker M.D. School of Medicine, not the Homer Stryker M.D. School of Medicine at Western Michigan University.

Emily Laber-Warren directs the health and science reporting program at the Craig Newmark Graduate School of Journalism at CUNY.

This article was originally published on Undark. Read the original article.

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