“Mrs. Wilson’s Affair” details life, motivations of Fitzgerald character ...Middle East

The eyes of Dr. T. J. Eckleburg, blue and gigantic behind yellow glasses, were always watching her. Sure, the paint on the billboard had worn thin in places, but not around the eyes. So full of compassion, as if eternally watching a hopeful, rosy little baby lurching its first steps.

Flat but focused, those eyes cut through the gray, powdery air and rumbling sounds that haunted the minds of those unfortunate enough to live beneath them. The eyes never moved, never blinked, just towered over the trains and tracks, looking at her.

Myrtle Wilson often looked back. There wasn’t much else for her to look at or do anyway. The hissing gas pumps, grease-stained garage floor, and dusty road wouldn’t hold many people’s interest, least of all hers.

UNDERWRITTEN BY

Each week, The Colorado Sun and Colorado Humanities & Center For The Book feature an excerpt from a Colorado book and an interview with the author. Explore the SunLit archives at coloradosun.com/sunlit.

The trio of yellow brick shops was her home, and the railroad tracks her means of avoidance and wishful desertion. She wasn’t one to desert, though, which is why she was there that day in the Valley of the Ashes, staring into the eyes of Dr. T. J. Eckleburg, an optometrist in Queens who’d decided that this was the place to advertise his services.

She could see them clearly from her bedroom, which was on the second floor of one of those yellow brick buildings, hovering over her husband George’s garage. They’d been up there for a few years now—the eyes; Myrtle had been suspended for much longer. So long that she couldn’t remember what had been there before. Perhaps an advertisement for a drugstore or hotel. But now it was Eckleburg who blended in so casually that he may as well have been one of the passing locomotive’s heavy, smoky billows.

She heard George’s pounding of metal on metal ascend over the tick-tick-tick of a slowing train. George. So content to give all of his attention to other people’s things, she thought. Fixing, mending, and adjusting what already existed. Never creating. Endlessly reliant upon the brokenness of other people’s stuff.

“Mrs. Wilson’s Affair”

>> READ AN INTERVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR

Where to find it:

SunLit present new excerpts from some of the best Colorado authors that not only spin engaging narratives but also illuminate who we are as a community. Read more.

Myrtle fixed herself in the mirror. That was her train that had just pulled in. She’d ride it into the city to see her younger sister, Catherine, but mainly to see something other than damaged cars and giant blue eyes on a billboard.

Downstairs, George was hidden by a wreck of a black Chevrolet Light Six. The garage doors were wide open to the April day, but the ashy air veiled the sun just enough to make it look like winter’s stubborn dimness remained.

A face looked out from under the hood, inky grease overwhelming milky skin. 

“Where you going?” he asked.

“To my sister’s,” Myrtle replied. “Don’t ask when I’ll be back. Maybe tomorrow. I don’t know.”

He looked back into the car’s clumps of metal. They made sense to him.

She passed the open bottle of whiskey, out in plain sight. Already, she thought. So pathetic. So weak. So vile. She couldn’t so much as get a glimpse of the man she’d married anymore—and she tried. All that ever greeted her was a spiritless drunk, withdrawn into . . . well, she didn’t know. And she’d long stopped caring enough to want to know. How can one care when feeling is gone?

The railroad tracks, road, and three yellow brick buildings ran parallel to each other, but unlike the tracks and road, there was no movement in the buildings. They’d housed the same occupants—George Wilson’s garage (formerly his father’s garage), Michaelis’s all-night restaurant, and a third perpetually vacant spot, empty for years. While the cars and trains propelled their occupants forward in smooth, continuous lines, the yellow-bricked trio kept everyone exactly as they had always been. 

Michaelis, a Greek who probably ate too much of his own food, sauntered out front when he saw Myrtle go by. He liked George and Myrtle very much, mainly because they were the type of neighbors who left him alone most of the time. He admired that they minded their own business and did not concern themselves with his. 

“Mrs. Wilson!” he called, in the way he always said it. Meesus Wheelson. “I have an idea. To attract the ladies. There are always the men—so many men over here. We need more ladies, no? And you are a lady—a fine lady—and I want you to listen to my idea. My idea to get the lady customers.”

“I’d be happy to listen to your idea, Michaelis, but I’m catching that train.”

“It will only take a second, Mrs. Wilson.” Meesus Wheelson. “My idea is this: tea and cigarettes. What do you think, as a fine lady yourself? The ladies, they like tea and cigarettes. I will sell them.”

“Sounds great,” she said. “Some women enjoy tea and cigarettes.”

“I can put out flowers and candles and other things the ladies like. Get them all into my restaurant.”

? Listen here!

Go deeper into this story in this episode of The Daily Sun-Up podcast.

Hence then, the article about mrs wilson s affair details life motivations of fitzgerald character was published today ( Sunday 02/11/2025 - 12:29 PM ) and is available on Colorado Sun ( Middle East ) The editorial team at PressBee has edited and verified it, and it may have been modified, fully republished, or quoted. You can read and follow the updates of this news or article from its original source.

Read More Details
Finally We wish PressBee provided you with enough information of ( “Mrs. Wilson’s Affair” details life, motivations of Fitzgerald character )

Also on site :

• Gold Star Distribution Inc., Issues Recall of Certain FDA-Regulated Products in Three States Including Drugs, Devices, Cosmetics, Human Foods, and Pet Foods
• ’Beverly Hills, 90210’s Jason Priestley Shares Bold Callout After ‘Worst’ Travel Experience
• Central African Republic election: Who’s running and what’s at stake?