So, I've only seen just the one episode of Gossip Girl, but was really intrigued by Chuck Bass. Especially when he was singing 'Spanish Ladies' because I felt like the only one who knew that song. So, here's a short story about him.
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He ordered a black coffee. He told them to keep the change. He sat and brooded. He, he, he. It was all about him, wasn't it?
Finding his cup had somehow emptied but feeling no more elated, he got up and threw it away. Everything feel unreal, but not in the amoeba way he had felt before. Now, it was as though he had been given a new body and ad to break it in.
Like the stiff, new pair of leather shoes he happened to be wearing. Before he had been like…shit, looked like it was going to rain.
The nearest bearable location was some dust-filled, independent record shop. He exhaled irritably and pushed open the door.
He looked around, tempted to ask if anyone was there. Of course he didn't because obviously someone had to be working there.
Flicking through dusty 78's, peeling, cracked covers, nothing really good, he thought about Blair. Then, he thought about nothing, went through the rediscovered motions, pulling out a record, taking it from its sleeve, putting it back.
And again, he sang softly to himself, "Farewell and ado to you Spanish ladies, farewell and ado to you ladies of Spain," when he was interrupted.
"Looking for anything?"
"Nothing you would have."
"I'm not hitting on you. I work here. Are you looking for a particular record?"
He waited a long time before he answered. "Like I said. Nothing you would have."
"Wow. You're an asshole."
"I know."
He turned and looked out the window. Damn, it was really bucketing down. He wandered to the 45's and sang again, to himself.
"For Captain's called orders, we're to sail for Old England. We hope in a short time to see you again. Now let every man toss off a full bumper. Now let every man toss off a full glass."
The clerk followed him, briefly. And then, "We'll drink and be jolly and kill melancholy. Saying here's to the health of each true hearted lass."
"You know that song?"
"Yeah."
"Weird. Don't sing with me."
She looked at him again. "Were you at the coffee shop down the street about, two hours ago?"
He looked at his watch and raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. Are you stalking me?"
"Technically, you'd be stalking me. I was there first and I left first."
"I don't need to stalk anyone."
"I'm sure women fall over themselves for you. Seriously."
He smiled that smug smile. "They do."
"I just wanted to know if I could get your name."
"Why?"
"I'm going to be honest with you. I'm an artist. I do a lot of sketches of the people I see. Strangers, mostly. But I have a show coming up, just of my art. I'm trying to include all the names of the people I've drawn, for the show."
He paused, an old ragtime 45 in his hand. He put it back. "Let me see the drawing. Then, I'll consider it."
She disappeared for a second and retrieved a large sketchbook. She flipped it open and turned the pages. He watched, looking at the mundane faces, the ugly, the gorgeous and model-esque, strangers, captured on paper. Finally, she stopped and turned it towards him.
It wasn't the way he saw himself. It was this focused, strangely pained creature. He looked older on paper. Less angry.
"You're pretty good."
"Thanks. I'm sure that's the best I can hope for, from you."
"I'm Chuck. Chuck Bass." And one person cares. He walked out and hailed a cab.