In Fair Manhattan - Act 1, Scene 3
Act 1, Scene 3
A street.
“My mind misgives
Some consequence yet hanging in the stars”
Chuck twirled his illicit invitation to the Waldorf-Rose masquerade ball between deft fingertips as he leaned impatiently against the wall of 1136 5th Ave. He was bored and tired of waiting for the rest of Nathaniel’s party to join them at the front doors.
His angular face was hidden well behind a literal devil’s mask, beneath which only the sharp line of his well-defined jaw that peaked beneath his ear and might easily give him away should anyone look very closely.
“Give me a light,” he demanded of his nearby step-brother. “I don’t feel like partying.”
Eric fished in his pockets for a Zippo lighter, but Nate held out an arm to stop him. “Come on, Chuck, you live for partying. Do you know how many girls in there are going to be practically giving it away? Pretty girls in pretty dresses?”
His closest friend and confidant grinned broadly from under his own Phantom of the Opera mask and though he could only see one of his eyes, Chuck felt sure he winked at him from underneath the lamppost. “Masks make them lose all their stuffy inhibitions.”
“I told you,” Chuck drawled, frustrated internally that his friend just could not comprehend what he meant-did he have to spell everything out, all the time? “I’m over those girls. I think I’ll wait until tourist season.”
At Eric and Nate’s loud guffaws, he narrowed his eyes and self-importantly adjusted his bowtie so it laid just-so crooked under his collar. “I don’t care how uninhibited they are. I’ve most likely slept with all of them anyway.”
“Not all of them,” Eric muttered under his laughter, but Chuck ignored him. His little step-brother underestimated the truth behind his reputation.
It was said by many in Manhattan that Chuck had a new willing and beautiful girl in his suite every week; this rumor was only half-true. Usually, it was one or more girls in his suite, all at once, every single night. And not just in his suite, but in his bed-willing, yes, and beautiful, of course. But it was more than enough sinful excitement, and he was so much the toast of every eligible bachelor on the Upper East Side that Chuck was utterly and completely over it.
He used to enjoy the parties and opium dens, obviously couldn’t complain about the hordes of girls who fell into his lap and hoped to be the one to tame his wild, wandering heart; he knew none of them ever could. They were all the same; unimaginatively attractive, all with the same body that moved the same way under his hands. He needed something different, constant newness and biting stimulation from a worthy opponent to keep him on his toes, and no one he had yet met even remotely came close to fitting that bill.
Chuck Bass was not looking for love, but he was looking for something. Something more.
“Man, be honest,” Nathaniel was saying, crossing his strong arms over his broad chest and frowning. “What’s up with you?”
“You mean well, Nathaniel,” Chuck drawled dispassionately, almost to himself, but loud enough for his companions to hear. “I thought it would be an adrenaline rush, breaking their rules and defying everyone’s expectations by coming here.” He shook his head and turned an annoyed gaze on the brilliantly lit windows at the top of the building.
“But then I thought, of course I’m not defying everyone’s expectations. What they expect me to do is gate-crash and wreak havoc on their ‘innocent’ little girls. They even expect me to come as the devil, because that’s what I am to them.”
Eric looked at him with raised eyebrows, and held out the Zippo lighter he had found in his breast pocket. “What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s boring,” Chuck griped, swiping the lighter and nimbly igniting the joint he’d tucked into his trousers.
The smoke crawled sumptuously slow up his nostrils, curled in the crevices of his eyes and burned overwhelmingly; allowed him to close his eyes and breathe in the full warm and heady delight of that dark summer night. “It’s everything I’ve done at some other party in some other building in this godforsaken city a hundred times before. There’s no challenge in it.”
“And what would be a challenge?” Nathaniel inquired, pushing himself away from the lamp and closer to his friend.
Chuck released a cloud of smoke and hummed lightly. “I had a dream last night.”
Nate pushed his mask away from his face and showed off his perfectly straight teeth. “So did I.”
A scowl grasped the edges of Chuck’s lips and yanked them down around his hand-rolled cigarette. “Well, what was your dream?”
“My dream told me,” Nate leaned in and plucked the joint from between Chuck’s lips to put it between his own. “That dreamers often lie.”
“In bed,” Chuck acquiesced with a prickly scoff, “while they dream about the truth.”
“Oh,” another slow waft of smoke joined the first above their heads and polluted their air, “then I see you’ve slept with Queen Mab.”
Chuck blinked, wondering if perhaps had scored some particularly strong weed and they were already very stoned. He couldn’t recall ever bedding a Queen, especially one named something so unattractive as ‘Mab’, and realized the full depth of his dilemma-he had become the man his father had been in the years immediately following Misty Bass’s untimely death. It had somehow not been clear to him, before that very moment amidst the pungent odor of marijuana and with his best friend’s face swimming out of focus in front of him.
“...Who?”
Nate laughed and crushed the perfectly good joint under his heel.
“Never mind. Come on, the others aren't coming and we’re too late for dinner.”
The three men banded together and slunk through the glass doors of 1136 5th Ave., which stood imposingly above them in stonework and old world brick, like a castle tower transplanted piece-by-piece from some ancestral manor in a mythical countryside. Chuck and Eric held up their invitations as proof they belonged inside its gates alongside the readily accepted Nathaniel Archibald-white prince to Serena’s golden princess, the valiant son and celebrated knight of the old aristocrats who dominated the northern mansions of the Upper East Side.
He bound old and new together seamlessly, was a relief to those who wanted to believe in righteous good.
Chuck, in his dark red suit, looked at their neighboring reflections in the elevator doors, and grimaced.
“We’re getting there too early,” he whispered to their mirror images, disagreeing belatedly with his closest friend as a feeling of discomfort bubbled in the back of his throat where long dregs of single-malt whiskey would usually have been dripping a fiery pathway to his stomach by then.
Instead, he was mostly sober and facing the fact that perhaps attending this masquerade ball was a very bad idea; whatever he was looking for, whatever something more was, he would find it in the tower's penthouse apartment, and his life would never be the same.
Nate twisted his personal key in the penthouse lock and their ascent began.
“But He, that hath the steerage of my course,
Direct my sail! On, lusty gentlemen.”
A street.
“My mind misgives
Some consequence yet hanging in the stars”
Chuck twirled his illicit invitation to the Waldorf-Rose masquerade ball between deft fingertips as he leaned impatiently against the wall of 1136 5th Ave. He was bored and tired of waiting for the rest of Nathaniel’s party to join them at the front doors.
His angular face was hidden well behind a literal devil’s mask, beneath which only the sharp line of his well-defined jaw that peaked beneath his ear and might easily give him away should anyone look very closely.
“Give me a light,” he demanded of his nearby step-brother. “I don’t feel like partying.”
Eric fished in his pockets for a Zippo lighter, but Nate held out an arm to stop him. “Come on, Chuck, you live for partying. Do you know how many girls in there are going to be practically giving it away? Pretty girls in pretty dresses?”
His closest friend and confidant grinned broadly from under his own Phantom of the Opera mask and though he could only see one of his eyes, Chuck felt sure he winked at him from underneath the lamppost. “Masks make them lose all their stuffy inhibitions.”
“I told you,” Chuck drawled, frustrated internally that his friend just could not comprehend what he meant-did he have to spell everything out, all the time? “I’m over those girls. I think I’ll wait until tourist season.”
At Eric and Nate’s loud guffaws, he narrowed his eyes and self-importantly adjusted his bowtie so it laid just-so crooked under his collar. “I don’t care how uninhibited they are. I’ve most likely slept with all of them anyway.”
“Not all of them,” Eric muttered under his laughter, but Chuck ignored him. His little step-brother underestimated the truth behind his reputation.
It was said by many in Manhattan that Chuck had a new willing and beautiful girl in his suite every week; this rumor was only half-true. Usually, it was one or more girls in his suite, all at once, every single night. And not just in his suite, but in his bed-willing, yes, and beautiful, of course. But it was more than enough sinful excitement, and he was so much the toast of every eligible bachelor on the Upper East Side that Chuck was utterly and completely over it.
He used to enjoy the parties and opium dens, obviously couldn’t complain about the hordes of girls who fell into his lap and hoped to be the one to tame his wild, wandering heart; he knew none of them ever could. They were all the same; unimaginatively attractive, all with the same body that moved the same way under his hands. He needed something different, constant newness and biting stimulation from a worthy opponent to keep him on his toes, and no one he had yet met even remotely came close to fitting that bill.
Chuck Bass was not looking for love, but he was looking for something. Something more.
“Man, be honest,” Nathaniel was saying, crossing his strong arms over his broad chest and frowning. “What’s up with you?”
“You mean well, Nathaniel,” Chuck drawled dispassionately, almost to himself, but loud enough for his companions to hear. “I thought it would be an adrenaline rush, breaking their rules and defying everyone’s expectations by coming here.” He shook his head and turned an annoyed gaze on the brilliantly lit windows at the top of the building.
“But then I thought, of course I’m not defying everyone’s expectations. What they expect me to do is gate-crash and wreak havoc on their ‘innocent’ little girls. They even expect me to come as the devil, because that’s what I am to them.”
Eric looked at him with raised eyebrows, and held out the Zippo lighter he had found in his breast pocket. “What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s boring,” Chuck griped, swiping the lighter and nimbly igniting the joint he’d tucked into his trousers.
The smoke crawled sumptuously slow up his nostrils, curled in the crevices of his eyes and burned overwhelmingly; allowed him to close his eyes and breathe in the full warm and heady delight of that dark summer night. “It’s everything I’ve done at some other party in some other building in this godforsaken city a hundred times before. There’s no challenge in it.”
“And what would be a challenge?” Nathaniel inquired, pushing himself away from the lamp and closer to his friend.
Chuck released a cloud of smoke and hummed lightly. “I had a dream last night.”
Nate pushed his mask away from his face and showed off his perfectly straight teeth. “So did I.”
A scowl grasped the edges of Chuck’s lips and yanked them down around his hand-rolled cigarette. “Well, what was your dream?”
“My dream told me,” Nate leaned in and plucked the joint from between Chuck’s lips to put it between his own. “That dreamers often lie.”
“In bed,” Chuck acquiesced with a prickly scoff, “while they dream about the truth.”
“Oh,” another slow waft of smoke joined the first above their heads and polluted their air, “then I see you’ve slept with Queen Mab.”
Chuck blinked, wondering if perhaps had scored some particularly strong weed and they were already very stoned. He couldn’t recall ever bedding a Queen, especially one named something so unattractive as ‘Mab’, and realized the full depth of his dilemma-he had become the man his father had been in the years immediately following Misty Bass’s untimely death. It had somehow not been clear to him, before that very moment amidst the pungent odor of marijuana and with his best friend’s face swimming out of focus in front of him.
“...Who?”
Nate laughed and crushed the perfectly good joint under his heel.
“Never mind. Come on, the others aren't coming and we’re too late for dinner.”
The three men banded together and slunk through the glass doors of 1136 5th Ave., which stood imposingly above them in stonework and old world brick, like a castle tower transplanted piece-by-piece from some ancestral manor in a mythical countryside. Chuck and Eric held up their invitations as proof they belonged inside its gates alongside the readily accepted Nathaniel Archibald-white prince to Serena’s golden princess, the valiant son and celebrated knight of the old aristocrats who dominated the northern mansions of the Upper East Side.
He bound old and new together seamlessly, was a relief to those who wanted to believe in righteous good.
Chuck, in his dark red suit, looked at their neighboring reflections in the elevator doors, and grimaced.
“We’re getting there too early,” he whispered to their mirror images, disagreeing belatedly with his closest friend as a feeling of discomfort bubbled in the back of his throat where long dregs of single-malt whiskey would usually have been dripping a fiery pathway to his stomach by then.
Instead, he was mostly sober and facing the fact that perhaps attending this masquerade ball was a very bad idea; whatever he was looking for, whatever something more was, he would find it in the tower's penthouse apartment, and his life would never be the same.
Nate twisted his personal key in the penthouse lock and their ascent began.
“But He, that hath the steerage of my course,
Direct my sail! On, lusty gentlemen.”