Big Papa is loose. You have been warned

Brennan Stebbins

Nathan Carter – or “Big Papa” as girls on The Chart staff call him – is a bigger ‘chick magnet’ than I am.

That revelation may come as a surprise to many, not because I have a reputation for lounging around The Chart office in a silk robe and sipping Courvoisier, but because Nathan is the kind of guy who references Charlie Manson in a pickup line. I’ve seen his work firsthand, though, and it’s impressive.

A few weeks ago Nathan and I went to a local drinking establishment downtown. I spent the evening with one arm resting on the bar and a beer in hand, but Nathan immediately went to the dance floor and started grinding on strangers. He didn’t get slapped, he didn’t get drinks thrown in his face, he played it smooth and the girls ate it up.

A couple days later, Nathan took two different girls out to lunch, at different times, without either one realizing it. He left campus that day earlier than usual, so we called to make sure he was okay.

“I went out to lunch with a girl and it kind of went well,” he said.

As we proudly recounted the story a day later in the office, a female member of the Crossroads staff, with a very puzzled look on her face, said she had also gone out to lunch the day before. Nevermind the fact he had to eat two meals; the sheer audacity of the situation, the excuses he had to make to pull it off, is illustration enough why Nathan is a bigger ‘chick magnet’ than myself.

Once, last summer, Nathan went swimming with a group of people. He didn’t have any swimming trunks though, so he traded a plaid shirt to a girl for a pair of her tiny workout shorts. The shorts were tight, but he pulled it off and thought he looked great. The girl still wears the shirt all the time.

When Nathan goes out on weekends, girls approach him and ask if he’s the guy who writes those columns for The Chart.

But nobody will ever seek me out at a bar and say, “Hey, aren’t you the guy who’s been covering no-confidence votes? We need to hang out.”

Nathan operates with a total disregard for his own reputation, and sure, he’s made girls scream and run away, he’s seen translators describe the Manson family and he’s been the creepy guy who approaches you from behind on the dance floor, but he gets results.

That night we went out, I ended up in a park down the street trying to strike up a conversation with a bronze statue – cold and alone. Nathan, on the other hand, emerged from the bar sweaty and walked with a certain swagger. Sure, he’d just been turned down by five girls inside, but he was still Nathan Carter and he still carried a license to thrill.