Luvletterz.com
Season One, Episode One
By Nathaniel Davis
Copyright © 2012 by Nathaniel Davis
Smashwords Edition
This book is a work of fiction conceived entirely in my overactive imagination. Any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is strictly coincidental or used fictitiously.
The author holds all rights to the material contained in this book (including the cover art).
Follow Nathaniel Davis on twitter @NDavisMedia
Or on the web at www.NathanielDavisMedia.com
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Episode One:
How It All Began
My name is Calvin Mata, and my tale is a simple one. It takes place in the spot on this great planet that I like to refer to as “the Garden State”. Yes, I know that is the nickname for the state known to the world as New Jersey. I also know that my referring to it by that title isn’t anything new. It’s been done before countless times. It’s even on every one of those disgusting puke yellow license plates with the black letters that they give us for our cars. I prefer describing my spot on this planet by that name because it makes me feel better about my lot in life. For starters, it doesn’t contain the name “Jersey”. That word just brings up too many little-sisters-of-the-poor and armpit-of-New-York-City thoughts into the minds and heads of millions. That’s where I live, and that’s where my tale takes place.
Like many of the thousands of single males in their late 20’s, I worked. No, I didn’t have a glamour job (I always wondered what it would be like to be an architect or a lawyer or a big advertising executive, or in any way something other than what I was). I did, however, have a job. And in an economy where approximately 10% of the United States population is unable to find work (and I’ve been counted among them a time or two in my day, believe me), I guess I had to take what I could get. I worked in a production shop, turning knobs, pulling levers, gluing pieces together (I think I can already see anyone reading this falling asleep as I write it, which means I better stop, or else you’ll close the book forever and well, then I’ll never get to tell my story), etc.
On the job I have one friend. His name is Brian. We have known each other for a number of years. We even were roommates for a time. That was until he met his wife and she determined that I was not a suitable companion (and it was definitely not the first time a significant other of one of my friends thought I wasn’t an ideal companion for their man. Their line was always the same. “All he does is drink.” “All he’s good for is corruption.” Hell, I knew that my slogan for life always has been and always will be “I spent most of my money on booze and broads, the rest I just wasted.“ The funniest was one time I had a friend that I would hang out with on occasion [and by “occasion“ I mean wings, beer, and a game once a week at the absolute most]. His wife got so pissed when he would spend time with me that she told him that he had to choose between her and me! Seeing him tell me that we were “breaking up” and that we needed to spend time “seeing other people” made me a little uncomfortable. After all, he was a dude! If we don’t want to hang out anymore we just stop calling and stop accepting invitations to hang out. Don’t get me wrong. I was no Charlie Sheen. Close, but he is actually rich. Similarly, though, I had a tremendous self-awareness that radiated out of every one of even my tiniest pores. Let’s face it, I knew my place. It was bringing joy and happiness into the lives of others by means of diversions. With me they forgot about their problems. Unfortunately, many times those problems they were forgetting revolved around their women, and that makes women bitchy). So, to get me back into my life he got me a job where he worked.
So there we found ourselves: in the shop. Joel was working on the mill with his pants hanging down so low that if you looked over at him you’d be able to see half of his butt crack. Javier and Manuel were about to come to blows by the molding ovens. Us? We were just trying our best to look busy (don’t want to work ourselves out of a job). There it was that our brainchild was conceived.
“I have an idea!” Brian had the look of someone who either was constipated or, well, we’ll just have to go with constipated. It was funny.
Brian always had an idea, too. The dude could think like fat kids can eat. If his ideas were so great, why the hell were we still working our balls off for Skiler Inc.? If we could some how magically find a way to turn one of his marvelous epiphanies into gold, we’d be sitting on a beach somewhere drinking margaritas and staring at beautiful models in bikinis all day. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.
I couldn’t say anything. We’re dudes. We don’t banter. We speak as little as possible.
“You know how you like to write?” Brian asked enthusiastically.
It had been my dream since we were in high school. I always had a way with words. They just flowed. Some kids were gifted when it came to sports. Some kids were gifted when it came to hitting on chicks and getting dates. Both of those were true about me. The memories of the lights and championships. And the beautiful girls that came and went from my life during my teens. If only someone would have taught me how to love somebody other than myself when I was a teenager I may have found that ever elusive “happiness” that everyone is striving for. Anyway, besides being gifted in those areas, I was also bestowed with the ability to transfer my scattered and often irrational thoughts into the printed word. It helped that my mother relentlessly taught me how to type from the time I was conceived (it was a typewriter in those days. Computers hadn’t been mass produced yet. The keys were stiff. The letters were a little blurry and sometimes bold, but I sure learned a lot on the thing). Sure, I fought her on it. Doesn’t every kid try and rebel? But on the whole, being able to sleep through much of high school because I was gifted with words was reward enough for all the hell she put me through. I didn’t know how to answer that question because, let’s face it, writing was work and I don’t like work. “It’s ok.”
“You know how you’re also good with women?” True. I just listen. That’s my secret. I know they like to talk, and I don’t have a problem thinking about other things while they talk. Every now and then I repeat what it was they said, and then they melt. That’s how I do it. “And you always know what to say,” Brian continued. Also true. Until we get about 3 months into the relationship. Then it all goes to hell. Never figured it out. It’s amazing. She’s happy. I’m happy. I think this is the one. Then one day, BAM! She turns into a complete psycho and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. My dad says I’m just too intense. But I can’t really change anything. When the chick flips out and dumps me, she always says, “I should be happier, and I can’t figure out why.” I think happiness is enough. But who am I? I’m no Dr. Phil. Maybe if I spent more time listening to his ramblings (Lord knows all these women take his words as gospel) I’d be a step ahead of the game. Or it could just be like what my dad also says: Given the choice between a piece of chocolate and a fat turd, most women would rather eat the turd. I mean, it makes sense, right? There are a lot of turds that really do look like a piece of chocolate. And it would be cheaper to just stick your hand down in a toilet after taking a big fat dump and pulling out yesterday’s dinner than buying some expensive product of the cocoa plant. And she’d be happier. Maybe that’s what it’s going to take to get these women to stop dumping me all the time. Anyway, yes, it’s true: For the first three months I always know what to say. He continued, “And you write well.” We’ve already beaten that horse. “Why don’t you write love letters for poor, miserable, rich, guys trying to land chicks that are way out of their league? A rich guy will pay anything to get a chick.”
That is true. It’s always baffled me what a guy will do just to get a woman’s attention. It’s not hard. A study was conducted and it was found that the most successful pickup line for starting a conversation with a woman in the USA is “Hi”. How many guys can say that? Yet they just don’t get it. So day after day, hour after hour, these moronic dudes approach these gorgeous women by asking them if they have fries with their shake, space pants (because her body is out of this world), rearranging the alphabet (to put “U“ and “I” together), and whatever else they think will work. They think they need to come up with something new. Something fresh. Well, if it hasn’t worked for guys for the past hundred years, why should it suddenly start working now? Idiots! See, women don’t really care about you. They just like to talk about themselves. Get a chick talking about herself, and she’ll keep coming back for more. It’s like a drug for women. Talking about themselves. It could be like those pills dudes slip in women’s drinks to get them to pass out so they can do whatever they want to them until they come to. Get a girl talking about herself, and she’ll let you do anything you want. Cool thing is, her talking about herself doesn’t cost you a dime. Cost you a lot of time, but no money!