The Rules According To Dad

Sophie heard the sound of the front door opening and assumed that it must have been her parents coming back for something one of them had forgotten before their night out. Probably Daddy with some lame excuse to check on me just one more time.

“Sophie? You here?”

“Jake?”

“And company!” Jake entered, waving a Blockbuster bag, with Liz Kenzington and Jennifer DeSoto, who was carrying two large pizzas. Jen cleared off a space on the coffee table for the pizzas then took a seat on the floor. Liz joined Sophie on the couch.

“What are you fools doing here on a Friday night?” Sophie asked. “Don’t any of you people have a date? Or need study something grisly and medical.”

“Nope,” Jen replied. “We have decided to put off the ‘grisly and medical’ until tomorrow and celebrate your first week home from the hospital with the ‘First Annual Which-Way-to-the-Exit Film Festival’.”

Jake produced two videos in explanation, “The Brain from Planet Arous and Nabonga.”

“Unless you’d rather be alone?” Liz asked. She’d been hesitant about descending on Sophie without warning. Sophie’d been through a long hospitalization and had only just been released, but not home to her apartment. She still had months of therapy facing her, so most of her furniture and belongings had been put in storage, and she’d moved home – temporarily, she insisted – to her parent’s townhouse in Pasadena.

“Actually,” Sophie said, “I’d like the company. Mom drug Daddy out to the ballet tonight, so I’ve got hours to kill and being here alone is weird.”

“Weird?”

“Well, it’s not really my home. It’s where Mom and Daddy live, but it’s not my home. It’s not the house we grew up in, so it’s kinda strange. Like nice clothes that don’t fit quite right.”

Coming in from the kitchen with drinks and plates, Jake caught the last of this. “You want to come stay with me?” he offered.

“Jake...you have a studio. Don’t you think it would be a little crowded?” Sophie asked, accepting a slice of pizza from Jen.

“Well, maybe…but I’m hardly ever there. When I’m not in class, I’m somewhere studying. Anyway, you’re welcome.”

“Thanks, but I should probably just stay where I am. No reason to have Daddy calling four or five times a day to check up on me.”

“Sophie, come on. Your Dad’s not that bad, is he?” Liz asked, reaching for a second slice.

“Well,” Sophie offered, “He’s better than he was. I’m afraid that my adolescence was a bit traumatic for Daddy.”

Jen nodded her head in commiseration. She’d been there with her own father and was old enough to remember how difficult it had been for Kel Brackett to adjust to the fact that his little princess was growing up – and starting to look, and act, far too much like her mother for his comfort.

“Really? Your parents have always seemed so…cool.” Liz turned to Jake, “How about you?”

“Actually, it wasn’t too bad. I think Mom headed off one of the bigger potential problems when she insisted that Sophie and I’d take Driver’s Ed in school and that neither of them would be teaching us to drive.”

“Meaning, of course,” Sophie explained, “That Daddy wouldn’t be teaching us. She took us out to practice all the time.”

“On the sly,” Jake added. “Actually, the only thing that I remember that seemed to bother Dad was then he realized that at sixteen I was taller than him.”

“Oh come on, Jake. 6’1” is not bad for a guy who started life in a laundry basket,” Sophie teased.

Laundry basket? Liz thought, I have got to ask about that later.

Sophie continued, “The worst part had to be when I started dating. And now here I am, back at home – in my twenties – and I’m sure the rules still apply.”

“Rules?” Jake looked confused. “What rules?”

“What do you mean what rules? The list. Well, he meant it as a joke, but still.”

“Sophie, I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.” Jake said in between bites of pizza. “What list? All Dad ever told me was don’t drink and drive and treat your date the way you’d want Sophie to be treated.”

“That’s it! That’s all?! I can’t believe that all you got was ‘don’t drink and drive’ and ‘respect your date’!”

“When I started college he did add another one. He told me not to be stupid and always use protection.”

Sophie nearly choked on her soda. “You’re lying.”

Jake shook his head.

“He sent you off to college with essentially his permission …”

“No, of course not. He – they – taught us both better than that. Dad probably just figured that it was eventually going to happen anyway, so I should be reminded to be responsible.”

“Don’t blame him Sophie, Chris probably got the same abbreviated talk from Dad. I don’t think men can deal with the details. It’s too embarrassing,” Jen said.

Jake chuckled, “Oh, he also told me to stay away from domestic beer unless it’s a good microbrewery.”

“He gave you advice on beer and I get a list.” Sophie seemed dumbstruck.

The opportunity to wind her up was too irresistible to pass up. “Yeah. Dad’s pretty picky about his beer, and the domestic stuff is swill.” Jake got up. “Wonder what he’s got in the ‘fridge?”

Sophie shook her head. “You go check,” she said, slowly getting up off the couch. “You’ll need it for what I’m about to show you. And bring some for the rest of us.”

“Sophie, you need any help?” Liz asked.

“No thanks. I’m okay. It just takes me longer to get up and down the stairs.”

“Well,” said Jen to no one in particular, “this should be entertaining.”

****

“Okay, here we are.” Sophie sat back down on the couch and unfolded several sheets of blue paper with the headline *DADDY'S RULES OF DATING*. She explained, “Apparently one of the other doctors at Rampart, who according to Mom had four daughters, sent this to Daddy as a joke. He thought that it was funny and made some alterations to it and gave it to me when, I guess, I was about fifteen. Yeah, freshman year. Everyone ready?” She took a sip of her beer in preparation. Not bad. There may be something to this microbrewery thing.

“’Rule Number One: If you pull into my driveway and honk you'd better be delivering a package, because you're sure not picking anything up.’ Understandable. No woman wants to be treated like recyclables.”

“Rule Two: You do not touch my daughter in front of me. You may glance at her, so long as you do not peer at anything below her neck. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off of my daughter's body, I am a surgeon and I will remove them.”

“This rule also applies to fireman fathers as well,” Jen added, “though my Dad would probably use an axe.”

“Or the K-12,” suggested Liz.

Sophie continued, “Rule Three: I am aware that it is considered fashionable for boys of your age to wear grungy flannel shirts and baggy jeans that appear to be falling off
your hips. Please don't take this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are complete idiots.” Sophie paused to explain. “Daddy knows all about bad fashion choices.”

“Huh? Sophie, your father dresses really well.”

“No, Liz, my Mom dresses Daddy really well. Get Jake to show you some of the old family albums with pictures of Daddy before they were married. I don’t care how good looking Daddy is, no one can get away with mixing plaids and paisley and stripes.” She shook her head. “Ghastly. I can’t imagine what he was thinking.”

“Rule three…” Jen prompted.

Sophie continued, “Still, I want to be fair and open minded about this issue, so I propose this compromise: You may come to the door with your underwear showing and your pants ten sizes too big, and I will not object. However, in order to ensure that your clothes do not, in fact, come off during the course of your date with my daughter, I will take my electric nail gun and fasten your jeans securely in place to your waist.”

“Well I’m not surprised,” Jen observed, “he found a way to work power tools into it somewhere. What is it with you men and your tools?”

All three women paused to look at Jake for an explanation. “That’s not fair. We’re all not obsessed with power tools.”

“That would mean that as a medical student living in a small apartment in urban Los Angeles, you would have no need for power tools and, as such, do not own any? Would that be right?” Sophie asked.

“Well, I have an electric screwdriver...”

“A screwdriver!” Jen snorted. “You can’t just turn them by yourself?”

“…and a drill for, you know, hanging shelves and stuff…”

“Daddy buy them for you?”

“Yes.”

“At Sears?”

“Yes.”

“I rest my case.”

“Could we go back to your rules now, Counselor?”

“Rule Four: I'm sure you've been told that in today's world, sex without utilizing a ‘Barrier method’ of some kind can kill you. Let me elaborate, when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I will kill you.”

Nods all around. That one was to be expected.

“Rule Five: It is usually understood that in order for us to get to know each other, we should talk about sports, politics, and other issues of the day. Please do not do this. The only information I require from you is an indication of when you expect to have my daughter safely back at my house, and the only word I need from you on this subject is: early.”

“Rule Six: I have no doubt you are a popular fellow, with many opportunities to date other girls. This is fine with me as long as it is okay with my daughter. Otherwise, once you have gone out with my little girl, you will continue to date no one but her until she is finished with you. If you make her cry, I will make you cry.” Sophie paused, “That’s one I wish more of them had listened to.”

“Tell me about it,” Liz agreed.

“Why do men have to be such jerks?” Jen added.

“Hey, that’s not fair. I have never cheated on anyone in my life. I’ve been cheated on though,” Jake defended himself. Directing his next question to his sister and Jen, “Can either of you ever recall – or even imagine – your fathers cheating.”

“No.”

“Of course not.”

“Well then, let’s not lump all men in one category. Some of us are still nice guys.”

Amen, Liz thought. Now if I can just figure out how to hang onto him.

“Rule Seven: As you stand in my front hallway, waiting for my daughter to appear, and more than an hour goes by, do not sigh and fidget. If you want to be on time for the movie, you should not be dating. My daughter is putting on her makeup, a process than can take longer than painting the Golden Gate Bridge. Instead of just standing there, why don't you do something useful, like changing the oil in my car?”

“Jake, stop laughing! It’s not that funny!”

“It is. You spend hours grooming. Monkeys spend less time. I couldn’t even begin to calculate the time Dad and I have spent sitting around waiting for you and Mom to get ready. When Chris got married, Dad and I could have rotated the tires on the car before you two were ready to go.”

“Okay, let’s not fight.” Years of baby-sitting experience with these two had trained Jen to recognize when things were about to get out of control. “What’s the next rule?”

“Rule Eight: The following places are not appropriate for a date with my daughter: Places where there are beds, sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool. Places where there is darkness. Places where there is dancing, holding hands, or happiness. Places where the ambient temperature is warm enough to encourage my daughter to wear shorts, tank tops, midriff T-shirts, or anything other than overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka -- zipped up to her throat. Movies with a strong romantic or sexual theme are to be avoided; movies which feature chain saws are okay. The beach is out of the question.”

“Absolutely,” Jen said, “Mom just told me if I was going to the beach, to leave the house in a T-shirt and shorts to avoid upsetting him.” Liz agreed.

“I remember,” Sophie said, “Mom reminding Daddy that he never complained about how skimpy her bathing suits were and him telling her that was the whole problem. He knew what all those guys were thinking. Retribution. Try to remember that Jake.”

“And finally, Rule Nine: Do not lie to me. I may appear to be a graying, middle-aged, hot-headed has-been. But on issues relating to my daughter, I am the all-knowing, merciless God of your universe. If I ask you where you are going and with whom, you have one chance to tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I have a scalpel and a morgue to hide you in. Do not trifle with me.”