“Promise me you’ll be good.”

Fathers of daughters know this, make no promises, especially, ESPECIALLY when it comes to BOYS!

“Don, promise me!”

My wife and I are driving to meet my daughter, Ashley, and the young man she is dating, Jacob, aka Jake.

“WOULD YOU PLEASE PROMISE ME…”

As I drive this is what I see, I see the doctor in the delivery room hand me my baby daughter, I see my baby girl riding a bicycle with training wheels, I see my baby girl in her Communion dress, in her school play, in her soccer uniform, in her junior prom dress, in her…

“…please.”

“Um, no, but I do promise this, I probably won’t kill him, you know, probably.”

My daughter is somewhere between 32 and 35 years old, I’m always tested on that and mostly fail, I do know it was 1983 when she was born.

It was a romantic weekend in San Francisco with Barb, we’d been married almost 10 years at the time, Barb thought it was about time to start having children, I thought any time was a good time to, um…

Ashley was born in Fresno, California on December 27th after 20-plus hours of labor mainly for Barb, but around the 14th hour or so I sort of “shared” some in the labor pain process, at least verbally anyway.

At her 57th hour of life on this planet she went through a McDonald’s drive thru, Two Big Mac’s, Two Large Fries (we had drinks at home) and sat in a parking lot for a bit as I returned some overdue VHS movies and talked my way out of a fine by pointing to the new kid in the back seat of the Saab.

At the 59th hour of her life on this planet Barb and I stood looking at her sleeping in her crib to which I whispered, “What the hell do we do now.”

I’ve whispered that to Barb 4,374 times since then about, Ashley.

If you are the mother of a daughter go ask your husband what his “What the hell do we do now,” count is, he’ll vouch for it, trust me.

We are meeting The Boy and Ashley at a pizza joint in town called, First & Last Tavern (true) and I’m thinking yes it could, and this…

…4,375.

Everyone at the table talks, but me.

Barb is sitting across from Ashley, I’m sitting directly across from, The Boy, who is actually pretty much a man, somewhere around Ash’s age I’m guessing but until you are older than my boxers, to me you’re still a kid, a tall kid, but still a kid.

Ashley is talking to Barb but making glances my way, Barb is sitting close enough to me to jab me with something or at the very least, a quick sideways kick.

“So…”

The table goes quiet.

“You mind if I ask you a couple questions…”

I’m not positive but I think I heard the booth behind me go quiet as well.

“No go ahead.”

I just look at him thinking the dude actually thought I was ASKING PERMISSION, just because I ask to ask you something it doesn’t mean I’m ASKING you it means I’m giving you time to stay, or go.

“You ready.”

The Boy smiles, Ashley does not, nor I assume does Barb, in 40-plus years of marriage she knows this…she never knows what’s next with me.

“Okay…Coke or Pepsi.”

The Boy tilts his head to the side a bit, bemused or bewildered, or both, and of course I say nothing more, no explanation, no double dog dare, no true or false just simply…

“Coke.”

…The Boy says nothing more, he just sits there, I like that, answering more that what was asked is usually only done by the guilty…

“Glass or Can.”

Barb knows the answer to this, I’m watching her out of the side of my left eye to make sure she doesn’t mouth the answer to The Boy.

“Glass.”

…Barb now knows The Boy is two for two, Ashley on the other hand has no idea what I’m doing, or why I’m doing it…

“Ice Cold or Refrigerator Cold.”

The Boy was about to answer but sucked it back in, his Northeastern degree taught him well, if a man goes this deep with a stranger about soft drinks you know the next answer will make, or break, the deal.

“Ice.”

…all I do is turn slightly towards Barb and she smiles, Right Answer, Three for Three.

The Boy, it seems, has a chance, maybe.

I reach over and pick up the check.

The Meet:

A bunch of Italian apps, 3 draft beers, 1 coke/glass/ice.

Total: $45.74 with tip.

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