Roger and Me

Let’s consider the relationship a guy has with his girlfriend’s dad. At worst, it can be purely adversarial—he hates you; you’re afraid of him. I can sympathize with the plight of the girlfriend’s dad, because he, being a guy, knows that men are scumballs. And you’re considered a scumball until you prove otherwise by, say, rescuing his daughter from a burning building or marrying her.

That’s not to say you can’t be friends with Dad of Girlfriend, but even those scenarios involve a measure of fear. Take, for example, one of my high-school friends, who last summer lived in an apartment above his girlfriend’s dad’s garage. My buddy was friends with the Dad of Girlfriend, Sully, but he was friends with him in the careful way you might be friends with a volatile bear who likes to hang out in your backyard and occasionally eat one of the neighbors.

Physically, Sully made Paul Teutul Sr. on American Chopper look like Woody Allen, and he didn’t like to take no for an answer. One night when I was visiting, we partied with Sully until 2 am and then went to bed. Around 3 am, Sully bounded up the stairs, turned on the lights, threw beers at us and yelled, “Drink, you pussies!” After satisfying himself that we were awake and imbibing, Sully proceeded to grill my friend on why, after dating his little girl for four years, a ring had still not been produced. This is the toughest Dad of Girlfriend ever, I thought as I sipped my wake-up Budweiser.

My girlfriend’s dad, Roger, is also a Harley owner, but that’s thankfully the only thing he has in common with Sully. Roger has never awakened me in the middle of the night to demand I drink beer and/or marry his daughter, although he is good at exuding the vibe that he could kill you with his bare hands if he so chose (which might actually be a trait that all Girlfriend’s Dads begin developing naturally from the moment they hear “It’s a girl!”).

Which brings me to my girlfriend’s brother’s wedding in North Carolina over Labor Day. The night before the rehearsal dinner, the menfolk decided to celebrate the pending nuptials with a trip to Solid Gold, an establishment that is neither a music store nor a jeweler. It was easy to spot the three most well-behaved guys in the strip club: me, Roger and the groom. We were all keeping one another in check, because none of us wanted to look like a dirtbag in front of the others. It was a veritable cold war of strip-club propriety.

It was also completely uncharted territory for hanging out with a girlfriend’s dad. Under normal circumstances, you’re not supposed to admit to a girl’s father that you’ve ever even been to a strip club. If asked, you’d reply, “Strip club? Is that some sort of steak sandwich?” Now here I was, one chair away from my girlfriend’s dad, while between us sat a decidedly topless woman with a name like Buxxxie who was cheerfully explaining the pros and cons of nipple piercing. I responded to this information like I was possessed by Eugene Levy. “Oh, so they go through right there? My, that’s sure something, isn’t it? That’s healthy, miss. You’re very comfortable with your sexuality and that’s just great. Waitress!” When Buxxxie started propositioning Roger and me for lap dances, I sent her over to the groom, who in turn passed her off on another member of our party like some kind of topless hot potato. None of us were gonna go there.

I’ve never been as self-aware as I was that night at Solid Gold. I was trying to strike a careful balance between being one of the guys and not being too much of one of the guys. Lap dances were obviously out of the question, and even your standard leering seemed like a no-no. I was like a kid with ADD, never paying attention to any one thing for more than a few seconds. I consumed beers at a furious rate.

Eventually I got a little more comfortable with the situation, as evidenced by the fact that at one point I blurted, “I feel like a perverted high school gym teacher!” Nevermind the circumstances. It just came out. I couldn’t help it. Roger laughed. Phew.

In the end, I’d recommend going to a strip club with your girlfriend’s dad if you get the chance. After all, if you can’t look like a prince next to the guys at a strip joint, then even a diamond ring might not save you from a solid gold entry in the scumbag file.