Who’s Your Daddy?

Friday night I saw a double billing of the Blind Boys of Alabama and the Preservation Hall Jazz Band at the Warner Theatre in DC. The venue was packed, and we were seated next to a nice older couple on one side, and a crabby older couple on the other. (The woman looked like a dried apple, and when I said, “Excuse me,” because I needed to get out to use the bathroom, she shouted, “Gimme a minute! Yeesh!” as I stepped over her.)

During intermission, I was stretching my legs at the end of our aisle, just standing and looking around at the crowd. An attractive woman roughly my age was next to me, and we started chatting about the performance. I caught a whiff of a fragrance that smelled familiar, and I asked her if she was wearing Isse Miyake. “No,” she said, “But my dad is.”

At that point, she touched the elbow of a man standing next to her, who had been facing another direction. He turned around and was drawn in the conversation. Without thinking, I said, “Wait. This is your DAD?” She nodded. The math didn’t work for me. The man appeared to be pushing 50, tops, meaning he would’ve been 15 when he’d fathered her. It was doubtful, but feasible.

She went on to say that she was the youngest of his kids, and I’m sure my jaw dropped with incredulity. The man laughed, looked at her, and said, “Who’s your daddy?” They cracked up. Not one to leave something alone, I kept asking questions. I just couldn’t buy it, but their story remained consistent with their claim.

The lights flicked indicating that intermission was over, and as we took our seats, I leaned over to my boyfriend and whispered, “Really? Do you think he’s her Dad?”

He responded, “I call bullshit. I saw him grab her ass when you went to the bathroom. That’s either Daddy Dearest, or she’s getting paid.”

In any case, until that night, I’d always thought that “Who’s your daddy?” was a rhetorical question. And I learned that if I need to ask it, I probably will already know who I can safely eliminate as a contender. Yuck!