On the Subject of Karma

Anything can happen. Market crashes, suicide bombers, tsunamis, revolutions, spree killings, drought, severe crop shortage, gentrification, incontinence, rivers turning to blood, dogs and cats living together, and chicks with dicks. In fact, there aren't a lot of sure things in this world, other than change and turmoil. However, I have managed to find comfort in the fact that, no matter what happens in this topsy-turvy world, there is one thing in which I can find steadfast constancy: when the clock reads 12:00 in the post-meridian, it is time for Daniel Sutherlin Boyce to have his lunch.
I am not exaggerating in the slightest and shame on you for underestimating the rigid internal timetable that one can only witness in a gluttonous autistic child who could and would put Bacchus Himself to shame in a hot dog eating contest. Should the clock strike noon and there is not a fire, a hurricane, a Cossack raid, or a pack of wild dogs creating havoc in the house, lunch better be on the damn table. If such conditions should exist, then it better be on it's way.
And so the Boyce family found themselves in a compromising situation circa 2001. We had just left Houston a few hours prior, en route to drop me off for my freshman year at Brigham Young University. Anyone who's done some driving in the Lone Star State knows that it is a Homeric epic of a trip. Even leaving if your expressed destination is the Yukon Territory, for some reason the words "Welcome to Oklahoma", normally bile-inducing, make it seem like you've accomplished something. It was my father's intention that the car not stop until we reached the Texas-Oklahoma border, not even for emergency surgery, in which case, the back seat of the van folds down quite conveniently.
By the time the sun had reached it's apex, the fetid stench of the Sooner State was palpable, but its threshold was still thirty or forty five minutes away. Although he was quite aware of my father's itinerary, The Dictator for Life of the Mid-Day Meal was not to be deterred from breaking out the Igloo and gorging himself on a bacon and mayonnaise sandwich or four. And so, noticing that we were still whizzing by the farmlands of North Texas without any sign of slowing, he gently reminded my father of the hour.
"Dad, it's lunchtime."
"I know, buddy. But we want to get into Oklahoma before we stop, okay?"
"But it's twelve o clock now, Dad."
"We'll stop when we get to Oklahoma."
"Well...how many minutes is that?"
"Probably thirty, buddy/"
"Thirty minutes!? But I'll die!"
"Daniel, knock it off! Or die quietly!"
At this point, Daniel launched into one of his all-time favorite topics of conversation: Thomas Boyce is the person least qualified to be a father, and Daniel is going to call the police on him. It will usually start with Daniel pointing out that my father is a bad father and that he doesn't listen to whoever the current Mormon prophet may be. Daniel will then list all of the tasks that a father is supposed to fulfill in order to be counted as good and declare Dad to be wanting in each arena. After that, Daniel informs my father that the authorities will called immediately, and by that time my father swivels his head in Daniel's direction and snarls at him to shut the hell up.
I will not go into what usually happens when Daniel is told to shut up. That spectacle, in and of itself, is more properly elaborated upon in a separate blog, or maybe even a developmental psychology textbook. Suffice to say, it is a cyclone of rage, tears, guilt, and manipulation that usually ends with Daniel standing at the top of stairs, lower lip hanging precariously, holding - I shit you not - a bindle stick. But being inside a car, Daniel was forced to forgo his normal theatrics, fall into silent vexation and improvise a new plan of attack.
About ten minutes later, I noticed that every time my father said anything, to anyone in the car or to himself, a faint malevolent mumble would emanate from somewhere. It was Daniel, who had taken to responding to everything my father said with a disgruntled "Shut up, Dad."
"Lemme see that map for a second, Kerry."
"Shut up, Dad."
"Ohh, look everyone, a deer."
"Shut up, Dad."
"Boy, hand me a Dr. Pepper"
"Shut up, Dad."
At one point "A Boy Named Sue" came on the radio, and it was here that I first witnessed my brother's natural sense of economy. He waited until my father sang the very last line of the song before pronouncing an all-sweeping carpet bomb of a "Shut up, Dad" over the whole affair.
At twelve forty five or so we finally pulled over to a rest stop, Daniel still smoldering. Lunch was unpacked and spread out over a picnic table. Perhaps confident from the fact that he had been able to tell the Old Man off for the better part of an hour without being aware, Daniel chose to sit at my father's right hand. Grace was said over the meal. Ever the devotee, Daniel allowed himself to say "Amen" before whispering "Shut up, Dad," at which point, my father either finally heard Daniel, or was just now deciding to respond.
"Did you just say shut up to me, boy?"
I'm sure it's the same with all fathers: that look of righteous indignation, the kind of white-pupiled glare that Old Jehovah probably gave a score of uppity Israelites before making their bowels come out of their mouths. That combination of curled lip, raised eyebrow and flared nostril that lets a prodigal son know that a shitstorm of Krakatoa proportions is about to be unleashed, courtesy of the Old Man. The shock of being caught in such a defiant act made Daniel's indignation, for a split second, dissolve into pure fear. But as quickly as it came, the fear was gone, morphed again to different countenance, more justified. Because Daniel Boyce, at heart is a man of action, a man who recognizes that waiting for Karma to come around and respond to your grievances and injustices is a passive exercise in disappointment. A man should just forget the wrongs committed to him, but if he cannot than it is time to become the arbiter of his own karma. Recognizing this innately, Daniel looked my Old Man right in the eye, and said:
"Yeah. Now we're even."