The Life & Opinions of Daniel Boyce, Gentleman

On Cannibalism and Friendship

2009-03-27T10:18:00.003-06:00

Some people are nervous when they meet Daniel for the first time, and rightfully so. In addition to eating all of your candy, grilling you like Torquemada about your religious inclinations, and snatching your newborn baby out of your arms and tossing it into the air, Daniel may simply not like you. It doesn't happen often, but when he decides that you are not his cup of tea, nothing can deter him, and every encounter with him will begin with something along the lines of "Are you my wicked Aunt Lori?" (if you are my Aunt Lori), or "Are you one of Satan's warriors?" (if you are my best friend, Cade Ekblad-Frank). At first you think to yourself, "What do I care if a psychotic three hundred pound five year old thinks I'm nice or not?". But then you realize that Daniel, like most astute dogs and cats, is a remarkable people barometer. So, if he thinks you're an asshole, chances are you're probably an asshole. Chances are people who you think like you actually think you're an asshole. If Daniel doesn't like you, someone, somewhere, might be putting a hit out on you.
Therefore: Those who are concerned that my retarded little brother might decide on a whim that you are a gigantic dick would do well to follow this procedure:
Step One: Upon hearing from me that we will be stopping by my parents' house for the evening, or that my family is in town and you are invited to join us for a meal, immediately acquire two (2) pieces of white bread and one (1) Ziploc baggie. Do not, under anycircumstances use the end pieces of the loaf of bread in question. If end pieces are all you have in your house, go to the store and buy a new loaf of bread.
Step Two: Place the two pieces of bread in the Ziploc baggie, and put the baggie in a safe place onyour person, where squishing will be minimal.
Step Three: Within the first five to ten minutes of encountering my brother, take the bread from out its hiding place. Surreptitiously place your own hand between the two pieces of bread - if you have to excuse yourself for a moment, to maintain the element of surprise, do so.
Step Four: Present your hand, nestled between the two pieces of bread, to my brother. Daniel will at first begin giggling softly. He will then take your "hand sandwich" and tenatively nibble into it. Do not be alarmed. He will not bite you or hurt you in anyway. After a brief bout of love bites, he will then return your hand to you unharmed and laughing uncontrollably.
Step Five: Bask in the knowledge that you have made an ally for life. At the Ragnarok, when Daniel reveals himself to have been Odin in disguise, complete with eye-patch and pet raven, you will be recognized as one of the Chosen. You will be whisked away to Valhalla, where alcohol, sex, and Pac-Man machines are abundant, and where the same delicious suckling pig is eaten every night and resurrected every morning.
In the twenty four years I have known Daniel Sutherlin Boyce, I have not been able to decipher why the "Hand Sandwich" is so effective a tool for endearing oneself to my brother. I think, in essence, it is a trust exercise. Being acquainted with that boy is indeed a wild ride. Perhaps, he's thinking to himself, "if this idiot is willing to lose his hand to my ravenous and weird appetite, he's up for anything." Or maybe its just really funny.

On Mortality

2009-02-02T10:27:00.002-07:00

Daniel seems pretty confused about what makes people die and what doesn't. I have mentioned before that he believes that vegetables and fish will make him die. Yet he continues to subsist on a steady diet of hot dogs and Wolf Brand Chili without qualm or worry. Once, I took Daniel to a Shoney's Breakfast Buffet. I suppose I was too wrapped up in the existential/erectile woes of a teenage boy to notice that he had bacon for his main course, with a side of bacon, and, for dessert, more bacon. When we got home, Mom asked him what he had eaten for breakfast.
"Bacon," he said.
"And...?"
"Just bacon."
"Did he just bacon, John-Ross?"
"I dunno, Ma, I'm busy."
"Daniel, how many pieces of bacon did you have?"
"About a million."
In addition to being fearless against the clogged arteries, constipation, or greasy skin that an all-pork diet portends, Daniel also does not have a full grasp of physics. He has stepped in front of a moving school bus before. As a toddler, while preparing for a CAT scan, he made a power play over my parents and the doctor by grabbing a security guard's firearm, proclaiming, "Gimme that my gun!" Conversely, Daniel believes that our dog, a ten-year old Scottish Terrier over whom he towers like Godzilla, is constantly concocting elaborate plans to bite him.
Daniel still only understands electrocution in terms of "making the bones show". One time, he flipped a switch while my father was on a ladder messing around with some of the wiring in overhead light.
"Daniel, don't do that! You electrocuted me!"
My brother met these admonitions with a blank stare. Dad amended his earlier statement.
"...You made my bones show."
Which sent Daniel into a giggling fit.
Although Daniel has historically proven to not be so keen vis-a-vis the things that make a person die, he does seem to understand the permanency of death, as illustrated by a recent comment about Seventies pop duo and variety show co-hosts, Sonny and Cher.
"A lot of people want Sonny and Cher to shut up. Sonny's shut up. But not Cher."
It's a start.

On The True Spirit of Christmas

2008-12-07T22:47:00.002-07:00

Many times I have to filter the life and opinions of my brother, Daniel Sutherlin Boyce, through my personal vocabulary and sense of syntax, quite inferior when it comes to accurately documenting my baby bro's genius. However, once in a blue moon, I get lucky. Here is Daniel's Christmas letter to Santa Claus, December of 2006. Dictated, not read.

Dear Santa Claus~

How have you been? Did you have a nice summer vacation? How are your two best elves? Well, in the past I have been a good boy so instead of toys, I just want cool stuff. I want a lunch box that looks just like a cooler so I can take frozen dinners to lunch at work, cause I did a great job at VARC. I want a portable CD player with headphones. A Disney’s Icabod and Mister Toad DVD. A Captain Underpants and the Preposterous Plight of the Purple Potty People (his 8th book). And a bag of pizza flavored Goldfish crackers. A box of those caffeine-free Pepsi cans, full cans, so I can take them in my lunch. I will always be a good boy cause I am going to be baptized when my big brother comes home. And most of all, I want the Gerald McBoing, Boing book. It’s there, cause I saw it! It’s in Book World. I am going to be a good guy from now on, so Merry Christmas!

love,

Daniel Sutherlin Boyce

PS…I know my brother and sister always look up to me.

On Privacy

2008-12-07T13:26:00.003-07:00

In a fun twist that could only be provided by a grand old Jehovah with a sick sense of humor, Daniel began experiencing puberty. I remember being five years old, well before The Age of Unwarranted Boners, and still feeling the unrelenting urge to whip my dick out during Magic Carpet Story Time and poke people in their privates. I'm not sure if this is common behavior or just a sort of deviancy isolated to the Boyce clan. However, the fact remains that the sweaty smelly hormones of a teenager combined with the cognitive capacity of a kindergartner make for perverse roller coaster. While I was in Italy, Daniel grabbed the same girl's ass twice in one week. It was my favorite news from home.
It would be very long post if I attempted to document all the particulars of Daniel's descent in human sexuality. So many thinly veiled ruminations of Lil' Kim's blatant lack of modesty. So many times I caught Daniel watching the DVD extras of "X-Men", where they're in the process of painting a very nude Rebecca Romijn. But my favorite story of Daniel "discovering himself" involved my good friend David Moore.
David Moore came to live at my parents' house during the summer of 2004. My parents took an immediate liking to him. He was the polite, piano playing boy of efficient metabolism that I think they had always secretly wanted. He soon became more than a house guest, accompanying my mother on thrift store excursions and affectionately referring to my father as "Mister Charlie", a nickname I had suggested when I was fourteen, which was swiftly shut down.
One day, The Old Man, David, and I all decided to call in sick to our respective jobs, order some pizzas, and watch all three installments of Robert Rodriguez's Mexcio Trilogy. We camped out in the den upstairs, unbuckled our belts and let our eyes glaze in the glamorous glow of machismo, vendetta, and violence.
Also, dirty sex. There is a pretty amazing scene in "Desparado" where Salma Hayek - the whitest Mexican girl alive - bangs Antonio Banderas in a way that you would normally only see if Cirque De Sole performers were down on their luck and were willing to do anything for some quick cash. It was transfixing - the tractor beam of softcore pornography. And so we didn't notice that while Salma and Antonio were in the throes of some impossible upside-down affair, Daniel had wandered into the den.
"Daniel! Big kids movies! Get out!" we all cried. Daniel plodded his way out of the room, but he seemed even slower than usual. "Oh. Okay" he mumbled.
A few days later, David was looking for a book he was reading. Assuming that he left it in the den, he was surprised to discover Daniel sitting three inches away from the big screen TV as he navigated the scene selection menu of "Desparado".
"Daniel?'
"David I need to be alone right now!"
David pretty quickly figured the score. "Um...alright..I just need to get my book. Is that okay?"
Daniel became as cordial and as hurried as a concierge with explosive diarrhea. He guided David, hand on his lower back, to the corner where his book lay and back out the door. "Sure, David. Sure. You can get your book. But I need to be alone right now."
And he shut the door to the den in David's face.

On Chickens

2008-11-13T22:44:00.005-07:00

Daniel's first job was at the Outdoor Learning Center, a sort of children's museum behind the Katy High School. Ostensibly it was designed to teach students about the early settler's of east Texas and what life was like in the early 19th century. In reality it was a form of all-encompassing punishment. If your class was good that year, you took a field trip to the Imax in downtown Houston and watched a two hour movie about volcanoes. If your class was bad, you had to listen to an eighty-year old woman jaw on about bee-keeping and gourd-painting. For two hours.
Daniel's primary duty was to collect eggs in the hen house. To this day I have no idea how he handled it - hanging out in a rancid chicken coop all afternoon and putting his hand in the bathing suit area of hundreds of squawking, disgusting chickens to collect their admittedly tasty menstruations. This is a person who used to run out of the room terrified whenever the Noid came on television. But somehow Daniel and his fine-feathered charges eventually formed a bond that manifested itself in an unexpected way.
"Mom - I will no longer eat chickens, please."
My mother initially stood her ground. "This is not a restaurant. I am not a chef. This kitchen is a dictatorship, and I'm Pol Pot, and you are a boy who is eating his chicken ala king."
"But I can't eat chickens because they are my friends. I collect their eggs and they love me."
Even Pol Pot couldn't withstand that. So for about a year and a half Daniel was officially exempt from all poultry consumption.
Then on Christmas Eve we decided to revive an old family tradition. When my parents were first married they were gloriously poor. The swankiest Christmas Dinner fare possible was Long John Silver's. For our family, eating deep fried fish and chips from the dirtiest fast food joint in West Houston was akin to a Passover Seder. "We eat these hushpuppies to remind us that, many times, dog meat was right around the corner."
The only snafu: Fish ranks number three on the list of foods that will make Daniel die, right after all vegetables and all fruits. This was a time of grave decision making. On the one hand, Daniel had a moral obligation to not eat any poultry. On the other hand, fish swim in their own toilet water and will make Daniel keel over dead within the first bite. Furthermore, there were no chickens in sight, no hens or roosters in our kitchen to witness Daniel breaking his solemn dietary code and report back to his beloved charges at the Outdoor Learning Center. How would they ever find out that Daniel ate chicken, just this once, under extreme Yuletide duress? They wouldn't. Daniel took three pieces of chicken and put them on his plate.
My mother whipped out a camera. "Oh, really?" she asked.
You know those scenes on the news, where a celebrity has been caught peeing on a fourteen year old girl or drinking half a slurpee they found on a bus station bench? And the paparazzi are swarming like locusts around the guilty party, who is vainly attempting to conceal his identity by burying his face in his hands? That's what Daniel looked like, bits of white meat and breading spewing forth from his mouth, panicked, as he waved his hand in front of the camera lens and begged my mother to not tell his chickens about the awful thing he was doing.

On Face Theory

2008-11-13T22:42:00.002-07:00

"If you are handsome, you have handsomeness. If you are hideous, you have hideosity."

On Fathers and Mothers and Sons

2008-10-15T10:46:00.002-06:00

While riding in the car with Mom and The Old Man, Daniel was scolded about something. No one can remember what it was exactly, but after a few minutes of smoldering in the back seat of the van Daniel asked, "Dad? We can't call our fathers old windbags, can we?"
Silence. Daniel keeps the conversation flowing.
"Mom? We can't call our mothers old hags, can we?"
Mom deigns to not respond. The Old Man asked, "Daniel? We can't call our sons fat tubs of lard, can we?"
"No," Daniel responds gravely. "No, we can't."

On Acting Like A Little Shit

2008-10-13T15:56:00.005-06:00

The Old Man and Daniel are at a football game, watching the generally predictable Baraboo Thunderbirds (1-5 so far this season). The Old Man is drinking a hot chocolate, which, despite keeping him warm, does very little to satisfy his rather sizable thirst. Daniel has a can of Pepsi. The Old Man asks Daniel if he could have a small sip of said Pepsi, just enough to wet his whistle. Daniel nods. "Sure thing, father!" He takes a big swig, and hands it over to the my father. The Old Man, on putting the can to his lips, is perplexed and dismayed to find that there is not one drop of soda left. The can is bone dry. He turns to my brother, who is smiling.
"Whaddya think of that?" Daniel asks.

On Pizza

2008-09-14T09:40:00.004-06:00

Daniel Boyce is capable of wolfing down more pizza than all the frat houses at University of Texas combined. The first words he read out loud, were "free pizza". One time, when my mother refused to stop cooking and order pizza, he picked up the telephone and dialed the police. If Daniel were given a choice between world peace and a large Sicilian Meats Pizza from Papa John's, I would venture to guess that the next day the Palestinian Liberation Front would still be chucking rocks at Israeli tanks, and my brother would have the smelliest farts ever.
A few years ago Daniel, my sister Sarah, and I were camped out with my parents in their bedroom. It was one of those horrible Sabbath days when slug's blood pumps through your heart and even rolling over seems like it requires a lot of paperwork and team of trained operatives. As the dinner hour steadily approached my Old Man suggested that we order a pizza. And when my Mom said "No, that's okay. I can make something", it was like Dr. Frankenstein harnessed the energy of a bolt of lightening and routed it straight my baby brother's ass. In a flash he was standing up, gripping my mother by the lapels and screaming "He wants to order pizza, Mom! Let him order pizza!"
I have never seen Daniel so nimble, so quick on his feet ever again, not even during the Special Olympics. He usually just saunters down the track, comes in second to last place (thank God for the kid on crutches) and wonders very vocally if there's gonna be pizza at this stupid thing.

On Futility

2008-09-13T11:29:00.000-06:00

DANIEL: Dad?
THE OLD MAN: Yeah, Daniel?
DANIEL: I cannot hit a baby chipmunk with a rock.
THE OLD MAN: No, you cannot.
DANIEL: Yeah. They are too small, and, also, they are too fast.

On the Naming of Children

2008-08-13T09:37:00.002-06:00

Daniel has compiled the following list of names for his future brood:

Fredrick Corneilus
Ralph Anthony
Phillip Eustus
Daniel Foster
Lionel Augustus
Norman Charles
Sally Gloria
Cynthia Rita
Melinda Gwendolyn

I'm pretty sure that "Daniel Foster" is a combination of patriarchal ownership and David Foster Wallace, my favorite author in high school (Considering this, I'm surprised that there isn't a "Hunter" or a "Vonnegut" somewhere in there). "Sally" I think I can pinpoint to the Charlie Brown Christmas Specials that Daniel watched repeatedly for a period (Again, where is the "Linus" and the "Schroeder"?). But, honestly, I'm having a pretty hard time figuring out where in the hell "Eustus" came from.

On Pest Control

2008-08-03T13:15:00.005-06:00

The first time my chest swelled in profound admiration for my little brother was during the Annual Summertime Cockroach Invasion, an event which came to the Boyce home with more seasonal regularity than Santa Claus. Every June 1st swarms of Periplaneta americana would descend upon our kitchen and garage like the godless Comanches of a Cormac McCarthy novel - gorging and humping, pissing and puking, conducting bizarre rituals to some nauseating barbaric deity. It was basically a six-legged Baptist Revival all over the counters, under the fridge, crammed in the pantry, and lurking in every cardboard box containing the thing I needed or wanted at that moment.
As the summer sun blazed hotter and hotter, more and more cockroaches sought refuge in our air-conditioned Ellis Island, and the protective relics I carried with me on trips to the fridge became holier and holier. Daniel, on the other hand, was not only unperturbed by our influx of visitors, he seemed to possess a monomaniacal relish for their arrival, as Ahab did the spout of the White Whale. Night after night, I would find my brother, wearing the Old Man's loafers on his hands like the Chosen One, born with four feet and sent to this planet by God to make our kitchen a little less creepy-crawly. Each time the rubber soles slapped the linoleum and crumpled an exoskeleton, Daniel could be heard boastfully scoffing at his enemy so easily squished. Perhaps, as with the most well-matched nemeses, there existed a common respect, and thus the exuberance on the battlefield. Daniel versus the cockroaches was like Wellington versus Bonaparte, like Balboa versus Creed. It was truly a sight to behold. In the days of the Civil War, rich ladies would take a picnic lunch to a safe vantage point and watch the Confederates and the Unionists mow each other down. Watching Daniel's face light up as he stomped the life out of a bug was ten times better.
My family has since relocated to the frozen forests of the Wisconsin, where people are a lot more serious about vermin. Bats flutter down chimneys. Feral barn cats terrorize the countryside. Every once in a while a confused bear will wander into the more rural neighborhoods. Cockroaches are largely absent - and anyway, when Yogi and Boo Boo are in the backyard, ready to disembowel anyone that gets between them and the rotten Kentucky Fried Chicken in the trash can, who gives a shit about bugs?
I worried that Daniel would have no one with whom to do battle, which is sad, as life is always more interesting when you have an arch-enemy or two to help kill the dull hours. Dad has reserved the pleasures of cattle-prodding bats for himself, and, let's face it, feral barn cats are kind of out the kid's league. There's always my mother, but Daniel needs something he can smash into a fine paste. Until he's willing to cook his own chili, Mom will be more of a sparring partner and never a true foe in need of elimination.
Fortunately The Great White North is full of folklore. Recently, a family friend sent Daniel a letter, alerting him to the existence the Hodag. The Hodag looks like a half-bulldog, half-stegosaurus and it lurks in the woods outside the town of Rhinelander. In 1893 a man named Eugene Shepherd assembled a posse to kill the beast, and, according to his claims, was only able to perform the task via dynamite.
Daniel read and re-read the letter, giggling hysterically as he stared wide-eyed at the accompanying photo, and it was clear that we were witnessing a case of antagonism at first sight. His response, written in the block print of a finicky little boy, read simply, "Thanks for the picture of the Hodag. I don't have any dynamite right now. But I know where I can get some. Love, Daniel."
God help us all.

On Animal Husbandry

2008-07-30T11:08:00.004-06:00

A few years ago I took Daniel to the Houston Zoo. Daniel's favorite animals are wolves and gorillas and so I thought that he would respond the most to those exhibits, particularly if they featured any babies. At that point, Daniel would more than likely begin to gush at the top of his lungs and then launch into one of his favorite topics:

DANIEL: I cannot have a (insert wild animal here) as a house pet, can I, Big Brother?
ME: No. You cannot.
DANIEL: Why not?
ME: Well, it would -
DANIEL: He would make a mess?
ME: He would make a mess, yes.
DANIEL: And he would eat the dog?
ME: Maybe.
DANIEL: Yeah, he would eat our dog.

At which point Daniel gets the same grin on his face as Calvin when he's taking a piss on the Chevrolet logo.
We get to the wolf exhibit and Daniel is strangely quiet. I thought for sure he would flip out at the gorillas, but we stood there for ten minutes and not once did he gush, ask zoo staff about adoption procedures, or tap on the glass and try to sign a message to the silverback. I actually thought that we might get through the entire trip without having one of our customary talks about appropriate public behavior. And now, imagine my surprise when we make a final stop by the rhino pit and The D shouts, at motivational speaker volume:
"Woah! John-Ross, look at the size of those Rhinoceros' testicles!"

On Smart Financing

2008-07-29T01:56:00.004-06:00

"Autism" is a pretty vague word, and usually conjures questions about my brother's penchant for Wapner and his ability to count cards. For clarity's sake, I usually describe him as a three hundred pound five year old, who has psychotic hallucinations. I think this paints the right picture - "Dora the Explorer" blaring at full volume while Daniel, surrounded by enough empty hot dog packages to choke a brontosaurus, camel-clutches a goblin who may or may not exist.
The only characteristics that belie Daniel's status as Wisconsin's Most Hulked-Out Kindergartener are One) his voracious Jungle Fever (with particular focus on Lil' Kim) and Two) his miserly sense of financing. In a good week Daniel makes about twenty dollars packaging knee braces, and if my mother doesn't immediately take him to the bank to cash his check, it's like Black Tuesday all over again. I once asked him to borrow a dollar for a soda and his brow furrowed like Justice Alito's. You could tell that no one, in the entire span of human life on this planet, had stared down a weightier decision. Not Pontius Pilate, not Batman, not anyone. I ended up being denied.
That being said, when asked what he would do with a million dollars, Daniel immediately responded that he would buy "a truckload of Cheezits". He said it with the same tone a stockbroker might use say "I would put half of it in mutual funds," like it was probably the smartest investment he would ever make. It's probably good that he'll earn less than a grand this year.

On Calling a Spade a Spade

2008-05-30T16:02:00.002-06:00

DANIEL: What’s for dinner?
MOM: Stroganoff.
DANIEL: But I don’t like it.
MOM: I’m sorry. That is what we’re having.
DANIEL: I want shredded potatoes and a peanut butter sandwich.
MOM: But we don’t have any shredded potatoes.
DANIEL: You could make them from those potatoes. (pointing to a 10lb bag of potatoes)
MOM: I’m not making two separate meals. You’ll have to eat stroganoff.
DANIEL: This is bullshit.

On the Subject of Karma

2008-05-30T14:36:00.003-06:00

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."