I suggested he start by intentionally manifesting Mom’s heating bill.
He blocked me for a week.
His newest identity was stand-up comedian.
Not as a hobby.
According to Vance, he was building a comedy empire.
So far, that empire consisted of a few open-mic appearances at a bowling alley, one short social-media clip, and repeated discussions about professional headshots.
“For what?” I asked.
“My brand.”
“What brand?”
“My comedy brand.”
“You’ve performed twelve minutes of stand-up.”
“That’s why I need momentum.”
“You need jokes.”
“I have jokes.”
“You have three jokes, and I’m pretty sure two of them are mine.”
One of them actually was.
Years earlier, I had texted him from a hotel complaining about an eighteen-dollar bowl of oatmeal.
My exact line was:
“Apparently these oats graduated from Harvard.”
Months later, he used it onstage.
When I accused him of stealing it, he called it “parallel thinking.”
“No,” I told him. “Parallel thinking requires two brains arriving independently at the same idea. You scrolled through your messages.”
Mom, of course, sighed.
“Diane, why can’t you just support him?”
“I am supporting him. I’m encouraging him to steal better material.”
That was our family dynamic.
Sarcasm made Vance tolerable.
