you to try to get close to him. He’s crazy, his mother is crazy—they’re all crazy, to be honest. I was surprised he’s not in a room with padded walls, to tell you the truth … Now, I know it’s a lot to take in, but please try not to worry about it. And please don’t contact him.”
“Try not to worry about it? Who were those other guys at the funeral? More secret relatives?”
“I honestly don’t know,” she says. “Your father lived a lot of lives before me. And I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go back to that Forensics Squad. I don’t like you digging up ancient history, obsessing on death. It’s not healthy.”
I say nothing. What I think is this:
Dumb move, Mom. If youwanted to make sure that I did stay in Forensics, that’s all you’d have to say
.
I spend the rest of the evening doing my best to ignore Mom and the world. I go up to my room and just pace and think and then eventually fall asleep. So then, of course, when it’s time to actually go to bed for the night, I’m wide-awake. All these weird thoughts are running through my mind. How can I really write a book of my dad’s advice if I don’t know anything about his life? What good would it accomplish? Am I trying to bring him back from the dead with this project? Just saying that word—“dead”—or thinking it, rather, is still hard for me. As that dreaded word enters my mind, I feel my eyes go dark, like I can’t process the word while thinking of it. How could I have avoided it for the past sixteen and three-quarters years? Just as life is all around, so too is death.
“Okay,” I tell myself. “Quit being so glum, GL. You’re gonna end up wearing bondage pants and looking like a raccoon if you keep up on this morbid path.” Working on this book will allow me to spend time in the company of the man, or pretend to, anyway. And once it is completed, I could leaf through the pages, drown myself in his words, and live the lie that he is still alive.
But what do I know about the man? What do I
really
know? I know his father’s name was Guy. That I definitely know. It is a conversation we had many times whenever I would complain. Why would I complain? Because it’s the twenty-first century and my name is Guy! “It’s a good name, Guy,” Dad would say. “A warrior name. The name of my father. The name of Guy Fawkes. The name of Guy de Maupassant. The name of Sir Guy of Gisborne.” (I have no idea who these people are.)
I also know his mom’s name was Lana. “Lana Langman.” Every time her name came up, Dad would do the “say it ten times fast” challenge. Lana Langman. Lana Langman. Lana Langman. Lana Langman. Lana Langman. Lana Langman. Lana Langman. Lana Langman. Lana Langman. Lana Langman. Sounds like total gibberish. Still cracks me up. Good stuff. But I don’t know enough!
I get up and grab a notebook. I flip to a blank page and stare at it, its white rectangular form looking to me like a tombstone of pure marble. It is up to me to write an epitaph. Maybe this book isn’t just going to be a list of funny/wise things Dad said. Maybe it’s going to be more. Maybe it’s going to tell all of it. All of him. Maybe all of me. I begin to write. My sweaty fingers struggle to grip the pen as I write those all-powerful words: CHAPTER ONE .
“Rules for Living”: The Francis Langman Story
CHAPTER ONE
“It is what it is.” —FRANCIS LANGMAN
Francis Langman of Berry Ridge, New Jersey, was born in Newark in 1929. His parents were Guy and Lana Langman. Say “Lana Langman” ten times fast. Guy’s nickname was “Wolf,” but no one knows why. They lived in Newark and worked in a clothing shop
.
Francis, aka “Fran the Man” [okay, no one called him that but himself], entered this world at the beginning of the Great Depression but lived a happy young life of stickball and chasing girls. He hung out with the other Jews on Prince Street and once gotkicked out of synagogue for yelling “Jesus
“Try not to worry about it? Who were those other guys at the funeral? More secret relatives?”
“I honestly don’t know,” she says. “Your father lived a lot of lives before me. And I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go back to that Forensics Squad. I don’t like you digging up ancient history, obsessing on death. It’s not healthy.”
I say nothing. What I think is this:
Dumb move, Mom. If youwanted to make sure that I did stay in Forensics, that’s all you’d have to say
.
I spend the rest of the evening doing my best to ignore Mom and the world. I go up to my room and just pace and think and then eventually fall asleep. So then, of course, when it’s time to actually go to bed for the night, I’m wide-awake. All these weird thoughts are running through my mind. How can I really write a book of my dad’s advice if I don’t know anything about his life? What good would it accomplish? Am I trying to bring him back from the dead with this project? Just saying that word—“dead”—or thinking it, rather, is still hard for me. As that dreaded word enters my mind, I feel my eyes go dark, like I can’t process the word while thinking of it. How could I have avoided it for the past sixteen and three-quarters years? Just as life is all around, so too is death.
“Okay,” I tell myself. “Quit being so glum, GL. You’re gonna end up wearing bondage pants and looking like a raccoon if you keep up on this morbid path.” Working on this book will allow me to spend time in the company of the man, or pretend to, anyway. And once it is completed, I could leaf through the pages, drown myself in his words, and live the lie that he is still alive.
But what do I know about the man? What do I
really
know? I know his father’s name was Guy. That I definitely know. It is a conversation we had many times whenever I would complain. Why would I complain? Because it’s the twenty-first century and my name is Guy! “It’s a good name, Guy,” Dad would say. “A warrior name. The name of my father. The name of Guy Fawkes. The name of Guy de Maupassant. The name of Sir Guy of Gisborne.” (I have no idea who these people are.)
I also know his mom’s name was Lana. “Lana Langman.” Every time her name came up, Dad would do the “say it ten times fast” challenge. Lana Langman. Lana Langman. Lana Langman. Lana Langman. Lana Langman. Lana Langman. Lana Langman. Lana Langman. Lana Langman. Lana Langman. Sounds like total gibberish. Still cracks me up. Good stuff. But I don’t know enough!
I get up and grab a notebook. I flip to a blank page and stare at it, its white rectangular form looking to me like a tombstone of pure marble. It is up to me to write an epitaph. Maybe this book isn’t just going to be a list of funny/wise things Dad said. Maybe it’s going to be more. Maybe it’s going to tell all of it. All of him. Maybe all of me. I begin to write. My sweaty fingers struggle to grip the pen as I write those all-powerful words: CHAPTER ONE .
“Rules for Living”: The Francis Langman Story
CHAPTER ONE
“It is what it is.” —FRANCIS LANGMAN
Francis Langman of Berry Ridge, New Jersey, was born in Newark in 1929. His parents were Guy and Lana Langman. Say “Lana Langman” ten times fast. Guy’s nickname was “Wolf,” but no one knows why. They lived in Newark and worked in a clothing shop
.
Francis, aka “Fran the Man” [okay, no one called him that but himself], entered this world at the beginning of the Great Depression but lived a happy young life of stickball and chasing girls. He hung out with the other Jews on Prince Street and once gotkicked out of synagogue for yelling “Jesus
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