That my father, the hitman, didn't love anyone didn't make it any better that he didn't love me; I became one of those people who grow up to be comedians, looking for love and trying to laugh about it.
He couldn't bear to have a son, to see himself reflected in the mirror this way; he hated windows and seeing anything outside himself, and there I was; there were two other sons, who never were, but I was, still am.
So I might as well be fabulous.
When I was all grown up and my father was, as his brother described him, "fifty-three going on fourteen," I sent him a big box of how fabulous I was being; his Lance name published every which way everywhere, so there.
He sent me back this message, which I have carried with me: "I am impressed, but not surprised."
He was a poet too.
