{"product_id":"the-other-shulman-isbn-9780812972832","title":"The Other Shulman","description":"Shulman, a chubby, middle-aged stationery-store owner from New Jersey, has always claimed that he’s been gaining and losing the same thirty-five pounds since junior high–and that if you added all of that discarded weight together, he had lost an entire person. Another Shulman. A Shulman he never really cared for. A Shulman he’d always tried to lose by dieting and exercising. A Shulman he’d cover by wearing extra-large shirts in an attempt to hide his existence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis has been just a joke until, at a crossroads marked by overwhelming marital and business stress, he actually encounters this Other Shulman–an incredibly successful man who’s made life and career choices that Shulman has spurned.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt first, the Other Shulman is but a mere nuisance, a source of frustration brought about by mistaken identity. But as time goes by, his actions become increasingly destructive and threaten to sabotage all aspects of Shulman’s existence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe struggle between the two Shulmans comes to a head while Shulman is running in the New York City Marathon. And it is during the course of this race, as he runs through the old neighborhoods where his life took shape, that this ordinarily passive family man examines all the choices he’s made and realizes that in order for him to get his life back on track he must confront and overcome his haunting demons as presented in the form of this angry doppelgänger, this Other Shulman.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn 26.2 chapters, one for each mile of the marathon, \u003cb\u003eThe Other Shulman\u003c\/b\u003e is a hilarious and affecting tale of identity and aspiration from one of America’s best-known comic writers.Advance praise for The Other Shulman\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This is an amazing comic novel that is every bit as novel as it is comic, and that’s saying something. After reading this hilarious, insightful, and poignant book, I have quit my job, started training for a marathon, and am considering opening a stationery store in or around Fort Lee, New Jersey–just like Shulman.”\u003cbr\u003e–\u003cb\u003eLarry David\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The Other Shulman is hilarious. It is also emotional and powerful. As Shulman runs the marathon, you realize it’s also the marathon of our lives. A wonderfully inventive novel.”\u003cbr\u003e–\u003cb\u003eBilly Crystal\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Alan Zweibel is a very funny guy. And he has written a very funny book. If this does not make you want to buy it immediately, perhaps you should sit down and take a long, hard look at what your problem really is.”\u003cbr\u003e–\u003cb\u003eMerrill Markoe\u003c\/b\u003eAn original Saturday Night Live writer, Alan Zweibel has won numerous Emmy and Writers Guild awards for his work in television, which also includes It’s Garry Shandling’s Show (which he co-created and produced), PBS’s Great Performances, and Curb Your Enthusiasm. His many critically acclaimed theater credits include Bunny Bunny: Gilda Radner, A Sort of Romantic Comedy, which he adapted from his own book, as well as collaborating with Billy Crystal on his one-man 700 Sundays. He recently published a children’s book titled Our Tree Named Steve, and his fiction has appeared in such diverse publications as Esquire, The Atlantic Monthly, and Mad magazine. \u003cbr\u003eAlan and his wife, Robin, live in Los Angeles and New Jersey and have three children, Adam, Lindsay, and Sari.Mile 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e      This Shulman\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    By the time Shulman reached the starting line, the race was already   seven minutes old. Not that it mattered. All the runners wore a   microchip laced onto their shoes that wasn’t activated until they   stepped on the red mat. So, theoretically, it was possible for someone   to not finish first but still win if he covered the distance in less   time than everyone else. But that didn’t matter either. Shulman’s   decision to line up toward the back of the 32,000 participants in the   New York City Marathon was less strategic than it was logical. Similar   to the reason why cowboys, if given the choice, preferred to be behind   the horses during a stampede. It just seemed less likely that he’d   fall, be trampled by 64,000 muscular legs, and have his body pounded   into domino-size cubes on the roadway’s steel grating if he hung back a   little.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Look where we are!” Maria shouted as they took their first running   steps onto the Verrazano Bridge, which, as far as most New Yorkers   knew, was named after the Italian explorer best known for having this   bridge named after him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Can you believe it?” she added.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    In fact, he couldn’t. Despite all the training and anticipation, there   was no way he had truly ever envisioned himself doing something like   this. But here he was. Shulman. A middle-aged\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    stationery-store owner who until a few months ago used gym shorts only   as pajama bottoms was now running across a toll bridge, with a number   pinned to his shirt, being swept along by the adrenaline flow of the   moving throng around him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Remember what Coach Jeffrey said!” Maria shouted again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Boy, is she beautiful, he said to himself. Even in this setting. Among   the thousands of runners from hundreds of countries participating in   this event, she still stood out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Remember? Don’t start too quickly!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Boy, is she loud, he said to himself. Even in this setting. Among the   thousands of runners from hundreds of countries also calling out to   friends, hers was the voice that rang out above the rest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    But she was right. Coach Jeffrey always stressed the importance of   having respect for the distance they were about to run. Twenty-six   miles. Actually, 26.2 miles. So it was advisable to stick to the   prescribed pace and resist all urges to speed things up. The key was to   conserve for the long haul. All of which suited Shulman just fine. He   was in no rush. His goal was simple. All he wanted to do was finish.   Try to soak up all that he could along the way. And then, when the race   was over, figure out how to completely change his life and decide what   he was going to do for the next thirty or forty years. That’s all.   Simple.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Last Memorial Day. At a family barbecue. Shulman was about to make his   announcement.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Not that his plan would be of particular interest to anyone at this   picnic table. Even at this advanced age, his older siblings did not   take him seriously. At best, he was tolerated. Humored. They were   doctors. Medical and PhDs. They called each other “Doc.” Shulman owned   a stationery store. They hardly called him at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Still, it was imperative that he have his say. The deadline was   tomorrow and Shulman knew from experience that only when an idea was   actually translated into spoken words would it begin to exist in the   world outside his head. That’s how it would be liberated. Given the   freedom to live or die on its own accord in lieu of banishment to that   sad limbo where stillborn ideas reside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    So it was in this setting, at this holiday outing, that Shulman, who   had recently billowed out to a record-high 248 pounds, revealed that he   was thinking of running a marathon. That it would be for charity. And   that he’d have people sponsor him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “The money will benefit AIDS research, with a portion of it going   toward a training program that starts next Sunday, so I’ll be prepared   for the big race in November,” he explained.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Reaction was swift and hailed from all schools ranging from the   psychiatric (“You’re out of your fucking mind”), to the religious   (“God, you’re out of your fucking mind”), to the scientific (“A mass   that large, unless dropped from a tower 26.2 miles high or strapped to   the top of one of those mercury boosters they send up at Canaveral,   could never generate enough energy on its own to cover a distance like   that”). However, the most dramatic take on Shulman’s declaration was   turned in by his impossibly tan parents, who made the trip from Boca to   his New Jersey doorstep in what had to be record time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Mom, Dad, what are you doing here?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “What are we doing here? You have children. If one of them was dying,   wouldn’t you get on a plane?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Dying? Who’s dying?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “You are.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “I’m dying?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Stop with the jokes. You have AIDS. Now help your father with the   bags.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    An hour later. With his wife, Paula, who knew better than to interfere,   at his side, this discussion was still raging over coffee.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “So you were lying.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “No, Mom, I wasn’t lying. I said it was a charity run to raise money   for AIDS.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “No you didn’t.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “You weren’t even there when I told everyone.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “What does that have to do with anything?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Look, why would I say I have a terrible disease if I didn’t?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “And why would your father and I drop everything and fly our asses up   to Jersey unless you said that you did? We have very busy lives. I’m   learning Spanish so I can understand the gardener, and your father’s   going to take up golf after he gets his new hip. This cake is   delicious. Henry, try the cake.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “I’m too aggravated to eat.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Henry, the beauty just said he’s not dying.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Okay, maybe a small piece.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Why are you doing this?” Paula asked several hours later.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    It was evening. Shulman and Paula were in bed. She was leafing through   catalogues while Shulman was pretending not to mind that she was   leafing through catalogues instead of noticing that he was very   interested in having sexual relations with her. Her question was a fair   one, however, because Shulman hated running. Always did. To him, the   act of alternately placing one foot in front of the other as quickly as   possible was never regarded as anything more than a slower form of   transportation employed solely as a means to get to a faster form of   transportation. You run to catch a bus. You run to make a plane.   Mission accomplished, you take a seat. No more running.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    But as much as he hated running, Shulman had even more disdain for   runners because it seemed that all runners ever talked about (with the   possible exception of mute runners) was running. How today’s run felt.   How today’s run felt compared with yesterday’s run. How they felt a   cramp around the seventh mile of their run but it started to loosen up   around the fortieth mile of their run. In addition to their smug   implications that because they wore shorts and owned watches that   beeped intermittently they were now members of an elite segment of   middle-class white people whose metabolism had magically turned Kenyan.   That their hearts now beat only once or twice a year, that pasta now   just slid through their bodies and out their asses looking exactly the   way it did when it went in, and that someday they were all going to get   together and have a huge electrolyte festival that the rest of us   wouldn’t be attending because we’d all be dead because we weren’t   runners.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    These were rather strong feelings, so even Shulman was surprised how   his curiosity was mysteriously aroused when he saw that poster in Ben \u0026amp;   Jerry’s (of all places) claiming that in six months a person could be   trained to complete a marathon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Well, it’s for a very good cause,” he offered up to Paula.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Her stare let him know he should keep talking. That there had to be   more. Primarily because none of his previous charitable gestures had   involved jogging around five metropolitan boroughs. “There’s also a   part of me that’s intrigued by the challenge,” he continued.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “The challenge?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Yes,” he said, “the challenge.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “I can’t remember you ever being intrigued by a challenge before.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Are you kidding? I’ve always been intrigued by a good challenge. I’ve   just never done anything about it before.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “So that’s the reason? The challenge?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “That, plus I read somewhere that the greatest gift a man can give his   family is to get in shape. You know, try to make the odds work in my   favor so I won’t end up being one of those old men who watch their   grandchildren’s Little League games hooked up to a generator in foul   territory. So far, those are my reasons. Then again, maybe if you and I   had some sexual intercourse about now, it could provide further clarity   to this whole thing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “But aren’t you in training?” she asked while simultaneously picking up   the phone and dialing an 800 number. “I thought that athletes in   training were supposed to abstain because it sapped their strength.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “No-o-o-o-o,” Shulman responded with what he hoped were enough o’s to   imply that she shouldn’t be silly. “That’s just an old wives’ tale   that’s been scientifically dispelled. In fact, all the current medical   literature indicates that the more conjugal activity a man has prior to   an athletic event, especially one that requires incredible endurance   for, oh, let’s say a race through the streets of an East Coast city   that never sleeps, the more it will actually enhance his performance.   You see, sweetie, when seminal fluid accumulates, it tends to weigh a   guy down. So it stands to reason—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Yes,” Paula said into the phone. “I’m interested in these hassocks you   have on page ninety-seven of your catalogue.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Her smile helped. Somewhat. Though slight and with a meaning vague   enough to inspire lively debate, Shulman opted for an interpretation   that said, Hey, I love you and isn’t it a kick that we can still make   these little connections after all we’ve been through and, if not for   the uncanny timing of this salesperson, I’d be all over your still   remarkably attractive bones at this very moment. And while this take   may indeed have borne little or no resemblance to her actual message,   it was yet another shining example of the spin that had helped Shulman   weather the pounding the human spirit took during its trek from one end   of life to the other. It was a useful piece of artillery, serving as   both weapon and shield in a line of defense that had helped him survive   four childhoods (his own and those of his three children), the uneven   terrain of a twenty-six-year marriage, and the slow deterioration of a   business that he’d built from scratch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    His this-glass-is-not-only-full-it’s-full-of-champagne perspective came   into existence early on when attempting to satisfy parents with   stratospheric expectations. Was refined along the way to bridge any   gaps between where he actually was and where he felt he should be at   that point. And was honed to a near art form when it came to using his   overinvolvement in his kids’ lives as noble justification for the   underachievement of his own. But now, as their youngest child was   college-bound and would soon have an address that was different from   theirs, Shulman was left with few distractions. And even fewer places   to hide. No high school baseball games to fill those weekday-afternoon   voids. No all-nighters paraphrasing CliffsNotes in an attempt to   camouflage the fact that someone hadn’t read Silas Marner. Conversely,   there was no longer the need on the part of his children to heed the   wisdom of a man desperate to get things right his second time around.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    And this is where Shulman was stuck. Unprepared for the sudden absence   of all of the activity that had made life so easy to deflect. Or to   deny. With no choice but to return to himself and take a long look at   the sum of all that had happened. Examine the residue of the choices   made. Then devise his own redefinition now that “dad” would no longer   be the verb he’d made it into.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Uncomfortable as he was with the expanding emptiness around him,   Shulman, true to form, had recently started doing some serious   expanding of his own. To his great dismay, the weight was back. Once   again. The downbeat of a cycle that had begun at the conclusion of   Shulman’s tenure as a skinny kid and continued to this very day, when   people who saw old photos were prone to remark, “My God, it’s hard to   believe you were such a skinny kid.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The numbers were unofficial, but according to his calculations, Shulman   had been losing and gaining the same thirty pounds since his bar   mitzvah. And if you added up all that weight, it more or less equaled a   whole person. Another Shulman. Whom he hated. And pinched. And tried to   conceal by wearing oversize shirts while he dieted and did crunches in   health clubs in an attempt to rid himself of the Shulman he didn’t want   to be.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    There were times when he just couldn’t shake the specter of that Other   Shulman. Times when he would close his eyes and try to conjure up an   image of this discarded person, the Shulman he chose to rid himself of   in favor of the husband of this woman who was ordering furniture at one   o’clock in the morning. In favor of the proprietor of a store that no   one came into anymore. What would that guy’s life be like? he’d wonder.   Were there parts of him that Shulman should have kept for himself?   Should he, dear God, have kept all of him? Was it possible that   Shulman, after all this time and effort, had indeed opted to be the   wrong Shulman?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Such thoughts used to appear only occasionally. Haunt him for a while.   And then move on. But lately they were occurring with enough   overlapping regularity to constitute a general condition. A condition   that now refused to pass. So, as an extremely uncomfortable Shulman   resigned himself to still another night of pay-cable titillation and   worries about a livelihood that was barely alive, he couldn’t help but   wonder what the Other Shulman was doing at that very moment.[quote] --Billy Crystal Author of Bunny Bunny","brand":"Villard","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300666134757,"sku":"NP9780812972832","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780812972832.jpg?v=1767740834","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-other-shulman-isbn-9780812972832","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}