Chapter 11 construction worker

As we all know, writers write writers, and it is easy to produce the most rubbish words.No editor in America would want to read the second sentence of a novel that began with, "Cragg snuffs out his cigarette and throws himself at the typewriter." So don't worry: it's a novel about a taxi driver, a movie star and a famous child psychologist.No hypocrisy, no nonsense, this is my promise.But you'll have to be a little patient, because there's a writer in there too.I wouldn't call him "Cragg" and I can guarantee he won't be the only sensitive one of those characters, but we're going to be with him for a while and you better think of him as clumsy and reckless because whatever Whether in fiction or in real life, this is true of almost all writers.

Thirteen years ago, in 1948, at the age of twenty-two, I was employed by United Press International as a writer in the financial news section for fifty-four dollars a week.It's not a good job, but it has two advantages: first, if someone asks me what I do, I say "work at United Press International", which sounds quite proud; second, every morning, I Appeared tiredly in front of the Daily News building in a cheap raincoat that shrunk a size and made me fit a little tighter; on my head was a worn-out brown top (in the old days I would have said " A broken hat", I'm glad I now know how to put my words into words more or less honestly. The hat was worn too much, pinched, shaped, and reshaped countless times in my nervousness; in fact, the hat wasn't broken at all).I loved those few minutes each day, walking the last few hundred yards of ramp between the subway exit and the Every Mouth News building, feeling like Ernest Hemingway on his way to work at the Kansas City Star.

Did Hemingway return home from combat before his twentieth birthday?Well, me too; well, maybe I didn't get hurt; didn't get a medal for valor, but the essence was the same.Did Hemingway worry about going to college to waste time and delay his career?Hell, no; neither do I.Did Hemingway really care about journalism?Of course not; there's a nuance here, you see, he's breaking through at The Star, while I'm working my way through the financial journalism section, pissed off.But the important thing is that I knew that Hemingway would be the first to agree with me that a writer has to start somewhere.

"Domestic corporate bond prices are unusually high today, trading a bit buoyantly—" I've been writing this for UPI all day, and "Climbing Oil Stocks Gradually Enter Active Over-the-Counter Markets" , and "Announcement by the Board of Directors of Leading Roller Company" - I wrote hundreds of words, although I never really understood what it meant (God, what is a call option, what is a put option, What's a sinking fund bond? To hell with me if I knew), telegraph typewriters clicked, Wall Street tickers ticked, people around talked about baseball, and thank goodness it was time to close.

It always makes me happy to think that Hemingway was married at a young age, as he was in this.My wife's name is Joan, and we live at the far west end of West Twelfth Street, in a large room with three windows on the third floor.If it's not there, it's certainly not our fault.Every night, after supper, while Joan washed the dishes, there was a silence, even reverent solemnity, in the room.This is the time I rest in the corner behind the tri-fold screen, where there is a desk with a student lamp and a portable typewriter.It was there, of course, in the white light of the lamp, that my feeble comparability with Hemingway was most tested.For no novels such as "On Lake Michigan" have come out of my machine; nor have my typewriter produced novels such as "Three Days Gale" or "The Killers"; There was something that Joan called "remarkable," and I knew deep down that it was always, always, bad.

Many nights, all I do is hide behind the screen and stare blankly—read every word printed in the cardboard matches, or, read the advertisement on the back cover of the "Saturday Literary Review"—this autumn, it is also such a night, I I accidentally read the following lines: —and a phone number underneath, what looked like a Bronx area code. When I came out from behind the screen that night, Joan turned away from the sink, dripping soapy water onto the open magazine.I don't want to harass you with simple, witty Hemingwayian conversations between me and Joan.I would also skip my polite, non-substantial phone conversation with Bernard Silver.I'm going to skip a few days until one night later, I take the subway for an hour and finally find his apartment.

"Mr. Prentice?" he asked. "What's your name? Bob? Yes, Bob, I'm. Come in, whatever." I think Bernie and his home are worth describing.He was about forty-five to fifty years old, much shorter and stockier than me, and he wore an expensive-looking gray-blue sweatshirt that wasn't tucked in.His head was half the size of mine, with thinning black hair combed back neatly, as if he had just gotten out of the shower standing on his back; his face was the most open, confident face I'd ever seen. The apartment is clean, spacious, creamy white, with carpet throughout and arches everywhere.In a narrow alcove near the wardrobe ("Take off your coat and hat; OK. Hang it on this hook and we'll be set; OK."), I saw a stack of framed pictures, all of World War I Different group photos of soldiers, but there is no such photo on the wall of the living room, only a few iron lamp stands, and a few mirrors.Walking into a room, you don't even bother to notice the pictures, because all your attention is drawn to the one and only amazing piece of furniture.I don't know what you guys would call it - the closet? —whatever it is called, it seems to go on and on, chest-high in places and waist-high in others, with at least three shades of brown trim.There was a place for a television set, and a section for a radio gramophone; bar.

"Ginger ale?" he asked. "My wife and I don't drink, but I can get you a ginger ale." I figured that when Bernie interviewed his writer candidates in the evenings, his wife must have been out to the movies a lot; I did meet her later, as I shall see below.Anyway, that first night, it was just the two of us, sitting in sleek faux-leather chairs, drinking ginger ale, talking serious business. "First," he said, "tell me, Bob. You know what?" Before I could ask him what he was talking about, he had pulled the book from some recess in the closet and handed it—it was This paperback, which you can buy in places like this, is the memoir of a New York taxi driver.Then he started telling me what the book was about, and I was looking at it, nodding, and wishing I hadn't gone out and stayed home.

Bernard Silver was also a taxi driver.He has been doing this for twenty-two years, and he is as old as me. In the past two or three years, he began to think why he couldn't write his own experience into a novel. Isn't this novel a fortune? "I want you to look at this," he said, and this time he pulled out a clean little box from the closet, a three-by-five file card case.He told me that there were hundreds of different experiences recorded in it; he also made me understand that they may not be completely true, but he assured me that at least the main plot of each story was true.Can I imagine how a really good knife catcher would treat such a wealth of material?Or can I imagine how handsomely such a writer would earn in magazine sales, royalties and accompanying film rights?

"Well, I don't know, Mr. Silver. I'll have to think about it. I think I'll have to read the book first and see what—" "No, wait. You beat me to it, Bob. First of all, I didn't ask you to read that book, because you won't learn anything from it. That guy was all about gangsters, women, sex, booze That kind of stuff, I'm totally different." I sat there, gulping down my ginger ale, looking like I was thirsty, and really just wished he'd finished his talk on how he was different so I could leave.Bernie Silver was a warm man, he told me; he was an ordinary, ordinary guy with a heart of humanity and a real outlook on life; do I understand him?

I have a little trick to isolate yourself from other people (it's easy to do; you just keep your eyes on the speaker's mouth, watch the rhythm of the speech, the endless shapes of the lips, the tongue, and you'll hear nothing gone), I was about to do so when he said: "Don't get me wrong, Bob. I've never asked a writer to write a word for me without paying. You write for me, and you get paid for it. Of course, at this stage of the game, There won't be a lot of money yet, but you'll still get paid. Fair enough? Come on, I'll refill you." Here's his suggestion: He uses the cards to give me ideas; I turn it into a short story in the first person by Bernie Silver, maybe a thousand or two words long, and he promises immediate payment.If he likes what I write, will write me more - one a week if I can handle it - and of course the stories will generate other income besides the pay per story, I can fully expect to get a decent percentage of the cut.He gave me a cryptic look when he mentioned his plans to promote the short stories, and while he tried to hint that Reader's Digest might be interested, he admitted that he hadn't yet been in touch with a publisher that would eventually It is a matter of compiling these short stories into a book, but he said that he can mention a few names to me, so that my eyeballs will fall out after listening to them.Like, have I ever heard of Manny Widman? "Oh, maybe," he said, laughing, "maybe you'd know better about Weed Manley." This was a red-hot movie star who, in the thirties and forties, was like Kirk W. Douglas, Burt Lancaster so famous.Weed Manley was Bernie's elementary school classmate in the Bronx.Mutual friends have kept them close until now.Another thing that keeps their friendship alive is that Weed Manley has repeatedly said that he wants to make the colorful life of Bernie Silver, the rude and lovely New York cab driver, for the screen or for TV. The series, with him playing Bernie Silver. "Now, I have another name to tell you," he said.This time he gave me a sideways look when he said that name, as if he could use whether I knew the name to measure my comprehensive education level. "Dr. Alexander Korov." Fortunately, I'm not in a daze yet.To be precise, although the name is not very popular, but I am not completely ignorant.It's one of those names that pops up a lot in The New York Times, vaguely remembered by thousands of people, because we've seen that sort of name mentioned in The New York Times so often over the years with dignity.Oh, the name may not have the same impact as "" or "", but it is basically on the same level; you might put it in the same category as "" or "", which is a notch or two above the popularity of "". "The man you're talking about," I said. "The guy who studies that kind of stress in children?" Bernie nodded solemnly at me, forgave my vulgarity, and repeated the name correctly again. "I mean Dr. Alexander Korov, eminent child psychologist." You see, long before Dr. Korov was famous, he was an elementary school teacher in the Bronx, the teacher of two of the naughtiest, sweetest naughties, Bernie Silver and that movie star, Wade or something .He had been tenderly watching the two young men, and nothing could have pleased him more than to have his influence in the publishing world facilitate their plans.It seemed that the three of them had everything in place except for the final ingredient, the most elusive catalyst: the best writer for the job. "Bob," Bernie said, "I'll be honest with you. I got writer after writer after writer and they weren't right. Sometimes I hardly trust my own judgment: I take what they write Showed it to Dr. Korov, who shook his head and said, 'Bernie, try again.'” "Look, Bob," he said, leaning eagerly forward in his chair. "It's not some whim; I'm not kidding anyone. This kind of thing is like construction. Manley, Dr. Korov and myself—we're building this thing. Oh, don't worry, Bob, I know —What, do I look that stupid?—I know their way of building is different from mine. But why should they be like mine? A movie star? A well-known scholar and writer? You Think they don't have anything of their own to build? Do you think they don't have anything more important to do than that? Of course they do. But honestly, Bob, they're interested. I can show you their letter, I can tell You have sat in this room with their wives many times and I can tell you how many times Manley has been here alone. We have been talking for hours on end. They are all interested and you don't have to worry about that. So you understand me Did I tell you that, Bob? Honestly, this thing is a construction activity." He began to make architectural gestures slowly, starting with the carpet with both hands, laying the invisible wooden boards there until they were Build a building of his fame and fortune, our building of money and freedom, as high as eyebrows. I said sure it sounded good, but if he didn't mind, I'd rather know how much each story would pay right away. "Now I'm going to tell you the answer," he said.He went to the closet again—like part of the desk—and picked a personal check from the pile of papers. "I'm not just telling you," he said. "I'll show you, too. Fair enough? I gave it to the last writer. Here, let's see." It was a voided check, and it stated that Bernard Silver was payable to someone at sight for twenty-five dollars. "Read it!" he insisted, as if the check itself were a remarkable work of prose.He watched me turn the check over and look at the endorsement of the man on the reverse, which was signed somewhere under Bernie's own blurred signature, which was about paying the full amount in advance, and the bank's rubber stamp . "Does it look all right to you?" he asked. "That's it. Is it clear now?" I thought everything was clear, so I handed him the check and asked if he could show me the cards now, and anyway, we'd better get started. "Wait a minute, wait a moment! Take it easy." His face blossomed into a smile. "You know what, you're so hotheaded, Bob? I mean I like that about you, but don't you think I should know a little about a guy who comes in here and asks me for a check and calls himself a writer? Yes, I know you're a Journalist, but do I know you're a writer? Why don't you show me what's on your lap?" It was a pale yellow vellum envelope containing photocopied two short stories, the only two short stories I'd ever written that were handable. "Ah," I said. "No problem. Here you are. Of course it's a completely different—style from what you're talking about." "Never mind, never mind. Of course they're different," he said, opening the envelope. "Relax, I'll take a look." "I mean, they're kind of very—well, purely literary, I suppose. I don't think they'll give you a real sense of my—" "I said, don't be nervous." He took out the frameless II Gen glasses from the pocket of his sweatshirt, leaned back and put on the glasses with difficulty, frowning, and began to look, and it took a long time to finish watching The first page of the first novel.I looked at him and thought this might be the lowest point of my literary career.God, a taxi driver!Finally, the first page was turned over, and then, the second page was quickly turned over, and it was obvious that it was skipped.Then, page three, page four—twelve or fourteen pages of the novel in all—I clutched my warm, empty ginger ale glass as if ready to pull back and smash it to his head. At the beginning, he nodded slightly, not very firmly, but the more he looked back, the more firmly he nodded, and he continued until the end.When he had finished, bewildered, he went back to the last page; then he put this one down and picked up the second—without reading it, just to check the length.Apparently that's enough for him to watch in one night.Finally he took off his glasses and smiled all over his face. "Well, good," he said. "I don't spend time on that one anymore, the first one was good. Of course, of course, as you said, you're bringing something in a completely different style, and it's kind of hard for me to—you know—" With a wave of his hand, he waved away the rest of the complex sentence. "But let me tell you, Bob. Not only are you reading these novels, but I'm going to ask you a few questions about writing. For example," he closed his eyes, touched his eyelids gracefully with his fingertips, and thought, maybe for He added weight to his next sentence, pretending to be thinking. "For example, let me ask you this: Suppose someone writes to you and says, 'Bob, I don't have time to write you a short message today, so I'll write you a long letter instead.' You know they are What do you mean?" Don't worry, I played really well tonight.I don't want to let the twenty-five dollars slip through my hands without making an effort; no matter how serious and nonsensical my answers are, there is no doubt that the impression left in his mind is that this candidate for writing Hands know the difficulty and value of condensing articles.Regardless, he looked satisfied. "Okay. Now let's change the angle. I just mentioned 'architecture'; well, look, you know that writing a novel is also a kind of construction? It's like building a house?" He was satisfied with the metaphor he had created, and even waited It's too late to accept my award and nod seriously. "I mean a house has to have a roof, but if you put the roof first you're in trouble, aren't you? Before you put the roof, you gotta put the walls. Before you put the walls, you gotta get the foundations—I It means top to bottom. Before you can lay the foundation, you still have to bulldoze the land and dig the right hole in the right place. Right?" I fully agree with him; yet he ignores my rapt, flattering glance.He rubbed the bridge of his nose with the back of his hand; then turned to me triumphantly. "Well, suppose you built yourself a house like that. What would happen? What would be the first question you ask yourself when the house is built?" I could tell he didn't care if my muffled voice answered the question.He knew what the problem was and he couldn't wait to tell me. "Where is the window?" He spread his hands and asked urgently. "That's the question. Where does the light come from? You know what I mean when I say where the light comes from, don't you, Bob? I mean the point of view of a novel; the truth embedded in it; and—" "Revelation or something," I said, and he snapped his fingers vigorously and happily, stopping his search for the third noun. "That's it. That's it, Bob. You're right." Ok, deal.We had another ginger ale and it was sealed.He thumbed through the pile of thought cards, trying to find one for my test assignment.One "experience" he picked was Bernie Silver saving the marriage of a neurotic couple in a taxi, and he just looked at the couple in the rearview mirror while they were arguing and said a few carefully considered words .At least, to the effect that it is.Actually the card reads: But Bernie had a lot of faith in me and thought I was capable of writing it. In the aisle, he carefully removes my raincoat from the closet and helps me put it on.Now I can take my time looking at those World War I photos—a long row of yellowed, framed snapshots of men all smiling, arm in arm.In the middle is a lone trumpeter on the parade ground, and in the distance is a gray barracks with a flag flying high.This may be a cover photo of an old American Legion magazine, the title says something like "Duty" - an excellent soldier, standing tall and straight, with his simple, loud trombone on his lips, full of manliness I am so angry, I will definitely cry if I see it. "I see you like my boy," said Bernie lovingly. "I bet you can't guess who that lad is." Wade Manley?Dr. Alexander Korov?Lionel Trilling?But I think I do know, even before I catch a glimpse of his smug red face, that the lad is Bernie himself.Maybe it sounds silly, but I have to say that I really admired him at the time, not much, but sincerely. "Oh, I can't believe it, Bernie. You look—you look fabulous." "Anyway, I was much thinner back then," he said, patted his smooth belly, and sent me to the door.I remember staring down at his big, stupid, slack face, trying to find the trumpeter in the photo there. On the way home, the subway wobbled, I hiccupped, the smell of ginger ale wafted up, and I became more and more aware that twenty-five dollars for a writer writing a few thousand words is not bad, and some writers do better than that. It's much worse.Twenty-five dollars is almost half of what I earned in the forty miserable hours I spent on domestic corporate bonds, sinking fund bonds; if Bernie liked this first one, if I could write him one every week If so, it means that the income will increase by 50%.Seventy-nine dollars a week!With that income, plus the forty-six dollars a week that Joan earns as a secretary, it won't be long before we get to Paris (maybe we won't meet someone like that there, maybe I can't write, But an initial self-imposed exile was essential to my Hemingway project).And, it might be fun—or at least it might be fun to tell people about it: I'm going to be the taxi driver's hack, the builder's builder. Anyway, I ran all the way home along West Twelfth Street that night, and if I wasn't laughing and yelling and interrupting Joan and clowning around her, it was just me forcing myself to lean against the stairs downstairs. The mailbox stood there for a while, so that I could breathe steadily, and become elegant and humorous. I planned to tell her about it with such an expression. "Okay, but who do you think will pay for it?" she asked. "He couldn't have paid for it himself, who would it be? A taxi driver can't afford twenty-five dollars a week, no matter how long it lasts, can he?" It hadn't crossed my mind--only someone like her could ask such a deadly question of logic--but my ridiculously romantic thoughts got the better of me and told her to leave it alone. "Who knows? Hell, who cares? Maybe Wade Manley paid for it. Maybe some doctor paid for it. The thing is, somebody paid for it anyway." "Okay," she said, "well, then. How much time do you think it would take to write a story like this?" "Oh, hell, it doesn't take long at all. I can kill it in two or three hours on weekends." But I couldn't do it.Throughout Saturday afternoons and evenings, I wrote one unsuccessful beginning after another; I got lost in the conversation of the bickering couple, and I couldn't theoretically be sure how much Bernie could see in the rearview mirror, nor I suspect that on that occasion, no matter what the taxi driver could say, the man didn't tell him to shut up and told him to just watch the road and drive. By Sunday afternoon, I was walking around, breaking pencils, throwing them in the wastebasket, yelling to hell; to hell with everything; apparently, I couldn't even be a fucking idiot taxi The driver's damn knife catcher. "You're trying too hard," Joan said. "Oh, I knew it would. You're too genteel for anybody, Bob. It's ridiculous. Just think of all the sad stuff you've read or heard that made you cry. Think." I told her leave me alone and if she didn't do her damn thing I'd put her Irving Berlin in her mouth right away. But that night, as Irving Berlin himself once said, something wonderful happened.I'm done making up that fake story, I'm done building it.First I bulldozed the ground, dug a hole, and laid my foundation; then I brought in the timber, and bang, bang, bang—the walls went up, the roof went up, and the lovely little chimney stand on top.Oh, and I built a lot of windows, too--big, square windows--to let in the light without a shadow, and Bernie Silver in the sun was the wisest, sweetest, bravest, and sweetest man, One of those guys who keeps saying "guys". "It's so well written," Joan told me over breakfast, after she'd finished reading it. "Oh, great writing, Bob. I'm sure it's exactly the kind of thing he wanted." Indeed.I can't forget Bernie sitting there, ginger ale in one hand, reading my manuscript in the other, hands still shaking a little, exploring all the touching and fitting wonders of the little room I'd built for him.I'll bet even now that he never read anything like that.I watched him explore from window to window, watched his face divine in their light.When he had finished reading, he stood up—we all stood up—and he shook my hand. "Beautiful," he said. "Bob, I had a hunch from the beginning that you could write well, but to be honest, I didn't expect you to write so well. Now you may want a check in your heart, but I tell you. I won't write any checks. I'll pay you cash directly." He fumbled a five-dollar bill out of the taxi driver's sturdy black wallet and held it in my hand.Apparently he wanted to ceremoniously place the bills in my hand one by one, making it a ritual, so I stood there smiling down, waiting for the next bill; I stood there, hands outstretched, head up , saw him put his wallet away. Only five dollars!Until now I wish I could snarl at him, at least I would have expressed the wrenching anger in my words—it would have saved me so much trouble later—but then I just asked humbly, “Five dollars?” "Yes!" He swayed back happily on his heels. "Okay, but Bernie, how did we set it up? I mean, the check you showed me, I—" He slowly pulled back the smile, with a look of surprise and hurt on his face, as if I had spit in his face. "Oh, Bob," he said. "Bob, what's this? Look, let's stop playing hide and seek. I know I showed you that check; I can show you it again." Volt, with righteous indignation, went to the closet and rummaged through it for the check. It's the same check, yes.The amount was still exactly twenty-five dollars; but on the back it was over the man's signature, and Bernie's crumpled signature, along with the bank's rubber stamp, was all fucking clear now.Of course, it said: "Pay the full amount of five papers in advance." So I wasn't robbed - maybe, just cheated - and now the disgusting ginger ale makes me feel like a fool, which I'm sure Ernest Hemingway probably never felt in his life Pass. "Am I right, Bob?" he asked. "Am I right?" He asked me to sit down again and tried to explain to me with a smile.How could I have thought he was talking about twenty-five dollars?Don't I know what kind of money the taxi driver takes home?Oh, some taxi drivers with their own cars might be a different story; but you ordinary taxi drivers?You taxi company drivers?You can only make forty or forty-five a week, fifty if you're lucky.Even being like himself, childless and with a wife who works full shift at the phone company, it's not easy.If I don't believe it, just ask a taxi driver; it's a hard time. "I mean, do you think anyone else would pay for an article like this? Would you? Would you?" He looked at me incredulously, almost laughing, as if to say, if there is such a thought, Then I must have come into this world only yesterday. "Bob, I'm sorry for the misunderstanding," he said as he walked me to the door, "but I'm glad we made it clear now. Because seriously, you write so well, I have a feeling We're going to make it. To tell you the truth, Bob, I'll get back to you later this week, okay?" I remember how much I despised myself for not having the courage to say stop bothering, I just shook off his lovingly heavy hand on my neck as I made my way to the door.In the aisle, facing the young trumpeter again, I suddenly had an uneasy thought that I could anticipate what we were going to say next.I'd say, "Bernie, were you really a trumpeter in the military before? Or was it just for that photoshoot?" And he will not feel ashamed at all, and there will be no change in his simple smile, he will say: "It's just for taking a picture." Worse still: I knew the trumpeter in the wide-brimmed hat would turn around, the spunky figure in the photograph would slowly sag and turn his face away from the mouth of the trumpet, the silent, talentless two pieces Lips never blow a fart.I knew it would pretend not to see me, so I didn't take the risk.I just said, "Bye, Bernie," and I left the damn place and went home. Joan's reaction to the news was surprisingly peaceful.I don't mean that she was "considerate" to me in the matter, in which case, in the mood that night, her "thoughtfulness" could have killed me; I mean, she was too easy on Bernie. Poor, lost, brave little man, dreaming big dreams—that kind of thing.Can I imagine how much he spent over the years?How much hard-earned money has so pitifully fallen into the bottomless pit of second-rate, third-rate or even ten-rate writers?How lucky he was to finally hook up a top-notch writer with a voided check that he forged.How touching, how "sweet", he already knew the difference between me and those writers when he said "I'll pay you straight cash". "Well, for God's sake," I said to her, thankfully for once I was more practical than she was. "For God's sake, you know why he's giving me cash? You know? Because he's going to sell this story to the damn Reader's Digest next week for $150,000, because if I have A copy of the check, it can be proved that I wrote it, and he will be in trouble, which is why he pays me directly in cash." "Would you like to bet?" she asked, looking at me with a lovely mix of sympathy and pride. "Would you bet that if he sold the novel to Reader's Digest or something, he'd insist on paying you half?" "Is that Bob Prentice?" came the cheerful voice on the phone three days later. "I'm Bernie Silver. Bob, I just got back from Dr. Alexander Korov's house. I don't want to tell you what he told me, but I want to tell you that Dr. Alexander Korov thinks you Excellent." Whatever my answer to this—"Did he really say that?" Remember her smiling and tugging at my shirtsleeve like, look—what did I tell you?I had to push her aside and wave her to be quiet so I could continue talking to Bernie. "He wanted to show this novel to a few friends of his in the publishing world," Bernie said, "and he wanted me to print another copy and send it to Manley on the West Coast. So listen, Bob, let's Waiting to see how the novel goes, and I want to give you a few more assignments in the meantime. Or wait—listen." His voice was thick and deep with new ideas. "Listen, maybe you'd be more comfortable writing it yourself. Would you rather do that? Would you rather skip the cards and use your imagination?" On a rainy night, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, two gangsters got into Bernie Silver's taxi.粗眼瞧上去，他们可能跟普通乘客没什么两样，但伯尼一下就认了出来，因为“拿我来说，在曼哈顿的街道上开了二十二年出租车，多少有一手”。 当然，两人中一个是典型惯犯，另一个是有点受惊的男孩，可以说“只是个小阿飞”。 “我不喜欢他们说话的方式，”伯尼通过我告诉他的读者，“我不喜欢他们给我的地址——曼哈顿最低级的夜总会——最糟糕的是，我不喜欢他们坐我的出租车。” 那么你知道他会怎么做吗？噢，别着急，他没有停车，没有绕过去，没有把他们从车后座拖出来，没有挨个朝他们胯下踢去——根本没有《载客中》里的胡说八道。首先，从他们的对话中看出他们并不是在逃亡；至少不是在今晚。今晚他们去那个下等小酒馆踩点（就是他们上车那里靠街角的小酒店），明晚十一点才动手。不管怎样，当他们到那个夜总会时，惯犯给小阿飞一些钱，“给，伙计。你就坐这辆车回家，好好睡一觉。明天见。”就在那当口，伯尼知道他得行动了。 “那个小阿飞住在皇后区附近，这让我们有充足的时间谈话，所以我问他喜欢冠军队中的哪个球员。”从那时开始，伯尼运用完美沟通技巧，还有代代相传的大道理，一直和那个男孩聊着，他们谈健康、干净的生活，谈阳光、牛奶之类的话题，车还没驶上皇后区大桥，他已开始把那男孩从犯罪深渊里拖出来。当他们在皇后大道上疾驰时，好似一对热衷于的人在争论不休，到达目的地时，伯尼的乘客已泪流满面了。 “我看到他付钱的时候，咽了几口唾沫”这是我为伯尼加上的说话方式，“我能感觉到这孩子身上有什么变了。我对此抱有希望，不管怎样，也许只是个心愿罢了。我知道我为他尽全力了。”回到市里，伯尼打电话给警察局，建议他们第二天晚上在那个小酒馆附近安排点人手。 千真万确，确实有人试图抢劫那家小酒店，只不过被两个强壮可爱的警察给挫败了。也是千真万确，只有一个混混被抓进监狱——就是那个惯犯。“我不知道那晚那个男孩去哪里了，”伯尼最后说，“但我情愿相信他在家里，躺在床上，喝着牛奶，读体育专栏。” 这里有屋顶，上面有烟囱；有窗户，光线照得进来；这又是一篇让亚历山大·科罗夫博士哈哈大笑的文章，又一篇可以向《读者文摘》投稿的文章；又一次机会的暗示：可以和签订出版合同，由威德·曼莱主演制作成本三百万美元的电影；还有寄给我的又一个五美元。 一天，在五十九街与第三大道交汇处，一位虚弱的小个子老绅士坐在出租车里哭了起来，伯尼说：“先生，我能为您做点什么吗？”接着我花了两页半纸写了我所能想象出来的最让人心碎、最不幸的故事。他是个鳏夫；唯一的女儿很久前就嫁人并搬到密歇根州的弗林特去了；二十二年来他过着孤独痛苦的生活，可他都勇敢地活过来了，因为他有一份他热爱的工作——在一家大型商业花房里照料天竺葵。可是这个上午，管理人员通知他，他必须走人：他太老了，不再适合这工作。“就在那时，”据伯尼·西维尔所说，“我才将他说的一切与他给我的地址联系起来——布鲁克林大桥靠曼哈顿侧的一个僻静处。” 当然，伯尼不太肯定，他的乘客是不是准备蹒跚着走到大桥中央，抬起那把老骨头，越过大桥栏杆一了百了；但他也不敢冒险。“我想这时我该说点什么”（对此伯尼的感觉是对的：若此处老人索然无味的哭诉再花去大半页纸，这个故事从地基处就会脱节断裂）。接下来是轻松活泼的一页，有一半的对话都是伯尼小心翼翼地问老人，为什么他不去密歇根跟女儿住在一起，或者至少可以给她写封信，这样她会邀请他过去住的；但是，噢，不，他一心想的只是不要成为女儿一家的负担。 “负担？”我说，说话的神态仿佛我不知道他是什么意思似的。“负担？像您这样和蔼的绅士怎么可能成为任何人的负担？” “可是我还能做什么呢？我能给他们什么呢？” “当他这样问我时，幸好我们停在那里等红灯，所以我转过身来，直盯着他的眼睛。'先生，'我说，'难道您不觉得家里有人多少懂点天竺葵的栽培也不错吗？'” 好了，当他们到达大桥时，老人已决定在自动售货机处下车，因为他说想喝杯茶，该死的墙就砌到此吧。屋顶足这样的：六个月后，伯尼收到一个小小的，但很重的包裹，上面盖着密歇根州弗林特的邮戳，收信地址是他所在的出租车车队。你知道那包裹里是什么吗？你当然知道。天竺葵盆栽。这里还有烟囱：里面还有张便条，老人细长的笔迹和上面简单写着：“谢谢你。”我在故事里也是这么描述的。 从我个人来说，我挺讨厌这一篇，琼对它也没把握；可不管怎样，我们还是寄出去了，伯尼很爱这个故事。而且，他在电话里说，他妻子罗丝也喜欢这故事。 “鲍勃，我想起来，我打电话还有一件事；罗丝要我问问你，晚上你和你太太能不能到我家来小聚一下。没什么特别的，只有我们四个，喝点东西，聊聊天而已。你们愿意来吗？” “哦，你们真是太好了，伯尼，我们当然愿意。只不过太突然了，我不知道我们能不能安排——等等。”我捂住话筒，与琼紧急商量了一下，希望她给我提供个说得过去的借口。 可是她想去，她想当晚就去，所以我们四人就凑在一起了。 “哦，好啊，”当我挂上电话，她说道。“我很高兴我们要去。他们听上去真是好人。” “好了，你听着。”我食指直指着她的脸。“如果你打算坐在那里，让他们都觉得自己有'多可爱'，那我们就不去了。我可不想耗上整晚的时间去充当慷慨大方的女慈善家的陪伴，坐在低等人中间，就这么着。如果你想把这事变成什么为仆人们准备的游园会，你还是立即忘了这事吧。你听到了吗？” 接着，她问我想不想知道一件事，不等我说想不想，她就告诉我。她对我说，我是她这一生中遇到过的最大的势利鬼、最大的恶棍、彻头彻尾的大嗓门怪物。 那之后一事连着一事；我们坐地铁去与西尔维夫妇小聚时，我们俩几乎没有任何交谈。我无法告诉你后来我发现西尔维夫妇自己喝姜汁汽水，却为他们的客人准备了一瓶黑麦威士忌时，我有多么感激。 伯尼的妻子是个风风火火的女人，穿着细高跟鞋，束着腰带，头上别着发卡，她那电话公司接线员的标准声音优雅得体，但却冷冰冰的（“你好，真高兴认识你们；请进；请坐；伯尼，帮帮她，她的外套脱不下来”）；天知道是谁开的头，也不知道为什么，但那晚从让人不快的政治讨论开始。琼和我对杜鲁门、华莱士的意见不一，所以那年我们压根就没投票；西维尔夫妇都是的信徒。更糟糕的是，由于从感情上说我俩是温和的自由派，罗丝为了寻找共同点，特意说了好几个悲惨的故事，每个故事都是关于布朗克斯区有色人种、波多黎各人残忍而凶狠的侵犯，还刻意描绘，令人不寒而栗。 但没过多久情况就好转了。首先他们都很喜欢琼——我得承认我还没遇到过谁不喜欢她的——其次，过了片刻，话题就转到他们认识威德·曼莱这不可思议的事上来。这又引起了一系列骄傲的回忆。“伯尼从没向他要过什么，可是别担心，”罗丝向我们保证。“伯尼，告诉他们那次他在这里，你让他坐下，要他闭嘴，你是怎么做的。他真的那样做了！真的！他就那样朝他胸口推了一把——朝这个电影明星！他说，'啊，给我坐下，闭嘴，曼莱。我们知道你是谁！'告诉他们呀，伯尼。” 伯尼呢，快活得直不起腰来，站起来重演那场景。“噢，你知道，我们就坐在那里说笑着，”他说，“但不管怎样，我真那样做了。我就像那样推了他一把，我说，'啊，给我坐下，闭嘴，曼莱。我们知道你是谁！'” “他做了！老天知道！把他往那边那把椅子上一推！威德·曼莱！” 没多久，我和伯尼坐到一起，饮料让我们精神振奋，开始了男人间的聊天。罗丝和琼则舒服地窝在双人沙发上，罗丝狡狯地看着我。“我不想让你丈夫自我膨胀，，但你知道科罗夫博士跟伯尼说什么吗？伯尼，我能告诉她吗？” “当然，跟她说！跟她说！”伯尼一手挥着姜汁酒瓶，另一只手抓着威士忌酒瓶，意思是今晚一切秘密都可公之于众。 "Okay," she said. “科罗夫博士说你丈夫是伯尼遇到的最棒的作家。” 后来，我和伯尼挪到双人沙发上，女士们到壁橱那边去了，我开始意识到罗丝也是个建筑工人。也许她没有亲手建这个壁橱，可买这个几百美元的壁橱得分期付款，在内心说服自己买下它所付出的努力显然比自己亲手做一个还多。那样的家具可是对未来的投资，现在她一边跟琼说话，一边小心抚弄它，这里擦擦那里抹抹。我敢发誓，我知道她脑子里正在琢磨以后的一场聚会。不用说琼和我也会置身其中（“这是罗伯特·普林提斯先生，我丈夫的助手，普林提斯先生”），其余客人的名单也可以提前确定：威德·曼莱和他妻子，当然，还有他们精心挑选的好莱坞朋友；沃特·温彻尔也会在那里，还有厄尔·威尔逊和图茨·绍尔及他们那群人；但更重要的是，还有那些文人雅士们，如亚历山大·科罗夫博士夫妇，以及他们这圈子里某些人也可能会出席。像莱昂内尔·特里林们、莱因霍尔德·尼布尔们、亨廷顿·哈特福们和莱斯里·R·格罗夫斯们那样的人——如果纽博尔德·莫里斯先生夫人那样的人想来，你尽可以想象他们为了获得邀请得玩多少花招。 琼后来也承认那天晚上西维尔家里有点闷热；我现在说这个是为我自己后来做的事找个像样的借口——1948年时我很容易喝醉，现在好多了，相信我——我当时喝得酩酊大醉。不久我不但是唯一大吼大叫的人，而且也是房间内唯一说话的人；看在老天的分上，那时我正在给他们解释说我们四个都是百万富翁。 难道我们没有跳舞吗？噢，我们一直把莱昂内尔·特里林打得团团转，把他推到房间里的每一把椅子里——“还有你，莱因霍尔德·尼布尔，你这狂妄、伪善的老傻瓜！你的钱到哪去了？为什么不拿点出来看看？” 伯尼咯咯直笑，看上去有点困了，琼因为我感到十分难堪。罗丝在一旁冷冷笑着，绝对理解丈夫们有时会有多烦人。我们站在过道上，每人至少往身上套了半打衣服，我又看到那张号手照片，心里想自己敢不敢把那烫手的问题提出来。可是这次我不敢肯定哪个答案让我更害怕：伯尼可能说，“就是照张相而已，”他也可能会说，“那当然是我！”然后走到衣橱或壁橱那里，翻腾一阵，找出那把生锈的军号，我们四个只能又走回去坐下，伯尼并拢双脚脚跟，绷直身体，为我们吹出纯洁忧伤的音乐。 那时是十月。我记不清那年秋天到底写了多少篇署名“作者伯尼·西维尔”的故事。我确实记得写过一个充满喜剧色彩的故事。有位胖胖的乘客，想更好地看街景风光，从出租车的天窗里探出身子，结果腰给卡住了。还有个很严肃的故事，伯尼就种族宽容长篇阔论了一番（我一想起在布朗克斯区棕色人种数量增加这个问题上他与罗丝总是夫唱妇随，多少有点酸溜溜的）；我记得那段日子，只要提到他，我和琼就会吵嘴。 比如，琼说我们真的应该回请一下他们，我对她说别犯傻了。我说我敢打赌他们不会指望我们回请的，她问：“为什么？”我干脆不耐烦地简单说，我们之间层次上的差别无法逾越，假装西维尔夫妇能真正成为我们的朋友，或假装他们真的想与我们交朋友都是徒劳。 还有一次，一个无聊之极的傍晚，我们去婚前最喜爱的餐厅吃饭，几乎有一个小时我们竟找不到任何可说的话题。琼努力想找点话说，不冷场，于是举起葡萄酒杯，十分浪漫地隔着餐桌靠向我，“为伯尼这次把你的小说卖给《读者文摘》干杯。” “是啊，”我说。“没错，这可是笔大买卖。” “噢，别那么粗鲁。你明知道总有一天会成真的。我们就会挣上一大笔钱，去欧洲，想干什么就干什么。” “你开什么玩笑？”她的话突然让我很恼火，一个二十世纪受过良好教育的聪慧姑娘怎能如此容易上当受骗，这样一个女孩竟然是我妻子，我竟然同这种头脑简单、无知的人生活了这么多年，还将继续生活下去，这情形，在那一刻似乎有点难以接受。“你怎么就不能长大一点呢？你不会真的以为他有机会卖掉那堆垃圾吧，你会吗？”我看她的眼神一定与那晚伯尼看我的眼神有点像，那晚他问我不会真的以为是二十五美元一次时，他也说：“你会吗？” “是的，我会，”她说，把手里的酒杯放下。“至少，我相信。我以为你也相信。不然，继续为他干活不是有点可笑、有点虚伪吗，是不是？”回家的路上她没有再同我说话。 我想，真正的麻烦在于我们那时被两件更为严重的事情纠缠住了。一是我们刚刚发现琼怀孕了，另一件事是我在合众国际社的工作像偿债基金债券一样岌岌可危。 我在财经新闻科上班成了慢性折磨，等着上司慢慢发现原来我对自己所干的活一无所知；无论现在我如何可怜地想要学习本应掌握的知识，再如何虚心求教也为时已晚，有点可笑了。我整天弓着腰趴在咔嗒作响的打字机上，腰弯得越来越低，担心被炒而冷汗直流——助理财经主编的手和蔼而伤感地搭在我肩上（“我能跟你简单谈几句吗，鲍勃？”）——每天这事儿没发生对我来说就是种可卑的胜利。 十二月初的一天，我从地铁出来往家走，像个七十岁的老头拖着自己的身子朝西十二街走下去。我发现—辆出租车像蜗牛般在我身边慢慢爬行，跟着我走了一个街区。这是辆绿白相问的车，挡风玻璃后我看到一张巨大的笑脸。 “鲍勃！怎么同事，鲍勃？看你失魂落魄的，你住这儿吗？” 他把车停在路边，走出来，我这还是第一次看到他穿工作服的样子：一顶棒球长舌帽，带纽扣的套头衫，腰上挂着个圆筒零钱包；我们握手时，我第一次看到他的指尖因白天黑夜地收钱找钱变得灰亮灰亮的。走近看，不管他笑与不笑，看上去跟我一样疲惫不堪。 “请进，伯尼。”看到破败的人口、肮脏的楼道，刷着白灰、贴着海报的墙壁，简陋的大单间，租金可能还不及他和罗丝在上城区房屋租金的一半，这让他有点吃惊。我记得让他发现我家如此简陋反令我有一种波希米亚式的骄傲；我猜我有种自命不凡的想法，让伯尼·西维尔明白人们会贫穷与聪明兼而有之，对他不会有什么伤害。 我们可没能力为他端上姜汁汽水，他说一杯白水就好，因此这算不上什么正式的社交场合。后来让我不安的是，我记得他和琼之间是多么拘谨——我觉得整个拜访期间他都没正眼看过琼——我在想也许是因为我们没有回请他们。有些事情大家总觉得不该是丈夫的错，可如果真是丈夫错了，妻子十有八九要背黑锅。Why is this?也许伯尼只是觉得穿着出租车司机的制服出现在她面前很不好意思，在我面前还好一点。也许他没想到这样一个美丽、有教养的姑娘会住在如此凄惨的环境里，因而局促不安。 “我告诉你我为什么今天来你这儿，鲍勃。我想换个新角度。”他说话时，我从他眼睛而不是他的话语里，看到我们这个长期建筑计划可能出了什么大问题。也许科罗夫博士出版界的朋友最终说了实话，我们那些可怜的故事出版希望渺茫：也许科罗夫博士自己变得脾气暴躁；也许从威德·曼莱那里传来的消息令人沮丧；或者更令人受打击的是从威德·曼莱的经纪人那里传来的消息；再或者仅仅是伯尼自己每天在那般劳累后一杯白水都没得喝，他十分疲劳，可不管怎样，他想换个新角度。 我可曾听说过文森特·J·波勒第？不过他说这个名字时，好像很有把握我不会大吃一惊，他立即告诉我以下信息：文森特·J·波勒第是来自他所住的布朗克斯区的州民主党议员。 “这个人，”他说，“不辞辛苦地帮助别人。相信我，鲍勃，他可不是你眼中那些可鄙的、捞选票的家伙。他是真正的人民公仆。而且，他新加入民主党，打算竞选下一届国会议员。我是这样想的，鲍勃。我们来拍张我的照片——我有个朋友会无偿做这个的——我们从出租车后座上拍，我手握方向盘扭过头来，脸带微笑的样子，像这样，明白吗？”他满脸笑容，转过身，展示给我看照片应该像什么样。“然后我们把这张相片印在小册子的封面上。标题就叫”——这时他手在空中比划着黑体字母——“小册子的标题就叫'伯尼告诉你'。行不？好。在小册子里面我们有个故事——跟你写的那些故事没什么两样，只是有点小区别。这次我要讲个故事，说明为什么文森特·J·波勒第是我们需要的国会议员。我不是说一堆政治言论，鲍勃。我的意思是真实的小故事。” “伯尼，我不明白这有什么用。你不能编个故事，来说明为什么有人是我们需要的国会议员。” “谁说不能？” “不管怎样，我以为你和罗丝都是共和党人。” “从整个国家来说，我们是共和党人，但具体到地方上，我们不是。” “好吧，见鬼，伯尼，我们刚搞完选举。两年内不会再有别的选举了。” 但他只是拍拍他的头，做了个向远处比划的手势，意思是在政治上，人得有点远见。 琼在房间那头的厨房区域，洗早餐的碗碟，准备做晚饭，我望着她向她求救，但她转过身去。 “听上去不合适，伯尼。我对政治一窍不通。” “那又怎么样？懂？这种东西，谁又懂？你懂开出租车吗？” 不懂；我也一点不懂什么华尔街——华尔街，什么鬼街！——但那是另一个让人沮丧的小故事。“我不知道，伯尼；现在一切都不确定。目前我还是什么活也不接的好。我是说我最近可能会——”但是我无法亲口说出我在合众国际社的工作有麻烦，我只好说，“首先琼有了孩子，每件事都——” “哇！好啊，那不是太棒了吗！”他腾地站起来，握着我的手。“那——不是——太棒了！祝贺你，鲍勃，我想这是——我想这真是太美好了。祝贺你，琼妮！”我那时觉得这种反应有点过头了，不过也许这种消息很容易打动人到中年膝下无子的男人。 “噢，听着，鲍勃，”当我们重新坐下时，他说。“这个波勒第的事情对你来说不过是小菜一碟；我告诉你吧。既然这事只有一次，也不会有什么版权，我们就不是五块而是十块钱。这买卖怎么样？” “好吧，但是等等，伯尼。我要更多的材料。我意思是这家伙为人们做了些什么好事？” 我马上就看出来，原来伯尼对波勒第的了解也不会比我多多少。他是个真正的人民公仆，仅此而已；他牺牲自己帮助别人。“噢，鲍勃，听着。这有什么不同？你的想象力跑哪去了？以前你从不需要什么帮助。听着。你跟我说的只是：马上给我一个主题。我在开车；在妇产科医院门前，两个小年轻朝我挥手，年轻的退伍军人和他的妻子。他们的小宝贝刚刚出生，才三天大，他们快活得像云雀。唯一的麻烦在于，这小伙子没有工作，什么都没有。他们刚搬到这里，什么人也不认识，也许他们是波多黎各人或其他什么人。他们的房子只租了一个礼拜，就这样。他们身无分文。所以我带他们回家，他们就住在我家附近，我们一路聊天，我说，'听着，伙计们。我想带你们去见我的一个朋友。'” “文森特·J·波勒第议员。” “当然。只是我没告诉他们他的名字。我只是说：'我的一个朋友。'当我们到他那里，我走进去，告诉波勒第这事情，他走出来，跟他们聊了几句，给了他们点钱什么的。明白吗？我刚才差不多说了你故事的一大部分了。” “嘿，等一等，伯尼。”我站起来，夸张地在房间里踱着步，这是好莱坞电影里人们开会时才有的样子。“等一会。在他给他们钱后，他钻进你的出租车，你把他载到大广场车站，那两个波多黎各人站在街边，对望着，那个姑娘说，'刚才那个男人是谁？'小伙子看上去很严肃，他说，'亲爱的，难道你不知道？难道你没发现他带着面具吗？'她说，'哦，不，不可能是那个——'而小伙子说，'是的，是的，就是他。'亲爱的，就是那个独立国会议员。听着！你知道接下来发生了什么吗？听着！他们听到街区那边传来这个声音，你知道那声音在喊什么吗？”我单膝哆嗦着跪地，抖出了这个故事的包袱，“那声音在喊着'嘿，你，伯尼·西维尔——滚开！'” 写出来似乎不太好笑，但那时几乎把我笑死了。我哈哈大笑了至少一分钟，直笑得我剧烈咳嗽，琼只好过来帮我拍背；我慢慢缓过来后，才发现伯尼根本没笑。在我这通发作中，他一脸茫然，礼貌性地打了几个哈哈。这时他低头看着自己的手，本来镇静的脸羞得红一块白一块。我伤到他了。我记得我恨他如此容易受伤；我恨琼又走回厨房，不帮我摆脱这尴尬局面，我也记得我开始觉得很内疚很抱歉了，好长时间房间里死一般寂静，最后我决定接下这活，这是唯一体面的出路。果然，在我告诉他我决定试试时，他马上高兴起来。 “我是说你不一定得用这个波多黎各人的故事，”他让我放心。“那只是一个想法而已。或者你可按那种方式开头，再写点别的事情，越多越好。你用自己喜欢的方式写出来就行。” 站在门口，又是握手（我们好像整个下午都在握手），我说：“就是说，这个故事十元，对吗，伯尼？” “对，鲍勃。” “你真的觉得你该告诉他你会这么做吗？”他刚走琼就问我。 "why not?" “好吧，因为实际上已经不可能了，不是吗？” “瞧，能不能行行好，别再哕里哕嗦？” 她两手叉腰。“我搞不懂你，鲍勃。你为什么说你会写这个故事。” “你他妈的为什么这么想？因为我们需要那十块钱，这就是为什么。” 最后我建造了——噢，建造，所谓的建造。我花了一页、两页、三页写这架老机器，我写这个狗娘养的。我确实是从那几个波多黎各人开始的，但不知为什么我用不了几页就搞定了他们；然后我只好为文森特·J·波勒第找其他法子来证明他无与伦比的善良。 当一个公务员真的想尽各种法子帮助人们时，他会怎么做呢？给他们钱，他就是那样做的；不久我笔下的波勒第给出去很多钱，多得他都数不清了。现在情况成了这样：在布朗克斯区，不管是谁，只要手头拮据，他只需钻进伯尼·西维尔的出租车，说一句，“去波勒第家”，他们的麻烦就解决了。最糟糕的是我残忍地宣告：我已竭尽全力了。 琼没有看这篇文章，我写完时她已睡了，我直接把它塞进信封，寄了出去。大约有一周时间——伯尼那边没有传来片言只语——或者说在我们两人之问没有任何消息。接着，和他上次来访的时间一样，在一个烦躁劳累的傍晚，我家的门铃响了。我打开门，看见他笑着站在门口，套头衫上有几点雨水，我知道麻烦来了。我也知道我可没打算听任何废话。 “鲍勃，”他坐下来道，“我讨厌这么说，但这次我对你很失望。”他从衣服里抽出卷起来的那份手稿。“这东西——鲍勃，这什么都不是。” “它有六页半。那可不是什么都不是，伯尼。” “鲍勃，请不要给我六页半纸。我知道这里有六页半，但它什么都不是。你把这人写成了傻瓜，鲍勃。你让他一直不停地给钱给钱。” “你告诉我他给钱的，伯尼。” “关于那些波多黎各人，是我说的，没错，也许他可以给一点钱，好吧。可是你一路下来，你让他到处给钱，像个——像个醉醺醺的水手什么的。” 我以为我会哭出来，但我说话的声音来得很低沉，控制得非常好。“伯尼，我可是问过你他还能做些什么的。我可是告诉过你我不知道他妈的他还会做些什么。如果你还想他做点什么别的，你早该说清楚。” “可是，鲍勃，”他说，为了强调，他站了起来，他接下来说的话，我后来回忆，好似最后绝望而永恒的哭泣。“鲍勃，你才是那个有想象力的人！” 我也站了起来，这样可以居高临下地看着他。我知道我才足那个有想象力的人。我电知道我才二十二岁，可我疲惫得像个老头，我知道工作快丢了，孩子即将出生，与妻子的关系有点紧张；现在纽约市里的每个出租车司机、每个不值一提的政客们的掮客、假冒号手都可以走进我家，企图偷走我的钱。 “十块钱，伯尼。” 他笑着做了个无助的手势。接着他望向厨房，琼在那里，虽然我是想盯着他的，可我的眼睛一定也跟着他看过去了，因为我记得她在做什么。她在拧洗碗巾，眼睛直盯着它。 “听着，鲍勃，”他说。“我不该说它什么也不是。你是对的！谁能说这样一篇六页半长的东西什么也不是呢？也许这里面有许多好东西，鲍勃。你想要你的十块钱；好，没问题，你会得到你的十块钱的。我的要求是，先把这篇东西拿回去，好好改改，就这样。然后我们可以——” “十块钱，伯尼。现在就给。” 他的笑容一下子没了生气，在他从钱夹里抽钞票，递给我时，笑容还僵在脸上，而我还来了场痛苦的表演，我仔细检查这张十美元的钞票，看看他妈的是不是真的十美元。 “好吧，鲍勃，”他说。“那我们扯平了，对不？” "That's right." 于是他走了，琼飞快地走到门边，开开门，大声叫道：“晚安，伯尼。” 我觉得我听到他的脚步在楼梯上顿了一下，但我没听到他的诸如“晚安”之类的任何回应，所以我猜他可能转过身，朝她挥挥手，或者给她一个飞吻。接着从窗口我看到他从人行道上走过，钻进出租车，开走了。这过程中，我一直摆弄着那张钞票，叠起来、摊开，再叠起来、再摊开，我觉得手里握着的是我这一生中最不想要的东西。 房间里很静，只有我们两人走动的声音，厨房那块地方蒸汽弥漫、飘散着晚餐的迷人香味，我想我们两人都没胃口。“好了，”我说。“就那样。” “真的有必要吗？”她询问道，“对他那么差？” 这时候，她的这句话，仿佛是她说过的话中最不忠诚、最不体谅的一句。“对他不好！对他不好！如果你不介意，请告诉我，我他妈该怎么做？我是不是该'友好地'坐在这里，让某个可耻的撒谎者、吸血鬼般的出租车司机走进来，把我的血吸干？这就是