[父子餐馆] 父子亲子鉴定

　　My father’s diner, the Jefferson Coffee Shop, was a simple, 27-seat affair in Washington DC, open for breakfast and lunch—coffee and eggs in the morning, cold cuts3) and burgers4) in the afternoon. It was the size of a small train car, with 13 stools covered in orange vinyl5), four booths6) along one wall, a cigarette machine, an open kitchen and a counter illuminated by overhead lamps that my father and I had hung one Saturday. My dad bought the place in 1965, after various jobs in carryouts7) and soda fountains8), and a stint9) working for my grandfather at Frank’s Carryout, a soul-food10) eatery11) and beer garden12). The Jefferson, on 19th Street, was my father’s pride. I still have a cherished photo of him in his apron, standing over the grill13), spatula14) in hand, smiling. My dad was never happier than when he was running his magazi15).
　　I started working for my dad as a delivery boy when I was 11 years old. At the diner, our all-black crew consisted of a grill woman, one waitress, a sandwich maker and a dish washer. Southern soul and gospel16) played on the radio all day long, giving me my music education. The lunch counter was an uncrossed line, with mostly white professionals on one side, blacks and Greek-Americans on the other. Intellectually, I was too young to understand the dynamic, but on a gut17) level I knew where I stood.
　　As happens for many fathers and sons, we grew apart as I hit my teens. My personal profile was not atypical for the blue-collar neighbourhood where I was raised. I played pickup18) basketball, drove a muscle car19), listened to funk20), rock and soul, attended many concerts, chased girls, drank beer, smoked weed until my head caved in21), and underperformed at my school, where half of the kids did not go on to college. I was pulled over by the police many times, got in fights and found all kinds of trouble. When I was 17 I accidentally shot a friend in the face with a police handgun that my father had bought on the black market. I was skipping22) school at the time in my parents’ house. When my dad walked through the door that night, he dropped the bags he was carrying as he saw my friend’s blood splashed upon the living room walls.
　　I don’t know what my father thought of me then, but it’s safe to say that he was not proud. He was a tough, handsome guy, an ex-Marine who had fought in the Pacific, but quiet, with nothing to prove. I was a skinny dude with a shoulder-length Afro23), sporting flannel shirts, ripped24) Levi’s and suede Pumas. I could not have been what he had hoped for in a son. I know he loved me; I also know that I must have been a tremendous disappointment to him at the time. Inwardly, I wanted to please him, but I was who I was. 　　In December 1975, after a dance, my dad took a bunch of friends over to the Jefferson to cook them a late-night breakfast. I witnessed his joy as he prepared the food, but as I watched him perspiring25) through his shirt I thought: he’s working too hard. A couple of days later, at the age of 54, he had a heart attack.
　　My mother sat me down in the kitchen of our split-level26) home. We had no insurance for our business, no savings, and probably little in the way of health insurance. I was to quit university and take over the running of the diner. Though I hadn’t worked there in years, I had to summon what I remembered and make it happen. There wasn’t any choice. I was about to become the breadwinner27) for my family and I was 18 years old. The next day, I took over the business.
　　It was rough going at first. I had to be up to greet the ice man and the bread man at 5:30 am. I had to manage our adult crew, and I was not much more than a kid. I had to learn every aspect of the business and work every station, because we were often short-handed. And I had to learn how to deal with customers.
　　Every night I took the cash home and gave it to my mother. I was never paid a dime. It wasn’t unjust: after paying the food brokers and staff, there was no money left. I began to understand that my father had worked so hard all those years for very little in return. His diner paid the bills, kept the roof over our heads and fed us, but there was nothing extra for him. There would be no extra for me.
　　It sounds like hardship but actually it was fun. I didn’t want to be a student, and this was my way out. I was told by a customer that I should take the place over permanently, as “your people are good at running restaurants.” The ethnic slag28) aside, he was right. It did feel natural. I turned 19 and began to inhabit my role of junior businessman. I got used to waking up in darkness after a few hours’ sleep. I took pride in making it into work at the appointed hour.
　　My favourite time was just before dawn, driving to work on 16th Street in my gold Camaro29), the windows down, smoking a Marlboro Menthol, listening to the glorious music coming loud from my Pioneer 8-track deck and speakers30). The tunes made movies in my head and jacked up31) my imagination. I had a crazy idea that I might write stories some day, perhaps make films. But how would an unconnected Greek kid get there? If my plan was naive, it didn’t matter. The dream sustained me.
　　Later that summer, when my father returned to work, I took off with my pal Steve Rados and wandered around the south on various adventures of the mind and flesh. That year—1976—was the most thrilling of my life. And, I know now, the most important. 　　Many fathers and sons never get to reconcile their differences or come to an understanding that fills the gap between love and expectations. I’m forever grateful to have had the opportunity to prove myself to my dad. After I took over the diner, the look in my father’s eyes went from disappointment to respect. He never even had to say it—I knew. Not that32) I had matured by leaps and bounds. Nine years later, months before I got married, I was arrested for assault, fleeing and eluding the police, driving on the sidewalk and other charges after a fight in a parking lot, fuelled by alcohol and culminating in a high-speed chase. So, yeah, it took me a long time to grow up. But to my father, even with all my nonsense, I was a man.
　　Every so often I take the metro33) down to Dupont Circle34), walk into the old diner and have a seat on one of the orange stools. The current owner has switched the menu to gourmet35) fare36) and changed the name, but the space is unchanged. The lights my father and I installed still hang over the counter. I order my food, eat my meal and look towards the grill, where I can see my baba in his apron, spatula in hand, flipping burgers and smiling. I’m not having visions; I’m visiting my dad.
　　父亲经营的小餐馆名为杰斐逊咖啡馆，位于华盛顿特区，是家布局简单的餐馆，只有27个座位，主要经营早餐和午餐——早餐有咖啡和鸡蛋，午餐有冷盘和汉堡。餐馆有一节小型火车车厢那么大，摆放着13张覆有橘色乙烯基塑料的凳子，沿着一面墙设有四个火车座，还有一台售烟机，一间开放式厨房，一节有顶灯照明的柜台，那顶灯还是一个周六我和父亲一起挂上的。父亲在1965年买下了这家餐馆，之前他曾干过各种工作，做过外卖，卖过冷饮，还曾在我祖父经营的弗兰克外卖店干过一段时间，那是一家带有露天啤酒花园的灵魂食品小吃店。杰斐逊咖啡厅就在第19大街上，那是父亲的骄傲。至今我仍然珍藏着一张他围着围裙的照片，站在烤架前，手里拿着铲子，满面笑容。经营餐馆的时候是父亲最快乐的时光。
　　11岁时，我就开始给父亲打工，送外卖。餐馆里的黑人员工包括一个烧烤女工，一个女服务员，一个三明治制作师，还有一个洗碗工。餐馆的收音机里一天到晚都在播放南方灵魂乐和福音音乐，这就是我所接受的音乐教育。午餐柜台是一道不曾逾越的分界线，一边几乎全是白人专业人员，另一边是黑人和美籍希腊人。那时我还小，尚不明白事理，无法理解造成这一现实的原因是什么，但我本能地知道自己站在柜台的哪一边。
　　正如许多别的父子一样，我十几岁时也和父亲渐渐疏远起来。就我所成长的那个蓝领社区来说，我的个人经历不能说不具代表性。玩即兴式的篮球赛，开大功率的肌肉车，听疯克、摇滚和灵魂音乐，经常光顾演唱会，泡妞，喝啤酒，抽烟抽到头发懵，在学校里成绩一塌糊涂——那儿有一半的学生都上不了大学。我经常被警察带走，打架斗殴，没有不敢惹的麻烦。17岁时，我一不小心给朋友脸上来了一枪，那是一把警用手枪，是父亲在黑市上买的。当时我正跷课在父母房子里玩。那天晚上，父亲一进家门就看到了我朋友溅在客厅墙上的血，他身上背着的包一下子就掉到了地上。
　　我不知道那时父亲是怎么看我的，但可以很肯定地说，我不是他的骄傲。他是个硬汉，人长得也帅气，以前在海军陆战队服役，参加过太平洋战争，但为人低调，从不想证明什么。我则是个瘦瘦的小子，留着一头齐肩的圆蓬式发型，穿着运动式法兰绒上衣、带破洞的李维斯牛仔裤和彪马小山羊皮鞋。他心目中儿子的样子肯定不是我这样的。我知道他爱我，我也知道那个时候他对我一定失望透顶。从内心来讲，我想让他高兴，可我就这副德性。
　　1975年12月，在一次舞会后，父亲带了一帮朋友来到杰斐逊咖啡馆，给他们做夜宵。我看得出他忙来忙去时的那份高兴劲儿，但看到他累得衬衣都被汗水湿透了时，我心想：他太辛苦了。几天之后，他的心脏病就发作了，那时他才54岁。
　　在我们错层式的房子里，妈妈把我喊到厨房里坐下。我们的餐馆没有上保险，我们也没有积蓄，医疗保险大概也很少。我必须终止大学学习，担负起经营餐馆的责任。虽然我已有好几年没在餐馆工作了，但我必须凭着以前打工的记忆，把餐馆经营下去。我根本没有选择的余地。我即将成为家里的顶梁柱，而且我已经满18岁了。第二天，我就接管了餐馆。 　　万事开头难。每天早上五点半，我就要起床迎接送冰块和送面包的人。我还要管理店里的成年员工，而我自己差不多还是个孩子。我必须熟悉餐馆经营的方方面面，每个岗位的工作都要干，因为我们常常人手不够。此外，我还要学会如何与顾客打交道。
　　每晚我都把收入的现金拿回家交给母亲，我自己从来没有拿过一分钱。这也没什么可抱怨的：在支付了食品经销商的费用和员工工资之后，已经没有什么剩余了。我开始明白，父亲这些年来辛辛苦苦工作，所得到的回报实在是微乎其微。他经营的餐馆只够支付各种账单，使我们居有定所，食可果腹，此外再也没有多余的钱供他自己花销。当然现在也不会有多余的钱供我自己花销。
　　听起来这日子很艰苦，但实际上我还是很开心的。我早就不想上学，这也许是最好的出路。一位顾客告诉我，我应该永久地接管这个餐馆，因为“你们这种人都擅长经营餐馆”。撇开他话中的种族主义色彩不说，他的话还是很有道理的。我干起这一行来的确觉得得心应手。我19岁了，已开始进入我作为年轻商人的角色。我已习惯了睡上几小时之后在黑暗中醒来。我特别看重按既定时间开始工作，我以此为自豪。
　　我最喜欢的时间是在黎明前，开着金色的大黄蜂去上班。车在第16大街上行驶，我摇下车窗，抽着薄荷万宝路，听着八声道的先锋音响播放的雄壮高亢的音乐。音乐的旋律在我脑海中像放电影一样，激起了我的想象。我有了一个疯狂的想法：有一天我也许会写小说，也可能拍电影。可是一个毫无社会关系的希腊小子怎么才能实现这个目标呢？不过，即使我的想法很幼稚，那也没关系。这个梦想是我的精神支柱。
　　那年夏末，父亲回到了餐馆工作，我便得以抽身和好友史蒂夫·拉多斯一起到南方游玩，经历各种身心历险。那一年——1976年——是我一生中最刺激的一年。而且，我现在意识到，也是最重要的一年。
　　许多父子永远都无法调和他们之间的分歧，也无法以相互理解来填补爱与期望之间的距离。我却有机会向父亲证实自己的能力，对此我永远心存感激。在我接管餐馆之后，父亲的眼神就从失望变成了尊重。他甚至根本无需用语言来表达，我已心领神会。但这并不是因为我突飞猛进地成熟起来。九年后，在我结婚前的几个月，在酒精的刺激下，我在停车场和别人干了一架，随后又驾车开始了一场疯狂的追逐，结果被警察抓住，被指控犯有斗殴、逃逸、躲避警察、在人行道上驾车等罪名。所以说，没错，我还远远没有成熟。但在父亲看来，即使我这般胡闹，我也是个男子汉了。
　　时不时地，我会乘地铁前往杜邦环岛，走进那家老餐馆，在其中一只橘色的圆凳上坐下。现在的店主已经把菜单换成了精美菜肴，餐馆的名字也改了，但内部空间并没有改变。我和父亲安装的灯具还依然挂在柜台上方。我点好餐，一边吃，一边向烤架望去，在那里，我又看到爸爸系着围裙，手拿铲子，翻动着汉堡包，满面笑容。这不是我的幻觉。我就是来看望爸爸的。
　　1. diner [?da?n?(r)] n. (路边的)小餐馆
　　2. George Pelecanos：乔治·佩勒卡诺斯(1957～)，美籍希腊人，美国知名推理小说家，美剧《火线》(The Wire)的编剧之一
　　3. cold cuts：冷切肉(切片冷吃的熏肉、腌牛肉、火腿、香肠或干酪等)
　　4. burger [?b??(r)ɡ?(r)] n.〈美口〉汉堡包；汉堡牛排
　　5. vinyl [?va?n(?)l] n. 聚乙烯基薄膜，是一种强度大、伸缩性强且发亮的塑料，用于表面盖层和包装层。
　　6. booth [bu??] n. (餐馆、咖啡馆中的)火车座
　　7. carryout [?k?ria?t] n. 外卖食品
　　8. soda fountain：(供应饮料、冰淇淋、快餐等的)冷饮柜台，冷饮小卖部
　　9. stint [st?nt] n. 定额工作；工作期限
　　10. soul-food：美国(尤指南方)黑人常吃的食物(如猪小肠、玉米面包等)
　　11. eatery [?i?t?ri] n. 供应便餐的小餐馆
　　12. beer garden：(设在花园或院子里的)露天啤酒店
　　13. grill [ɡr?l] n. 烤架
　　14. spatula [?sp?tj?l?] n. (涂敷、调拌等用的)抹刀，刮刀，刮勺；刮铲
　　15. magazi：〈希腊〉餐馆
　　16. gospel [?ɡ?sp(?)l] n. 福音音乐，美国黑人的一种宗教音乐，具有爵士音乐和美国黑人伤感歌曲色彩。
　　17. gut [ɡ?t] n. 内容；本质，实质
　　18. pickup [?p?k?p] adj. 临时拼凑的
　　19. muscle car：〈美俚〉大马力中型汽车，高速中型汽车，也叫“肌肉车”。“肌肉车”一词出现于20世纪八九十年代，特别用于称呼活跃于20世纪六七十年代的一类具有强劲马力、外形富有肌肉感的美式跑车。
　　20. funk [f??k] n. (由黑人布鲁斯发展成的)乡土爵士音乐，乡土音乐，也译为“疯克”。
　　21. cave in：垮掉
　　22. skip [sk?p] vt. 遗漏
　　23. Afro [??fr??] n. 埃弗罗发式，一种类似非洲黑人自然发式的呈圆形的蓬松鬈发；圆蓬式发型
　　24. rip [r?p] vt. 撕；撕破
　　25. perspire [p?(r)?spa??(r)] vi. 流汗
　　26. split-level：错层式的；房内有不同高度平面的
　　27. breadwinner [?bred?w?n?(r)] n. 负担家计的人；养家糊口的人
　　28. slag [sl?ɡ] n. 废话，胡言乱语
　　29. Camaro：科迈罗，雪佛兰牌汽车的一款，它更为人熟知的名字是“大黄蜂”，由美国通用汽车公司生产。
　　30. speaker [?spi?k?(r)] n. 扬声器
　　31. jack up：激励，鼓舞
　　32. not that：并不是说，并非
　　33. metro [?metr??] n. 地铁
　　34. Dupont Circle：杜邦环岛，位于美国华盛顿特区西北部的一个街区
　　35. gourmet [?ɡ??(r)me?] adj. 出于美食家之手的
　　36. fare [fe?(r)] n. 食物