Going Home回家

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　　Going Home回家

　　I first heard this story a few years ago from a girl I had met in New York's Greenwich Village. Probably the story is one of those

　　mysterious bits of folklore that reappear every few years, to be told a new in one form or another. However, I still like to think that it really did happen, somewhere, sometime.

　　幾年前我在紐約的格林尼治村從一位遇到的姑娘那兒第一次聽到這個故事。它也許是那種隔幾年就會改頭換面地被重新傳播一次的神奇的民間傳說。然而我仍然愿意想象它是個某地某時真正發生過的事。

　　They were going to Fort Lauderdale―three boys and three girls ――and when they boarded the bus, they were carrying sandwiches and wine in paper bags, dreaming of golden beaches as the gray cold of New York vanished behind them.

　　三個男孩和三個女孩帶著紙袋裝的三明治與葡萄酒，登車前往佛羅里達的勞德達拉要塞。他們向往著金色的海灘，將灰蒙蒙的寒冷的紐約甩在了身后。

　　As the bus passed through New Jersey, they began to notice Vingo. He sat in front of them, dressed in a plain, ill-fitting suit, never moving, his dusty face masking his age. He kept chewing the inside of his lip a lot, frozen into some personal cocoon of silence.

　　當他們穿過新澤西州時，坐在前排的一個叫溫格的男人引起他們的注意。他穿著一套不起眼亦很不合身的衣服，一動不動，滿臉灰塵掩蓋了他的年齡，他不停地咬著下嘴唇，陷入沉思中。

　　Deep into the night, outside Washington, the bus pulled into Howard Johnson's, and everybody got off except Vingo. He sat rooted in his seat, and the young people began to wonder about him, trying to imagine his life: perhaps he was a sea captain, a runaway from his wife, an old soldier going home. When they went back to the bus, one of the girls sat beside him and introduced herself.

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Going Home回家