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关于This American Life的介绍请戳: 如果你也听电台 熟悉这个节目的朋友知道它的特点: 一个主题，几个故事。这次的主题是" Except for that one thing" -- 正春风得意, 却总有那么一点点的差强人意措不及防，让你哭笑不得。最后的一个故事，叫做「Happy Accidents」 -- 父子之间的 "that one thing", 温暖动人, 希望你也会喜欢。 大家去听上面的这个录音，有些不清楚，但是不影响听懂的。实在听不懂的话可以看下面的transcipt， 并非和音频逐字对应，只是作为参考。 30 years I'm a cabbie, the small guy sitting behind the wheel tells me. 30 years and not one accident. It's been almost an hour since I got into his taxi in Beersheba, and he hasn't stopped talking for a second. Under different circumstances, I would tell him to shut up, but I don't have the energy for that today. Under different circumstances, I wouldn't shell out 350 shekels to take a taxi to Tel Aviv. I would take the train. But today I feel that I have to get home as early as I can. I spent last night at Ichilov Hospital with my wife. She had a miscarriage and was bleeding heavily. We thought it would be OK until she passed out. It wasn't until we got to the emergency room that they told us that her life was in danger and gave her a blood transfusion. Three days before that, my dad's doctors told me and my parents that the cancer at the base of his tongue, which had been in remission for four years, was back. And the tumor was at such an advanced stage that the only way to fight it was to remove his tongue and larynx. The oncologist said she didn't recommend having the surgery, but my dad said that he was for it. The oncologist told him that the operation would leave him seriously handicapped, unable to speak or eat. At my age, my dad said, all I need are my heart and my eyes, so I can enjoy watching my grandchildren grow. When we left the room, the doctor whispered to me, try to talk to him. She clearly doesn't know my dad. The taxi driver repeats, for the 100th time, that in 30 years, he hasn't had a single accident and that all of a sudden, five days ago, his car kissed the bumper of the car in front of him, traveling at 20 kilometers per hour. When they stopped and checked, he saw that except for a scratch on the left side of the bumper, the other car hadn't really been damaged at all. He offered the other driver 200 shekels on the spot, but the driver insisted that they exchange insurance information. The next day, the driver, a Russian, asked him to come to a garage. And he and the owner, probably a friend of his, showed him a huge dent all the way on the other side of the car and said the damage was 2,000 shekels. The cab driver refused to pay, and now the other guy's insurance company was suing him. Don't worry. It'll be OK, I tell him, in the hope that my words will make him stop talking for a minute. How will it be OK, he complains. They're going to screw me. Those bastards are going to squeeze the money out of me. You see how unfair it is? Five days I haven't slept. Do you get what I'm saying? Stop thinking about it, I suggest. Try thinking about other things in your life, happy things. I can't, the cab driver groans and grimaces. I just can’t. Then stop talking to me about it, I say. Keep on thinking and suffering, but just don't tell me about it anymore, OK? It's not the money, the taxi driver continues, believe me. Yesterday I went with my son to the graves of the Sadikim. We bought blessings for 1,800 shekels, and I didn't mind paying. It's the injustice that gets me. Shut up, I say, finally losing it. Just shut up for a minute. What are you yelling for, the cab driver asks, insulted. I'm an old man. It's not nice. I'm yelling because my father is going to die if they don't cut his tongue out of his mouth, I continue to yell. I'm yelling because my wife is in the hospital after a miscarriage. The driver is silent for the first time since I got into his taxi, and now I'm suddenly the one who can't stop the stream of words. Let's make a deal, I say. Get me to an ATM, and I'll take out 2,000 shekels and give it to you. In exchange, it'll be your father who has to have his tongue removed and your wife who's lying in a hospital bed getting a blood transfusion after a miscarriage. The driver is still silent, and now so am I. I feel a little uncomfortable for having shouted at him but not uncomfortable enough to apologize. To avoid his eyes, I look out the window. We missed the exit to Tel Aviv. I tell him that politely-- or I shout it angrily. I don't recall anymore. He tells me not to worry. He doesn't really know the way. But in a minute, he'll find out. A few seconds later, he parks in the right lane of the highway after managing to convince another driver to stop. He starts to get out of the taxi to ask for directions to Tel Aviv. You'll kill us both, I tell him. You can't stop here. 30 years I'm a cabby, he tosses back at me as he gets out of the taxi. 30 years and not one accident. Alone in the cab, I can feel the tears rising. I don't want to cry. I don't want to feel sorry for myself. I want to be positive like my dad. My wife is fine now, and we already have a wonderful son. My dad survived the Holocaust. That's not just a half-full glass. It's an overflowing one. I don't want to cry, not in this taxi, not next to this driver that I yelled at. The tears are welling up and will soon begin to flow. Suddenly I hear a crashing boom and a sound of windows breaking. The world around me shatters. A silver car veers across the next lane, completely smashed. The taxi moves too, but not on the ground. It floats above it. Towards the concrete wall on the side of the road, after it hits, there's another bang. Another car must have hit the taxi. A second before the ambulance drives away, they load the taxi driver into it. Deep in my heart, I was hoping they'd send us in separate ambulances, but it just wasn't my day. The driver, looking revitalized and happy, lights a cigarette. The paramedic wears a yarmulke and tells me I was very lucky. An accident like that with no deaths is a miracle. The minute you're discharged from the hospital, he says, you should run to the nearest synagogue and give thanks for still being alive. My cellphone rings. It's my dad. He's only calling to ask how my day at the university was and whether the little one is asleep yet. I tell him that the little one is sleeping and my day at the university was great. And Shira, my wife, is fine too. She just stepped into the shower. What's that noise, he asks. An ambulance siren, I tell him, and try to sound casual. One just passed by in the street. Once, five years ago when I was in Sicily with my wife and son, I called my dad to ask how he was. He said everything was fine. In the background, a voice on a loudspeaker was calling a Dr. Shulman to the operating room. Where are you, I asked. In the supermarket, my dad said, without a moment's hesitation. They're announcing on the loudspeaker that someone lost her purse. He sounded so convincing when he said that, so confident and happy.
Why are you crying, my dad asks now from the other side of the line. I force myself to smile, hoping he can sense it too. It's nothing, I say, as the ambulance stops next to the emergency ward and the paramedic slams the ambulance doors open. Really, it's nothing. 写在后面： 前两日刚看完Flipped这本书，其中Juli父亲的刻画让我印象深刻。他为了让自己有智力障碍的弟弟得到更好的照顾而牺牲了自己家庭，他家的房子破，车子破，从未领家人去度假... 爸爸对此非常自责，这个有宽阔肩膀坚毅眼神的男人对女儿说:
作为兄长，丈夫，三个孩子的父亲，他承受了太多。他没有抱怨，因为他知道自己是在做正确的事情。
女儿对他说:
这让我想到了我的爸爸。 我的家里并不富裕，但是从小到大我想要什么爸爸都会尽量满足我的要求，我也一直在理所当然一味地索取和消耗。曾经羡慕过别人的爸爸，也"恨"过我爸爸，但是我清楚的知道他有多疼我。那些事情我都记得清清楚楚，好像是每个人心中都有那么一个“背影”，它时不时的就会出现，提醒你你永远有座山在那里可以依靠 -- 即使他不在你身旁。 什么都不需要，只要陪伴就好了。老姥爷（姥爷的爸爸）在过百岁生日的时候，姥爷举杯对来宾致谢，他说: 我今年80多岁了，还能在我的父亲身旁照顾他，还能让我享受父爱，我觉得很幸福。 去年的时候，爸爸的爸爸走了。过年的那天，他哭的厉害。我看他喝了很多的酒，很难过，也很害怕。 |
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