第5章 电话里的朋友

A Friend on the Line

金尼斯·迈克尔·比奇/Jennings Michael Birch

没有朋友的人生就如同没有见证的死亡。

——西班牙谚语

号码还没拨完，我就发现自己打错了。电话铃响了一声，两声——然后有人接起来了。

“你打错了！”一个沙哑的男声说道，之后是电话挂断的声音。我很迷惑，于是又拨了过去。

“我说你打错电话了！”那个声音回答道。电话又一次在我的耳边挂断。

他怎么知道我打错了？当时，我正在纽约市警署工作。一个警察通常职业性地充满警惕性和好奇心。于是我第三次拨了那个电话。

“嗨，伙计，”那个人说，“又是你吧？”

“是的，又是我，”我回答说，“我很奇怪，我还没说话，你怎么就知道我打错了呢？”

“你自己想去吧！”电话猛地被挂断了。

我坐了一会儿，漫不经心地拿着电话筒，又打了过去。

“你弄明白了吗？”他问。

“我唯一能想到的原因就是……从来没人给你打过电话。”

“你说对了！”电话第四次被挂断。我咯咯地笑着，又拨通了那个电话。

“你现在还想干什么？”他问。

“我觉得我应该打个电话……跟你问个好。”

“问好？为什么？”

“因为如果从来没人给你打过电话，我想或许我应该这么做。”

“好吧。你好，你是谁？”

终于，我打通了这个电话。现在他充满了好奇。我告诉他我是谁并问他是谁。

“我叫阿道夫·梅斯，今年88岁。20年来，我还没在一天内接过这么多打错的电话呢！”我们都笑了。

我们聊了十分钟。阿道夫没有家庭，也没有朋友。曾经和他关系亲密的人都已离开了人世。后来发现，我们有一个共同点：他在纽约市警署工作了将近40年。他告诉我他当时是电梯操作员。他似乎很有趣，也很友好。我问是否可以再给他打电话。

他很诧异地问：“你为什么还想打电话呢？”

“因为，我们可以成为电话里的朋友。你知道的，就像笔友一样。”

他犹豫了一下。“我不介意……再有一个朋友。”他试探性地说。

次日下午和几天后，我又给阿道夫打了电话。他很健谈，跟我讲了他关于一战和二战、兴登堡灾难和其他的历史事件的一些记忆。他很吸引人。我把家里及办公室的电话都给了他，以便于他可以给我打电话。他这样做了——几乎每天都打。

我并不只是在对一个孤独的人表达善意。与阿道夫聊天对我来说也很重要。因为在我的生命中，也有一大片空白。我从小在孤儿院长大，后来被一个家庭收养，从未有过父亲。渐渐地，阿道夫对我的重要性就像父亲一样。我跟他讲我的工作和夜大的课程。

阿道夫也渐渐担当起顾问的角色。当讨论到我和上司的意见不同时，我对我的新朋友说：“我想应该和他谈一谈。”“干吗这么着急？”阿道夫提醒我说，“先冷处理一下。当你到我这个年纪时，就会发现时间可以解决一切。如果事情越来越糟糕，你再去跟他谈。”沉默了很长时间后，他温柔地说：“你知道吗，我跟你说话就像是在跟我自己的孩子说话一样。我一直想有一个家庭，有些孩子。你还年轻，还无法理解这种感受。”

不，不是的。我一直都想有个家，有个父亲。但我什么也没说，我害怕无法抑制住心中压抑已久的伤痛。

一天晚上，阿道夫提到他89岁的生日就要到了。我买了一块纤维板，将它设计成一个生日卡，并在上面画上了插着89支蜡烛的生日蛋糕。我请所有的同事及办公室的顶头上司在上面签名，收集了将近100个签名。我相信，阿道夫肯定会喜欢的。

在电话中，我们已经聊了4个月了，我觉得这是个见面的好机会。因此我决定亲自把贺卡送去。

我没有告诉阿道夫我要来。一天早上，我直接开车去了他住的地方，然后把车停在他公寓前的街上。我走进那座楼时，一个邮递员正在走廊里分邮件。我找阿道夫的邮箱，他对我点了点头。一楼H座就在那儿，离我站的地方不过20英尺。

我激动得心跳不已。我们还会有在电话中的那种感觉吗？这种猜疑让我的心有些刺痛感。也许他会拒绝我，就像当年父亲抛弃我一样，走出我的生活。我敲了敲阿道夫家的门。没有人回答，我又用力敲了敲。

整理邮件的邮递员抬起头，说：“那里没人。”

“是的，”我自觉有些愚蠢地说，“如果他像接电话那样应门的话，那可能得敲上一天。”

“你是他的亲戚吗？”

“不是，只是一个朋友。”

“我很难过，”他平静地说道，“梅斯先生前天过世了。”

去世了？阿道夫？那一刻，我不知道说什么好。我站在那里，震惊又怀疑。之后我回过神来，谢过邮递员，走进已近正午的阳光里。我朝车子走去，双眼已经湿润。

后来，绕过街角，我看到了一座教堂，《旧约全书》中的一行字映入我的脑海：朋友永远相爱。我觉得特别是在朋友去世之后。这让我有了些更多感悟。生命中总会有一些意外悲伤的变化，提醒我们生命中特别存在的美丽。现在，我第一次感觉到我和阿道夫是多么亲密。与他亲近是这样容易。我知道我和下一个朋友会更容易走近。渐渐地，我感到一股暖流穿过全身。我听到阿道夫用缓慢的声音喊道：“打错了！”接着，又听到他问我为什么还想打电话。

“因为你对我很重要，阿道夫，”我对着空气大声说，“因为我是你的朋友。”

我坐回驾驶座，把没有打开的生日贺卡放到了汽车后座。发动车子之前，我回头看了看，轻声说道：“阿道夫，我没有打错电话，我找的就是你。”

Life without a friend is death without a witness.

—Spanish proverb

Even before I finished dialing， I somehow knew I'd made a mistake. The phone rang once， twice—then someone picked it up.

"You got the wrong number！" a husky male voice snapped before the line went dead. Mystified， I dialed again.

"I said you got the wrong number！" came the voice. Once more the phone clicked in my ear.

How could he possibly know I had a wrong number？ At that time， I worked for the New York City Police Department. A cop is trained to be curious—and concerned. So I dialed a third time.

"Hey， demon，" the man said. "Is this you again？"

"Yeah， it's me，" I answered. "I was wondering how you knew I had the wrong number before I even said anything？"

"You figure it out！" The phoned slammed down.

I sat there awhile， the receiver hanging loosely in my fingers. I called the man back.

"Did you figure it out yet？" he asked.

"The only thing I can think of is … nobody ever calls you."

"You got it！" The phone went dead for the fourth time. Chuckling， I dialed the man back.

"What do you want now？" he asked.

"I thought I'd call… just to say hello."

"Hello？ Why？"

"Well， if nobody ever calls you， I thought maybe I should."

"Okay. Hello. Who is this？"

At last， I had got through. Now he was curious. I told him who I was and asked who he was.

"My name is Adolf Meth. I'm 88 years old， and I haven't had this many wrong numbers in one day in 20 years！" We both laughed.

We talked for 10 minutes. Adolf had no family， no friends. Everyone he had been close to had died. Then we discovered we had something in common： he'd worked for the New York City Police Department for nearly 40 years. Telling me about his days there as an elevator operator， he seemed interesting， even friendly. I asked if I could call him again.

"Why would you wanna do that？" he asked， surprised.

"Well， maybe we could be phone friends. You know， like pen pals."

He hesitated. "I wouldn't mind… having a friend again." His voice sounded a little tentative.

I called Adolf the following afternoon and several days later. Easy to talk with， he related his memories of World War I and II， the Hindenburg disaster and other historical events. He was fascinating. I gave him my home and office numbers so he could call us. He did almost every day.

I was not just being kind to a lonely man. Talking to Adolf was important to me， because I， too， had a big gap in my life. Raised in orphanages and foster homes， I never had a father. Gradually， Adolf took on a kind of fatherly importance to me. I talked about my job and college courses， which I attended at night.

Adolf warmed to the role of counselor. While discussing a disagreement I'd had with a supervisor， I told my new friend，"I think I've had it with him."

"What's the rush？" Adolf cautioned. "Let things cool down. When you get as old as I am， you find out that time takes care of a lot. If things get worse， then you can talk to him."

There was a long silence. "You know，" he said softly， "I am talking to you just the way I'd talk to a boy of my own. I always wanted a family—and children. You're too young to know how that feels."

No， I wasn't. I'd always wanted a family—and a father. But I didn't say anything， afraid I wouldn't be able to hold back the hurt I'd felt for so long.

One evening， Adolf mentioned his 89th birthday was coming up. After buying a piece of fiberboard， I designed a big greeting card with a cake and 89 candles on it. I asked all the cops and my Office Commissioner to sign it. I gathered nearly a hundred signatures. Adolf would get a kick out of this， I knew.

We'd been talking on the phone for four months now， and I thought this would be a good time to meet face to face. So I decided to deliver the card by hand.

I didn't tell Adolf I was coming. I just drove to his address one morning and parked the car up the street from his apartment house. A postman was sorting mail in the hallway when I entered the building. He nodded as I checked the mailboxes for Adolf's name. There it was. Apartment 1H， some 20 feet from where I stood.

My heart pounded with excitement. Would we have the same chemistry in person that we had on the phone？ I felt the first stab of doubt. Maybe he would reject me the way my father rejected me when he went out of my life. I tapped on Adolf's door. When there was no answer， I knocked harder.

The postman looked up from his sorting. "No one's there，" he said.

"Yeah，" I said， feeling a little foolish. "If he answered his door the way he answers his phone， this may take all day."

"Are you a relative or something？"

"No， just a friend."

"I'm really sorry，" he said quietly， "but Mr. Meth died the day before yesterday."

Died？ Adolf？ For a moment， I couldn't answer. I stood there in shock and disbelief. Then， pulling myself together， I thanked the postman and stepped into the late-morning sun. I walked toward the car， misty-eyed.

Then， rounding the corner， I saw a church， and a line from the Old Testament leaped into my mind： A friend loves you at all times. And especially in death， I realized. This brought a moment of recognition. Often it takes some sudden and sad turn of events to awaken us to the beauty of a special presence in our lives. Now， for the first time， I sensed how very close Adolf and I had become. It has been easy， and I knew this would make it even easier the next time， with my next close friend. Slowly， I felt a warmth surging through me. I heard Adolf's growly voice shouting， "Wrong number！" Then I heard him asking why I wanted to call again.

"Because you mattered， Adolf，" I said aloud to no one. "Because I was your friend."

I placed the unopened birthday card on the back seat of my car and got behind the wheel. Before starting the engine， I looked over my shoulder. "Adolf，" I whispered， "I didn't get the wrong number at all. I got you."