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The oil stain on my garage floor has faded to a dusty umber1）, the same nondescript2） color as the other random blots that collect on concrete over the years. Once, it was a shallow black puddle3）, pooling under my neighbor Bill’s motorcycle. Now it’s an indelible4） reminder that friendship can be fleeting.
It didn’t take me long to meet Bill after I moved into the neighborhood in September 1992. Each day, he and his dog passed my house on their morning walk. She introduced herself first, a fetching young malamute5） who bounded straight for me and threw herself, belly up, at my feet—tail swishing6）, tongue lolling7), eyes pleading. I couldn’t resist. We bonded with a tummy8) rub even before he finished scolding her for scampering9) away. Pretty Girl, he called her, pronouncing it“Purdy Girl.”
I pegged10) Bill right away as one of those fiftysomething counterculture types who’d tried on the 1960s and found a fit for life. From a distance he looked intimidating, with his full, grizzled beard and scraggly11) hair, his seedy12) T-shirt, tattered flannel shirt and ragged jeans. I couldn’t help but notice his coarse knuckles and dirty fingernails when we shook hands.
I berated13）myself for succumbing14）to stereotypes the moment I looked into his face. It reminded me of the line from “'Twas the Night Before Christmas”: “His eyes—how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!” A persistent grin had worn deep laughter creases15) around those eyes, and I felt as foolish in my fear as if I’d been spooked 16）by Santa Claus.
Bill’s house was painted mustard yellow, with a roof and yard that looked neglected. Over time, I learned that he lived there with his 80-year-old parents, George and Lily, and that he earned his keep17）by lugging18) other people’s castoffs to the dump. The signs on his battered old pickup promised U CALL I HAUL. On weekday mornings, while the ancient vehicle coughed loudly to life, Bill would stand in the street near the driver door, killing time by brushing his teeth. Then, with Pretty Girl riding shotgun19）, he’d rattle20）off to his workday.
We struck up the kind of occasional friendship that people cultivate when happenstance21) makes them neighbors. We waved to each other in passing, shouted greetings, and watched the evolving relationship between Pretty Girl and my cat, Max. Sometimes it went further. When my car had a dead battery one morning, Bill hurried over with jumper22) cables. When I left a mountain of yard debris23) moldering24) in my driveway for a month, Bill took it upon himself to haul it away, then refused to accept more than $20. I knew the dumping fee alone was $13, so after dark I left a 12-pack of Bill’s favorite beer on his porch.
As the years passed, I learned that I wasn’t the only neighbor on the receiving end of Bill’s favors. So when he knocked on my door one night in February and asked to park his bike in my garage for a few days, as he had no covered space for it, I said sure. It turned out to be not any old motorcycle, but an antique Harley-Davidson worth a bundle25). I could tell what it was worth to Bill just by watching him stroke it, and it had more to do with memories than monetary value. He loved that bike. For reasons known only to Bill,“a few days” stretched into weeks, then a month. Every few nights, Bill would find a reason to come by and tinker26). He’d drive a screw here, check a gasket 27) there, and later I’d find the oil dripping onto the garage floor. Or he’d bring over a half-dozen buddies and ask me to open the garage door so they could admire it. After a while, I’d just ask Bill to turn off the lights and lock up when he was through.
Then one morning, an ambulance pulled up to the mustard-yellow house. Several of us neighbors huddled outside, worrying aloud that George or Lily had suffered a stroke. We breathed easier when the medics28) left without a passenger. But when Bill’s daughter rang my doorbell, asking to collect the bike that was still in my garage, I knew something was wrong. She said Bill had died in his sleep that morning, felled by a heart condition.
Pretty Girl misses him most of all, I suspect. No one’s nearly as reliable as Bill when it comes to her accustomed walks. For a long while, Lily fielded29) calls from people who needed a load of debris hauled. She’d just say Bill died and went to heaven.
My 8-year-old daughter said it wasn’t fair that we didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. The lesson, I tried to explain, is to cherish all the chances we get to say hello.
我家车库地上的油渍已经渐渐变淡，呈现出一种无以名状的灰，就像水泥地多年来留下的其他污迹一样。从前，那是一滩浅浅的黑机油，是我邻居比尔的摩托车留下的。如今，它却成了永不磨灭的见证，表明友谊可能转瞬即逝。
1992年9月我搬进这个街区，没多久就认识了比尔。每天清晨，他遛狗时都会经过我的房子。他的狗抢先介绍了自己，那是条迷人的年轻雪撬犬，她径直朝我跑来，一骨碌倒下，肚子朝上——尾巴甩得刷刷响，舌头耷拉着，眼巴巴地望着我。我无法抗拒她的邀请，于是揉了揉她的肚子。没等比尔因她跑开训斥完她，我们之间就建立了感情。比尔叫她“漂亮姑娘”，听起来像“泡亮姑娘”。
我立刻把比尔归入了那类50多岁的反传统文化者，他们尝试过60年代那些花样，找到了某种“健康的生活方式”。远处看他令人发怵 ，灰白的胡子长满下巴，头发零乱，身上穿着的T恤衫、法兰绒衬衫和牛仔裤都破旧不堪。我们握手时，我没法不注意到他粗糙的指关节和脏兮兮的指甲。
目光接触的一瞬间，我自责先前不该对他有成见。他的面孔让我想起了《那是圣诞节前夜》的一行诗：“他的双眼——是多么地闪亮！他的酒窝，是多么地愉快！”他脸上始终带着微笑，眼睛周围都形成了深深的笑纹。我觉得自己起初的害怕很愚蠢，就好像被圣诞老人吓着了一样。
比尔的房子漆成了深黄色，屋顶和院子看上去都没人打理。时间一长，我了解到比尔与80岁高龄的父母乔治和莉莉住在一起，靠给别人往垃圾场运送废弃物来挣生活费。他那辆破旧皮卡车上的招牌保证“你打电话我来拉”。在每个工作日的早晨，那辆老爷车带着巨大的轰鸣声启动，比尔则站在靠近驾驶座车门的街边，刷着牙以打发时间。然后他就在雪撬犬“漂亮姑娘”的陪伴下，驾驶着突突作响的车开始一天的工作。
我们之间开始了偶尔的友谊，当人们碰巧成为邻居时，他们之间就会结成这种友谊。我们打照面时朝对方挥手致意，互相大声问候，看着“漂亮姑娘”和我的猫咪“马克斯”之间的关系不断发展。有时这种友谊不止于此。一天上午我的汽车蓄电池坏了，比尔赶紧带着跳线过来。我在车道放着从院子清出的一大堆破烂，一个月没运走都腐烂了，比尔主动把破烂运走了，之后只肯收区区20美元。我知道仅是垃圾场的收费就得13美元，所以天黑之后我在比尔家的走廊放了一打他最喜欢的啤酒。
几年下来，我了解到自己并非是惟一受到比尔恩惠的邻居。二月份的一个晚上，他敲我的门，问能否借我的车库存放几天他的摩托车，因为他没有带遮盖的地方放车，我说没问题。那不是一般的旧摩托车，而是一辆价值不菲的老哈利·戴维森。只要看看比尔抚摸车的样子，我就知道这辆车对他的意义，那上面承载的更多的是回忆而非金钱价值。他喜欢那辆摩托车。“几天”延长至数周，然后存放了有一个月，其缘由只有比尔清楚。每隔一段时间，比尔就会找个理由夜里来访，做些修修补补的工作。他上紧这儿的一个螺丝，检查那儿的一个垫片，后来我就发现摩托车的油滴到了车库地板上。要么他就带来好几个朋友，叫我打开车库门，让他们欣赏一下那辆车。过了一段时间，我索性让比尔侍弄完车之后替我关灯锁门。
一天早上，一辆救护车开到了深黄色的房子前面。我们好几个邻居都挤在外面，大声说着话，担心乔治或莉莉中了风。医生离开时没有带走任何人，我们的呼吸才轻松了一点。但是当比尔的女儿按响我的门铃，要取走仍然停在我车库的摩托车时，我知道事情不妙了。她说，比尔那天早上心脏病突发，在睡梦中过世了。
我猜想“漂亮姑娘”最怀念比尔，因为只有比尔最可靠，能陪着她进行惯常的散步。很长一段时间都是莉莉在处理需要运垃圾的人们打来的电话。她只说比尔去世了，去了天堂。
我八岁的女儿说我们连和比尔说“再见”的机会都没有，这不公平。我试着解释说，这个教训告诉我们，要珍惜每一次说“你好”的机会。
