Going Home 回家英文短篇小说
I first heard this story a few years ago from a girl I had met in New Yorks 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.
如果我现在还在SZ，我想已经报名psychology course，平时下班去练车，周末去上课。我会把时间安排的很满，不会有闲暇时间顾忌其他。饿了就吃困了就睡，一个人忙碌着，然后自得其乐。SZ是一个快节奏的城市，我喜欢它的年轻，便捷和多样化。但同时也伴随着些许的焦虑和不安，从最初感觉时间飞逝乐在其中，到后面惴惴不安，我感觉越来越没有归属感和值得待下去的理由，听他们讲话会累，每天重复的工作会累，甚至一想到一走进办公室要面对的人我也会觉得心好累，我开始学会了屏蔽。对她们谈论的话语不感兴趣，对她们的提议不感兴趣，对好吃的也提不起兴趣，我变得惶恐，不想跟她们有太多的接触和交流又不想让自己落单。我开始计较得到与付出，思想也变得狭隘。直到我离开这些东西才戛然而止，有人说我洒脱，说走就走。只是她不知道在决定回来之前种种思想斗争。换个环境，我开始重新审视我自己。我依旧有学车的打算，依旧心恋着psychology course 。只是我不再有那么多无关紧要的牵绊，也不再心慌。
They were going to Fort Lauderdalethree 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.
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.
Deep into the night, outside Washington, the bus pulled into Howard Johnsons, 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.
“Were going to Florida,” she said brightly.“ I hear its really beautiful.”
“It is, ” he said quietly, as if remembering something he had tried to forget.
“Want some wine?” she said. He smiled and took a swig. He thanked her and retreated again into his silence. After a while, she went back to the others, and Vingo nodded in sleep.
In the morning, they awoke outside another Howard Johnsons,and this time Vingo went in. The girl insisted that he join them. He seemed very shy, and ordered black coffee and smoked nervously as the young people chattered about sleeping on beaches. When they returned to the bus, the girl sat with Vingo again, and after a while, slowly and painfully, he told his story. He had been in jail in New York for the past four years, and now he was going home.
“Are you married?”
“I dont know.”