Go Home
They say you can never go home again.
Well, you can. Only you might find yourself staying at a Travel Lodge, driving a rented Ford Contour and staking out your childhood home like some noir private eye just trying to catch a glimpse of the Johnny-come-lately that are now living in YOUR HOUSE.
It’s a familiar story. Kids grow up, parents sell the family home and move to some sunnier climate, some condo somewhere, some smaller abode. We grown up kids box up all the junk from our childhoods―dusty ballet shoes, high school text books, rolled up posters of Adam Ant―and wonder where home went.
I’m not a sentimental person, I told myself. I don’t need to see old 3922 26th Street before we sell the place. I even skipped the part where I return home to salvage my mementos from the garage. I let my parents box up the stuff which arrived from San Francisco like the little package you get when released from jail. You know, here’s your watch, the outfit you wore in here, some cash. Here’s the person you once were.
After a year, San Francisco called me home again. I missed it. High rents had driven all my friends out of the city to the suburbs so I made myself a reservation at a motel and drove there in a rented car.
The next day, I cruised over to my old neighborhood. There was the little corner store my mom used to send me to for milk, the familiar fire station, the Laundromat.
I cried like the sap I never thought I’d be. I sat in the car, staring at my old house, tears welling up. It had a fresh paint job, the gang graffiti erased from the garage door. New curtains hung in the window.
I walked up and touched the doorknob like it was the cheek of a lover just home from war. I noticed the darker paint where our old mezuzah used to be. I sat on our scratchy brick stoop, dangling my legs off the edge, feeling as rootless as I’ve ever felt.
You can’t go home in a lot of ways, I discovered that night, when I met up with an ex-boyfriend.
“Great to see you,” he said, giving me a tense hug. “The thing is, I only have an hour.”
What am I, the Lens Crafters of social engagements?
As it happens, his new girlfriend wasn’t too keen on my homecoming. We had a quick drink and he dropped me back off at my motel where I scrounged up my change to buy some Whoppers from the vending machine for dinner. I settled in for the evening to watch “Three to Tango” on HBO.
“You had to watch a movie with a Friends’ cast member,” said my brother, nodding empathetically. “That’s sad.”
My brother and I met up at our old house, like homing pigeons. We walked down the street for some coffee and I 19)filled him in on my trip. He convinced me to stay my last night at his new place in San Bruno, just outside the city. I’ll gladly pay $98 a night just for the privilege of not inconveniencing anyone, but he actually seemed to want me.
“I love having guests,” he insisted. So I went.
It’s surprising how late in life you still get that “I can’t believe I’m a grown-up feeling,” like when your big brother, the guy who used to force you to watch “Gomer Pyle” reruns, owns his own place. It was small and sparse and he had just moved in but it was his. The refrigerator had nothing but mustard, a few cheese slices and fourteen cans of Diet 7-Up.
We picked up some Taco Bell, rented a movie, popped some popcorn and I fell asleep on his couch.
Insomniacs rarely fall asleep on people’s couches, I assure you. I don’t know why I slept so well after agonizing all weekend over the question of home, if I had one anymore, where it was. I only know that curled up under an old sleeping bag, the sound of some second-rate guy movie playing in the background, my brother in a chair next to me, I felt safe and comfortable and maybe that’s part of what home is.
But it’s not the whole story. As much as I’d like to buy the clinches about home being where the heart is, or as Robert Frost put it, “The place where when you have to go there, they have to take you in,” a part of me thinks the truth is somewhere between the loftiness of all those platitudes and the concreteness of that wooden door on 26th street.
I’ll probably be casing that joint from time to time for the rest of my life. I’ll sit outside, like a child watching someone take away a favorite toy, and silently scream, “MINE!”
回家
人们都说你是再也回不了你的家了。
其实你是可以的。这样的话，你会发现自己将会住进寒酸的汽车旅馆里面，开着租来的廉价福特康拖车，在你童年的家门口久久地徘徊，就像黑色电影里的私家侦探一样，你总想窥探那些占了你“巢穴”的到底是些什么样的人。
这样的故事让你觉得似曾相识――孩子长大了，父母们便要把老家卖掉，搬到气候更宜人的地方去，住公寓或更小的房子。而我们这些已经长大成人的孩子，将所有童年时期的破烂玩意儿打包收拾好，包括已经尘封了的芭蕾舞鞋、高中时期的课本和已经卷好的歌手亚当-恩特的海报，可当我们收拾好之后，才惊奇地发现家不见了！
我对自己说，我并不是个多愁善感的人。我们老家，26街3922号卖掉之前我并没有要去多看一眼的冲动，甚至没有亲自回老家打捞车库里的那些纪念品，而是让父母帮我打包后从旧金山寄了过来。收到那包裹的时候感觉就像出狱一样――这是你的手表，这是你在这穿过的，这里还有些现金……你可以从这包东西看到自己的过去。
搬家一年后，出于对家乡的想念，我回了趟旧金山。当时因为房租太高，朋友们都搬到市郊去住了。我无处可投，便向当地一家汽车旅馆订了个房，租了辆车开了去。
第二天我便到处去走访那些老街坊。我旧地重游了街道拐角的那家迷你便利店，当年妈妈经常打发我到去那里买牛奶，还有那熟悉的消防局和洗衣店……
我坐在车里，直直的盯着老家看。此时的我，哭得像个傻瓜一样，我从来没有想过自己会哭得那么凶。此刻的老屋，里里外外都被重新粉刷了一遍，车库门上的涂鸦作品也被抹去，窗上还挂起了新窗帘。
我走到门前，轻轻地触摸了门把手，就像轻抚从战场归来的爱人的脸一样。门上那块颜色黯淡的漆，正是我们以前贴平安符的地方呀！我在砖面粗糙的门廊上坐下，双脚悬荡着，一种前所未有的无根感涌上心头。
是啊！有很多时候你是回不了家的。那天晚上我和前男友的碰面，使我终于明白了这一点。
“见到你真是太好了，”他见面就说，然后紧紧的拥抱了我，“可我有事，我只有一个小时的时间。”他接着说。
他把我当什么了？听起来像是一小时快速配眼镜一样！
可想而知的是，他的新女友并不怎么欢迎我的突如其来。我们随便喝了点东西，然后他就把我送回了旅馆。我凑了点零钱，找个自动贩卖机买了些汉堡包，晚餐就这么打发了。晚上将就着在旅馆里看了电影台播放的《三人探戈》。
“你应该看一部由《老友记》那帮演员演的一部片子，”电话那边哥哥同情地劝我说，“你现在看的那部太悲了。”
我和哥哥在老屋门口见了面，就像两只归家的鸽子。我们沿着街道找了家咖啡店，我把这几天发生的事情告诉了他。哥哥说最后一天就到他新家去住吧，就在市郊的圣布鲁诺城。其实我很乐意付98美金一晚住旅馆，只要能不麻烦别人，但哥哥似乎真的很想我过去住。
“我喜欢家里有客人来住！”哥哥坚持说。于是我就跟着去了。
很奇怪为什么人们总是不愿意承认自己已经长大了。看看我哥，我还记得他以前一遍一遍地强迫我看那部老掉牙的电影《傻子格麦派》，而现在他居然有了他自己的房子。哥哥刚搬来不久，地方不大，摆设也少，但却是他自己的家。冰箱里面的东西很少，有几根芥菜、几片芝士切片，还有十四罐健怡七喜。
我们在一家墨西哥速食店买了些食物，再去租了部电影，啃了点爆米花。后来我就在哥哥的沙发椅上睡着了。
我敢保证，常失眠的人是很难在别人家的沙发上睡着的。可是不知道为什么这次我却睡得很好，尽管我整个周末都在苦苦思考一个问题――如果我有家的话，那么我的家到底在哪里？我只知道，当我蜷缩在破破的睡袋里头，哥哥坐在椅子上看着蹩脚演员主演的电影，就在我的身旁，我会觉得既安全又舒适――或许家的一部分就应该是这样的。
但这些并不是全部。我可以相信诸如“家就在心中”这样的老话，也欣赏诗人罗伯特-莱特所说的：“家就是当你想去，人家就得让你进去的地方。”但同时我也坚信，真正的家既可以如陈词滥调所形容的那般飘渺，也可以跟26街那扇木门一样的坚实。
在以后的日子里，我可能还会不止一次地回到老屋门前徘徊。我会坐在屋子外面，像个小孩看到有人拿走了他心爱的玩具那样，默默地在心底大喊：“那是我的！”
