When I knew I was going to come to speak to you, I thought, "I gotta call my mother." I have a little Cuban mother -- she's about that big. Four feet. Nothing larger than the sum of her figurative parts. You still with me? (Laughter) I called her up. "Hello, how're you doing, baby?" "Hey, ma, I got to talk to you." "You're talking to me already. What's the matter?" I said, "I've got to talk to a bunch of nice people." "You're always talking to nice people, except when you went to the White House." "Ma, don't start!" And I told her I was coming to TED, and she said, "What's the problem?" And I said, "Well, I'm not sure." I said, "I have to talk to them about stories. It's 'Technology, Entertainment and Design.'" And she said, "Well, you design a story when you make it up, it's entertainment when you tell it, and you're going to use a microphone." (Laughter) I said, "You're a peach, ma. Pop there?" "What's the matter? The pearls of wisdom leaping from my lips like lemmings is no good for you?" (Laughter) Then my pop got on there. My pop, he's one of the old souls, you know -- old Cuban man from Camaguey. Camaguey is a province in Cuba. He's from Florida. He was born there in 1924. He grew up in a bohio of dirt floors, and the structure was the kind used by the Tainos, our old Arawak ancestors. My father is at once quick-witted, wickedly funny, and then poignancy turns on a dime and leaves you breathless. "Papi, help." "I already heard your mother. I think she's right." (Laughter) "After what I just told you?" My whole life, my father's been there. So we talked for a few minutes, and he said, "Why don't you tell them what you believe?" I love that, but we don't have the time. Good storytelling is crafting a story that someone wants to listen to. Great story is the art of letting go. So I'm going to tell you a little story. Remember, this tradition comes to us not from the mists of Avalon, back in time, but further still, before we were scratching out these stories on papyrus, or we were doing the pictographs on walls in moist, damp caves. Back then, we had an urge, a need, to tell the story. When Lexus wants to sell you a car, they're telling you a story. Have you been watching the commercials? Because every one of us has this desire, for once -- just once -- to tell our story and have it heard. There are stories you tell from stages. There's stories that you may tell in a small group of people with some good wine. And there's stories you tell late at night to a friend, maybe once in your life. And then there are stories that we whisper into a Stygian darkness. I'm not telling you that story. I'm telling you this one. It's called, "You're Going to Miss Me." It's about human connection. My Cuban mother, which I just briefly introduced you to in that short character sketch, came to the United States one thousand years ago. I was born in 19 -- I forget, and I came to this country with them in the aftermath of the Cuban revolution. We went from Havana, Cuba to Decatur, Georgia. And Decatur, Georgia's a small Southern town. And in that little Southern town, I grew up, and grew up hearing these stories. But this story only happened a few years ago. I called my mom. It was a Saturday morning. And I was calling about how to make ajiaco. It's a Cuban meal. It's delicious. It's savory. It makes spit froth in the little corners of your mouth -- is that enough? It makes your armpits juicy, you know? That kind of food, yeah. This is the sensory part of the program, people. I called my mother, and she said, "Carmen, I need you to come, please. I need to go to the mall, and you know your father now, he takes a nap in the afternoon, and I got to go. I got an errand to run." Let me parenthetically pause here and tell you -- Esther, my mother, had stopped driving several years ago, to the collective relief of the entire city of Atlanta. Any vehicular outing with that woman from the time I was a young child, guys, naturally included flashing, blue lights. But she'd become adept at dodging the boys in blue, and when she did meet them, oh, she had wonderful, well, rapport. "Ma'am, did you know that was a light you just ran?" (Spanish) "You don't speak English?" "No." (Laughter) But eventually, every dog has its day, and she ended up in traffic court, where she bartered with the judge for a discount. There's a historical marker. But now she was a septuagenarian, she'd stopped driving. And that meant that everyone in the family had to sign up to take her to have her hair dyed, you know, that peculiar color of blue that matches her polyester pants suit, you know, same color as the Buick. Anybody? All right. Little picks on the legs, where she does her needlepoint, and leaves little loops. Rockports -- they're for this. That's why they call them that. (Laughter) This is her ensemble. And this is the woman that wants me to come on a Saturday morning when I have a lot to do, but it doesn't take long because Cuban guilt is a weighty thing. I'm not going political on you but ... And so, I go to my mother's. I show up. She's in the carport. Of course, they have a carport. The kind with the corrugated roof, you know. The Buick's parked outside, and she's jingling, jangling a pair of keys. "I got a surprise for you, baby!" "We taking your car?" "Not we, I." And she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a catastrophe. Somebody's storytelling. Interactive art. You can talk to me. Oh, a driver's license, a perfectly valid driver's license. Issued, evidently, by the DMV in her own county of Gwinnett. Blithering fucking idiots. (Laughter) I said, "Is that thing real?" "I think so." "Can you even see?" "I guess I must." "Oh, Jesus." She gets into the car -- she's sitting on two phone books. I can't even make this part up because she's that tiny. She's engineered an umbrella so she can -- bam! -- slam the door. Her daughter, me, the village idiot with the ice cream cone in the middle of her forehead, is still standing there, slack-jawed. "You coming? You no coming?" "Oh, my God." I said, "OK, fine. Does pop know you're driving?" "Are you kidding me?" "How are you doing it?" "He's got to sleep sometime." And so we left my father fast asleep, because I knew he'd kill me if I let her go by herself, and we get in the car. Puts it in reverse. Fifty-five out of the driveway, in reverse. I am buckling in seatbelts from the front. I'm yanking them in from the back. I'm doing double knots. I mean, I've got a mouth as dry as the Kalahari Desert. I've got a white-knuckle grip on the door. You know what I'm talking about? And she's whistling, and finally I do the kind of birth breathing -- you know, that one? Only a couple of women are going uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. Right. And I said, "Ma, would you slow down?" Because now she's picked up the Highway 285, the perimeter around Atlanta, which encompasses now -- there's seven lanes, she's on all of them, y'all. I said, "Ma, pick a lane!" "They give you seven lanes, they expect you to use them." And there she goes, right. I don't believe for a minute she has been out and not been stopped. So, I think, hey, we can talk. It'll be a diversion. It'll help my breathing. It'll do something for my pulse, maybe. "Mommy, I know you have been stopped." "No, no, what you talking about?" "You have a license. How long have you been driving?" "Four or five days." "Yeah. And you haven't been stopped?" "I did not get a ticket." I said, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, but come on, come on, come on." "OK, so I stopped at a light and there's a guy, you know, in the back." "Would this guy have, like, a blue uniform and a terrified look on his face?" "You weren't there, don't start." "Come on. You got a ticket?" "No." She explained, "The man" -- I have to tell you as she did, because it loses something if I don't, you know -- "he come to the window, and he does a thing like this, which tells me he's pretty old, you know. So I look up and I'm thinking, maybe he's still going to think I'm kind of cute." "Ma, are you still doing that?" "If it works, it works, baby. So, I say, 'Perdon, yo no hablo ingles.' Well, wouldn't you know, he had been in Honduras for the Peace Corps." (Laughter) So he's talking to her, and at some point she says, "Then, you know, it was it. That was it. It was done." "Yeah? What? He gave you a ticket? He didn't give you a ticket? What?" "No, I look up, and the light, she change." (Laughter) You should be terrified. Now, I don't know if she's toying with me, kind of like a cat batting back a mouse, batting back a mouse -- left paw, right paw, left paw, right paw -- but by now, we've reached the mall. Now, you have all been at a mall during the holidays, yes? Talk to me. Yes. Yes. You can say yes. Audience: Yes. Carmen Agra Deedy: All right, then you know that you have now entered parking lot purgatory, praying to that saint of perpetual availability that as you join that serpentine line of cars crawling along, some guy's going to turn on the brake lights just as you pull up behind him. But that doesn't happen most of the time, right? So, first I say, "Ma, why are we here?" "You mean, like, in the car?" "No, don't -- why are we here today? It's Saturday. It's the holidays." "Because I have to exchange your father's underwear." Now, see, this is the kind of Machiavellian thinking, that you really have to -- you know, in my mind, it's a rabbit's warren, this woman's mind. Do I want to walk in, because unless I have Ariadne's thread to anchor -- enough metaphors for you? -- somewhere, I may not get out. But you know. (Laughter) "Why do we have to take pop's underwear back now? And why? What is wrong with his underwear?" "It will upset you." "It won't upset me. Why? What? Is something wrong with him?" "No, no, no. The only thing with him is, he's an idiot. I sent him to the store, which was my first mistake, and he went to buy underwear, and he bought the grippers, and he's supposed to buy the boxers." "Why?" "I read it on the Intersnet. You cannot have children." "Oh, my God!" (Laughter) Olivia? Huh? Huh? By now, we have now crawled another four feet, and my mother finally says to me, "I knew it, I knew it. I'm an immigrant. We make a space. What I tell you? Right there." And she points out the passenger window, and I look out, and three -- three -- aisles down, "Look, the Chevy." You want to laugh, but you don't know -- you're that politically corrected, have you noticed? Correct the other direction now, it's OK. "Look, the Chevy -- he's coming this way." "Mama, mama, mama, wait, wait, wait. The Chevy is three aisles away." She looks at me like I'm her, you know, her moron child, the cretin, the one she's got to speak to very slowly and distinctly. "I know that, honey. Get out of the car and go stand in the parking space till I get there." OK, I want a vote. Come on, come on. No, no. How many of you once in your -- you were a kid, you were an adult -- you stood in a parking space to hold it for someone? See, we're a secret club with a secret handshake. (Laughter) And years of therapy later, we're doing great. We're doing great. We're doing fine. Well, I stood up to her. This is -- you know, you'd think by now I'm -- and still holding? I said, "No way, ma, you have embarrassed me my entire life." Of course, her comeback is, "When have I embarrassed you?" (Spanish) And she's still talking while she puts the car in park, hits the emergency brake, opens the door, and with a spryness astounding in a woman her age, she jumps out of the car, knocks out the phone books, and then she walks around -- she's carrying her cheap Kmart purse with her -- around the front of the car. She has amazing land speed for a woman her age, too. Before I know it, she has skiddled across the parking lot and in between the cars, and people behind me, with that kind of usual religious charity that the holidays bring us, wah-wah wah-wah. "I'm coming." Italian hand signals follow. I scoot over. I close the door. I leave the phone books. This is new and fast, just so you -- are you still with us? We'll wait for the slow ones. OK. I start, and this is where a child says to me -- and the story doesn't work if I tell you about her before, because this is my laconic child. A brevity, brevity of everything with this child. You know, she eats small portions. Language is something to be meted out in small phonemes, you know -- just little hmm, hmm-hmm. She carries a mean spiral notebook and a pen. She wields great power. She listens, because that's what people who tell stories do first. But she pauses occasionally and says, "How do you spell that? What year? OK." When she writes the expose in about 20 years, don't believe a word of it. But this is my daughter, Lauren, my remarkable daughter, my borderline Asperger's kid. Bless you, Dr. Watson. She says, "Ma, you got to look!" Now, when this kid says I got to look, you know. But it isn't like I haven't seen this crime scene before. I grew up with this woman. I said, "Lauren, you know what, give me a play-by-play. I can't." "No, mama, you got to look." I got to look. You got to look. Don't you want to look? There she is. I look in bewildered awe: she's standing, those Rockports slightly apart, but grounded. She's holding out that cheap Kmart purse, and she is wielding it. She's holding back tons of steel with the sheer force of her little personality, in that crone-ish voice, saying things like, "Back it up, buddy! No, it's reserved!" (Laughter) Ready? Brace yourselves. Here it comes. "No, my daughter, she's coming in the Buick. Honey, sit up so they can see you." Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus. I finally come -- and now, it's the South. I don't know what part of the country you live in. I think we all secretly love stories. We all secretly want our blankie and our Boo Bear. We want to curl up and say, "Tell it to me, tell it to me. Come on, honey, tell it to me." But in the South, we love a good story. People have pulled aside, I mean, they've come out of that queue line, they have popped their trunks, pulled out lawn chairs and cool drinks. Bets are placed. "I'm with the little lady. Damn!" (Laughter) And she's bringing me in with a slight salsa movement. She is, after all, Cuban. I'm thinking, "Accelerator, break. Accelerator, break." Like you've never thought that in your life? Right? Yeah. I pull in. I put the car in park. Engine's still running -- mine, not the car. I jump out next to her going, "Don't you move!" "I'm not going anywhere." She's got front seat in a Greek tragedy. I come out, and there's Esther. She's hugging the purse. "Que?" Which means "what," and so much more. (Laughter) "Ma, have you no shame? People are watching us all around," right? Now, some of them you've got to make up, people. Secret of the trade. Guess what? Some of these stories I sculpt a little, here and there. Some, they're just right there, right there. Put them right there. She says this to me. After I say -- let me refresh you -- "have you no shame?" "No. I gave it up with pantyhose -- they're both too binding." (Laughter) (Applause) Yeah, you can clap, but then you're about 30 seconds from the end. I'm about to snap like a brittle twig, when suddenly someone taps me on the shoulder. Intrepid soul. I'm thinking, "This is my kid. How dare she? She jumped out of that car." That's OK, because my mother yells at me, I yell at her. It's a beautiful hierarchy, and it works. (Laughter) I turn around, but it's not a child. It's a young woman, a little taller than I, pale green, amused eyes. With her is a young man -- husband, brother, lover, it's not my job. And she says, "Pardon me, ma'am" -- that's how we talk down there -- "is that your mother?" I said, "No, I follow little old women around parking lots to see if they'll stop. Yes, it's my mother!" The boy, now, he says. "Well, what my sister meant" -- they look at each other, it's a knowing glance -- "God, she's crazy!" I said, (Spanish), and the young girl and the young boy say, "No, no, honey, we just want to know one more thing." I said, "Look, please, let me take care of her, OK, because I know her, and believe me, she's like a small atomic weapon, you know, you just want to handle her really gingerly." And the girl goes, "I know, but, I mean, I swear to God, she reminds us of our mother." I almost miss it. He turns to her on the heel of his shoe. It's a half-whisper, "God, I miss her." They turn then, shoulder to shoulder, and walk away, lost in their own reverie. Memories of some maddening woman who was the luck of their DNA draw. And I turn to Esther, who's rocking on those 'ports, and says, "You know what, honey?" "What, ma?" "I'm going to drive you crazy probably for about 14, 15 more years, if you're lucky, but after that, honey, you're going to miss me." (Applause)
一得知要来这儿演讲,我就寻思, “要给我妈打个电话。” 我那小巧玲珑的古巴母亲——她身量才那么大。 四英尺——她整体的形象真是无比高大。 你们懂我说的意思吧?(笑声) 我拨通了她的电话, “喂,宝贝,你好吗?” “嗳,妈,我得跟你说说话。” “你已经在跟我说了呀。啥事儿?” 我说“我打算去对一群好人演讲。” “你从来都是给好人演讲的,除了那次你去 白宫——” “妈,打住!” 然后我告诉她我要来TED,她就问, 有什么问题吗? 我就说,“嗯,我不太自信。” 我告诉她,“我要讲的内容是有关故事的。 而它(TED)的主题是技术,娱乐和设计。” 接着她说,“好办,你编故事本身就是设计嘛, 你边讲故事边娱乐, 另外你会用到麦克风。” (笑声) 我说,“服了你了,妈。爸在吗?” “不必了吧?锦囊妙计由我信口拈来, 还帮不上你啊?” (笑声) 接着我爸登场。 我老爸——饱经几世的沧桑, 卡马圭的古巴老人。 卡马圭系古巴的一个省。 他是佛洛里达人。 1924年在那儿出生。 他自幼从茅草屋的泥巴地里滚爬着长大, 就是泰诺人住过的那种结构的简陋茅草房, 泰诺人是我们远古的阿拉瓦人祖先。 我父亲的特点是既敏捷机智,搞怪滑稽, 又一针见血,他来个急转弯就能让人目瞪口呆。 “爸爸,帮忙哦。” “我已经听到你妈说的了。我觉着她说得对。” (笑声) “在我说了这事儿之后?” 从小到大,老爸对我有求必应。 我们随即聊了几分钟,然后他说, “干嘛不在演讲中谈谈你的信仰?” 我真想啊,可惜这场时间不够用的。 善于讲故事是要把故事编得让人想听。 讲究欲擒故纵。 我来讲个小故事。 追根溯源,讲故事这个传统,并非来自 阿瓦隆西方乐土岛,时间上还要往前推, 早于人类在纸草上草编故事, 回溯到人类在潮湿洞穴里往岩壁上涂刻象形文字。 那个时期的人类就有讲故事的欲望和要求。 Lexus凌志通过讲故事向你推销它的车。 你们留心看商业广告吗? 因为我们每个人都有这个欲望,只要一次--就一次 把我们的故事讲出来,令人倾听。 有些故事我们上台宣讲。 有些故事是 跟一小撮人边喝酒边讲的。 还有些故事由你在深夜对一个朋友倾吐, 可能一辈子就那么一回。 也有的故事,我们向幽暗的黑夜低声诉说。 我可不要给你们讲那个。 我要讲的故事 叫“你会想我的。” 是讲人之间感情关系的。 我那古巴母亲,刚才我简短跟大家介绍过的, 她身材玲珑, 一千年前来到美国。 我生于19—年,我忘了,在古巴革命之后 我跟他们也来到这个国家。 我们从古巴哈瓦那辗转去了佐治亚州的迪凯特, 迪凯特是佐治亚州的一座南部小镇。 我在那个南方小镇上长大, 是在这些故事熏陶下长大的。 但下面这个故事发生在几年前。 我给妈打电话。 一个星期六早上。 我本想问怎么做Ajiaco,一道古巴国菜(肉和蔬菜玉米番薯炖在一起一大碗配一块yuca饼)。 相当美味可口。 让你垂涎三尺。 吃起来酣畅淋漓。 对,就是那类美食。 讲故事得注意调动感官。 电话接通了,我妈说:“卡门,想你过来一下啊。 我得去超市,你也清楚你爸他现在, 午觉一睡一下午,我得去忙啊。 我有活儿要干呐。” 这儿得给大伙插一句, 艾斯特,我的妈妈,为了亚特兰大整个城市的集体安危着想, 几年前就不再开车了。 从我记事儿起,但凡跟那个女人驾车出行, 少不了(交警的)刺眼的蓝灯。 慢慢地,她晓得如何避开交警,还很拿手, 躲不开的时候也有,那时她表现出——慈眉善目。 “夫人,您刚才闯灯了您明白吗?” 西班牙语 您不讲英语? “不。”(用英文说的)。 (笑声) 但最终还是厄运难逃, 她被传唤到交通法庭上, 她却在哪儿跟法官商量指望从轻发落。 真有开创精神。 可如今她老人家已经到了古稀之年,不再开车啦。 对家里其他人来说,大家伙得轮班 开车带她去染发, 染成特定的蓝色,好配她那身化纤长裤套装, 你知道,就是跟别克车一样的颜色。 都明白?很好。 长裤绣上花,特意留出小线圈 再搭配一双乐布鞋。 它也因此得名。 (笑声) 她的总体形象介绍完了。 就是这样的女人想让我周六上午去一趟。 当时我也忙得走不开,但是再忙也得去啊,因为古巴式的负罪感很难摆脱的。 不想油嘴滑舌——反正我去找我妈了。 我到了。她在车棚里。 可不呗,他们有个车棚。 那种带瓦楞屋顶的。 别克车就停在外面, 她手里摇晃得一串钥匙当啷啷响。 “给你个惊喜,宝贝!” “我们开你的车啊?” “不是我们,是我开。” 随后她伸手从兜儿里掏出一个大灾难。 讲故事现场讲究互动。你们可以跟我互动。 哦,驾照——一本完好无损的驾照。 不用怀疑,是由她所在的Gwinnett镇上机动车管理部门核准发放的。 那帮蠢蛋。 (笑声) 我说,“那证是真的?” “我想是的。” “您眼力劲还行?” “我不行也得行啊。” “哦天啊。” 她上了车,屁股下垫着两本电话簿。 可不是我编的,她个头就那么小。 她摆弄着一把伞——砰!可把车门给带上了。 她闺女,我——一乡下傻大姐, 举个冰激凌甜筒在脑门前,瞠目结舌地呆在原地。 “你来是不来啊?” “哦,天哪。”我问,“行。阿爸知道你开车吗?” “别蒙我了。” “你怎么搞定他的?” “有时老虎也打盹儿呀。” 所以趁我父亲熟睡中我们出发了,要是他知道了我让她自己开车, 他非宰了我不可,我们上了车。 挂倒档。以55迈的速度倒出了车道。 我从前面扣上安全带, 猛得从身后侧拉过安全带,锁了个双扣。 我嘴巴发干,干得跟喀拉哈里沙漠似的。 我的手死死攥牢车门的把手,想象得出吧。 而她吹着口哨,我则紧张地大口喘息, 那种分娩呼吸,你知道? 只有少数几个妇女还在用的呼吸法。对。 我说,“妈,慢点儿行不?” 因为现在她已经开上了285公路了, 环绕亚特兰大的道路 共有七条—她不知往哪儿开。 我说,“妈,快选一条道!” “七条大路任你选。” 还好,总算开始上道儿了。 我不信她自己在路上开过车却没被交警拦截过。 嗯,我们可以聊聊。解个闷。 帮我喘口气儿。没准儿能让我的心跳慢下来。 “妈咪,我觉你被交警拦截过。” “当然没啊,你说啥呢?” “拿到驾照了。开车多久了?” “四、五天吧。” “噢。你没被交警拦截过?” “我没有接过罚单。” 我不信,“是啊,是啊,快交代啦。” “好吧,有此我停在交通灯那儿 有个人在后面,你知道。” “那人是不是穿蓝色制服, 他被吓着了?” “你又不在现场,别打岔。” “哦说吧,你吃罚单了?” “没有。”她解释说— “那人”——我得把她说的原话重复下 不然的话后面接不上茬—— “他走到车窗边,做了个这样的姿势—— 让我觉得他上了岁数。 所以我仰起脸来,寻思着, 说不好他会觉我还挺可爱呢。” “妈,你还用那招哇?” “孩儿,说不定能管用哪。” 接着,我说(西班牙语) “唉,谁料到呢,他曾参加和平队在洪都拉斯呆过。” (笑声) 然后他就跟她讲西班牙语,就在那时,她说, “然后,你知道,就那样,结了。” “嗯?啥? 他给你开罚单了?没开?咋回事?” “不是,我一抬头,交通灯变了。” (笑声) 你该怕了。 我不晓得她是不是在耍我, 就跟小猫抓玩老鼠似的—— 左手扔,右手抓,右手扔,左手抓。 可算到超市了。 你们都在节假日去过超市吧。 来点互动。对,对,你可以说“对”。 观众:对。 那就好,接下来你们都经历过的,炼狱般的停车过程, 向永恒的圣灵祈祷(意思是骂人) 加入排成长龙的车队, 你的车紧跟上某人的车,就在那时, 某人却亮起刹车灯。 但通常你跟的那车连刹车灯不带亮的就停急停,对吧? 我就问了,“妈,我们怎么在这儿?” “你是说为什么在车里?” “不是啊,——今天来这儿干嘛? 周六本该休息的么。” “我要来调换你爸的内裤。 瞧瞧,这真是典型的马基雅弗利思路 你真拿她没法儿——跟兔子洞似的, 我妈太多心眼了。 除非我手里有阿里阿德涅的线团——否则钻进去出不来了。 够多比喻了? 但你知道的— (笑声) “干嘛非要这个时候来换爸的内裤? 嗯?他的内裤哪儿不合适?” “你不想听。” “不会。咋整的?出啥毛病了?” “没有没有。他就是有点白痴。” 我叫他自己到超市——是我犯的第一个错, 他去买内裤,结果买了紧身平角裤, 本来该买四角裤的。 “啥区别?” “我从网上看的。说是穿了紧身平角裤生不出孩子。” “天啊!” (笑声) 奥利维亚?哈?哈? 这半天才往前挪了四英尺, 最后我妈又说了,“有了,有了。 我是移民来的。咱整出个地方。我跟你说啥来着?看那儿。 顺着她指向我这边车窗外的方向,我看过去, 隔了三条车辆通道那边—— “看那辆Chevy雪佛兰车。” 你可能觉着好笑,但你不明白—— 你太英明了——注意到了吗? 大错特错了,没关系。 £“看那辆Chevy雪佛兰车——他正往这边开。” “妈,妈妈,妈妈,等,等等,等等。雪佛兰还隔着三条车道呐。” 她看着我就像我是她的白痴小女—— 她一字一顿地对我发话。 “我知道,亲爱的。下车, 去给我占地儿,我随后到。” 大伙儿,让我统计一下,快点儿。来, 你们谁曾经——小时候,或长大了—— 在停车场给人占过停车位? 看到了吧,我们都一伙儿的。 (笑声) 多年的康复之后,我们恢复得不错。 真的不错,还好。 我朝她站起身。 不是吧,你们还觉得我仍在占位子? 我说,“没门儿,妈,你太叫我难为情了啊。” 她肯定不会承认,“我啥时候让你难为情了?” (西班牙语) 停车到位时她还在喋喋不休呢, 拉上手闸,打开车门, 身手麻利属她那年龄少有, 她从车里跳出来,电话薄被撅到一边, 随后她绕到车前, 手里还拎着她那廉价的Kmart手袋。 都这把年纪了, 她的开车速度也算身手不凡。 我还没回过神儿,她已轻松穿行于停车场的汽车中, 身后的人们看我的眼神, 充满了惊羡。哇啊——哇啊—— “我来啦。”意大利式的手势一挥。 麻溜的,我关了车门,电话簿也不管了。 快的赶不上,慢的要等。 ——明白我说的吗? 我刚要——一个孩子对我说—— 从一开始就讲还有个小孩儿的话,故事就不灵了 这是我那寡少言语的孩子。 她什么都慢条斯理。 饭一小口一小口地吃, 话一字一顿地说,你知道 一个字一个字在酝酿似地。 她带着漂亮的螺旋笔记本和笔。 她很有劲道。 她善听,会讲故事得先会听。 她偶尔打断一下,问, “怎么拼的?哪一年?好的。” 过二十年她才会写出来, 一个字儿也别信她的。 这就是我的乖女罗伦, 是个有点边缘自闭症的小孩儿。 保佑你,沃森博士。 她说,“妈,看哪!” 一旦这孩子说让我看,你知道 这类事儿虽然我以前见多了。 就是这个女人把我带大的。 我说“罗伦,告诉你看见什么了。我没法——” “不行,妈妈,你看哪。” 我不得不看。你也得看。 想看不? 她就在那儿。 我诚惶诚恐地看过去—— 她稳稳站在那儿,乐步鞋(两脚)微微分开。 手里挥着她的廉价Kmart钱包。 这个个性十足的干瘪小老太婆,似乎力鼎千斤, 憋足了劲儿喊着, “赶紧过来!这位子我占了!” (笑声) “精彩”的还在后头呢。 “不行,开别克车的那是我闺女,她开过来了。 亲爱的,坐直了人家才能看到你。” 哦天哪,哦天哪。 终于来啦,这儿是南方。 我觉无论住在哪儿, 我们内心都喜欢故事。 想蜷缩在被窝里抱着玩具熊。 想撒着娇说,“讲嘛,讲嘛。” 快嘛,亲爱的,讲啊。” 在南方,我们爱听精彩的故事。 大家让开一边儿, 他们从排队的车里钻出来, 砰砰地打开后备箱,拖出草地椅和饮料。 可有好戏看了。 “我跟着这小老太婆。靠!” (笑声) 以轻盈的舞步,她将我带上前台。 怎么说她也是古巴人。 我满脑子是“油门刹车。油门刹车。” 你从未那么想过的吧? 我把车停在停车场。 发动机还在转——我的,不是说汽车。 我下车就靠她边上一站,说“别动!” “我哪儿也不去。” 她占了前排位子,一场希腊式悲剧正上演。 我下车走到艾斯特身边。 她牢牢抱着钱包。 “咋了?(西班牙语)”—她又开始唠叨。 (笑声) “妈,你不嫌丢人啊? 你看人家都在周围看我们呢。” 其实没有啦,——为渲染气氛我才这么说的。 要有技巧。 没错,有时候我也看需要编筐编篓。 就地取材嘛。 她这样回应我。 先前我说——我给大伙重复一下 “不嫌丢人啊?” “没事儿。连裤袜给脱了,紧绷绷的不舒服。 (笑声) (掌声) 鼓掌吧,你们还能再听半分钟。 我几乎要崩溃,这时有人轻拍了我肩膀一下。 无知者无畏。 我想到,“这是我孩子。她这么胆大? 她从车里跳了出来。” 我妈朝我叫,我朝我孩子嚷。€ 等级分明,挺管用的。 (笑声) 我转过脸,却不是孩子。是个年轻女人。 比我高点。浅绿色眼睛,快乐的眼神。 跟她一起的是个年轻男子,——老公,兄弟,情人——爱谁谁。 她说,“对不起,夫人”——下面都是当时的原话—— “那是您母亲?” 我说,“不是,我在停车的地方跟着那个小老太 看他们停不停。是的,那是我母亲!” 青年男子这时才说,“我姐想说”—— 他俩心照不宣地对视片刻——“天啊,她真疯狂!” 我说(西班牙语),对面俩年轻人说, “不是不是,亲爱的,我们就想知道一件事。” 我说,“听着,求你们了,她就交给我了,行吗, 我了解她,不骗你们,她就跟个小型原子弹一样, 你得小心翼翼地对她。 女孩又说,“我明白,但我想说的是,我发誓, 她让我们想起我们自己的母亲。” 我差点儿没听清下一句。 那男子侧过身对她轻轻叹道, “天,我真想她。” 然后他们转身肩并肩、自顾自地走了。 一定是沉浸在思念里, 思念那个让他们有幸生而为人的疯狂女人。 这时我转向艾斯特,她在哪儿掂着脚,说道, “你知道吗,孩子?” “什么,妈?” 你有福气的话,我还能折磨你十四、五年, 等我不在了,你就知道没有妈啥滋味了。 (掌声)