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.
　　 
    我家車庫地上的油漬已經(jīng)漸漸變淡，呈現(xiàn)出一種無以名狀的灰，就像水泥地多年來留下的其他污跡一樣。從前，那是一灘淺淺的黑機油，是我鄰居比爾的摩托車留下的。如今，它卻成了永不磨滅的見證，表明友誼可能轉瞬即逝。

    1992年9月我搬進這個街區(qū)，沒多久就認識了比爾。每天清晨，他遛狗時都會經(jīng)過我的房子。他的狗搶先介紹了自己，那是條迷人的年輕雪撬犬，她徑直朝我跑來，一骨碌倒下，肚子朝上——尾巴甩得刷刷響，舌頭耷拉著，眼巴巴地望著我。我無法抗拒她的邀請，于是揉了揉她的肚子。沒等比爾因她跑開訓斥完她，我們之間就建立了感情。比爾叫她“漂亮姑娘”，聽起來像“泡亮姑娘”。

    我立刻把比爾歸入了那類50多歲的反傳統(tǒng)文化者，他們嘗試過60年代那些花樣，找到了某種“健康的生活方式”。遠處看他令人發(fā)怵 ，灰白的胡子長滿下巴，頭發(fā)零亂，身上穿著的T恤衫、法蘭絨襯衫和牛仔褲都破舊不堪。我們握手時，我沒法不注意到他粗糙的指關節(jié)和臟兮兮的指甲。

    目光接觸的一瞬間，我自責先前不該對他有成見。他的面孔讓我想起了《那是圣誕節(jié)前夜》的一行詩：“他的雙眼——是多么地閃亮！他的酒窩，是多么地愉快！”他臉上始終帶著微笑，眼睛周圍都形成了深深的笑紋。我覺得自己起初的害怕很愚蠢，就好像被圣誕老人嚇著了一樣。

    比爾的房子漆成了深黃色，屋頂和院子看上去都沒人打理。時間一長，我了解到比爾與80歲高齡的父母喬治和莉莉住在一起，靠給別人往垃圾場運送廢棄物來掙生活費。他那輛破舊皮卡車上的招牌保證“你打電話我來拉”。在每個工作日的早晨，那輛老爺車帶著巨大的轟鳴聲啟動，比爾則站在靠近駕駛座車門的街邊，刷著牙以打發(fā)時間。然后他就在雪撬犬“漂亮姑娘”的陪伴下，駕駛著突突作響的車開始一天的工作。

    我們之間開始了偶爾的友誼，當人們碰巧成為鄰居時，他們之間就會結成這種友誼。我們打照面時朝對方揮手致意，互相大聲問候，看著“漂亮姑娘”和我的貓咪“馬克斯”之間的關系不斷發(fā)展。有時這種友誼不止于此。一天上午我的汽車蓄電池壞了，比爾趕緊帶著跳線過來。我在車道放著從院子清出的一大堆破爛，一個月沒運走都腐爛了，比爾主動把破爛運走了，之后只肯收區(qū)區(qū)20美元。我知道僅是垃圾場的收費就得13美元，所以天黑之后我在比爾家的走廊放了一打他最喜歡的啤酒。

    幾年下來，我了解到自己并非是惟一受到比爾恩惠的鄰居。二月份的一個晚上，他敲我的門，問能否借我的車庫存放幾天他的摩托車，因為他沒有帶遮蓋的地方放車，我說沒問題。那不是一般的舊摩托車，而是一輛價值不菲的老哈利·戴維森。只要看看比爾撫摸車的樣子，我就知道這輛車對他的意義，那上面承載的更多的是回憶而非金錢價值。他喜歡那輛摩托車。“幾天”延長至數(shù)周，然后存放了有一個月，其緣由只有比爾清楚。每隔一段時間，比爾就會找個理由夜里來訪，做些修修補補的工作。他上緊這兒的一個螺絲，檢查那兒的一個墊片，后來我就發(fā)現(xiàn)摩托車的油滴到了車庫地板上。要么他就帶來好幾個朋友，叫我打開車庫門，讓他們欣賞一下那輛車。過了一段時間，我索性讓比爾侍弄完車之后替我關燈鎖門。

    一天早上，一輛救護車開到了深黃色的房子前面。我們好幾個鄰居都擠在外面，大聲說著話，擔心喬治或莉莉中了風。醫(yī)生離開時沒有帶走任何人，我們的呼吸才輕松了一點。但是當比爾的女兒按響我的門鈴，要取走仍然停在我車庫的摩托車時，我知道事情不妙了。她說，比爾那天早上心臟病突發(fā)，在睡夢中過世了。

    我猜想“漂亮姑娘”最懷念比爾，因為只有比爾最可靠，能陪著她進行慣常的散步。很長一段時間都是莉莉在處理需要運垃圾的人們打來的電話。她只說比爾去世了，去了天堂。

    我八歲的女兒說我們連和比爾說“再見”的機會都沒有，這不公平。我試著解釋說，這個教訓告訴我們，要珍惜每一次說“你好”的機會。