小时候我很喜欢爸爸的办公室，正是因为这份喜欢，六七岁的我在家里玩起了办公室情景模拟游戏，成年后的我在自己的住所里拥有了一间真正的办公室，用来读书写作。这一切源于一个想象力丰富的孩子对编故事的喜爱，更源于我对父亲深深的爱……每一个独生子女都知道寂寞和独处之间的不同。我在曼哈顿长大，是自娱自乐的高手。

我的人生曾经历过下面这样一个阶段。那时我大概六七岁，每天放学回家后，我会冲到楼上，关上房门。那时我还没有家庭作业，但我所做的事可比给书涂色或猜智力游戏复杂多了。我玩办公情景模拟游戏。为了玩这个游戏，我必须得进入角色。我会穿上爸爸的西服上衣——我喜欢那件漂亮的带灰色细条纹的——并试图把爸爸的一副备用眼镜架在自己的小塌鼻梁上。有时我穿着爸爸的皮鞋走来走去。之后，我会整理桌子上成堆的文件。妥当地审阅完这些事文件后，我会把它们归档放在文件夹里。若是心血来潮，我还会假装读《华尔街日报》。有时，妈妈会上楼来看看我在干什么。她会很轻轻地敲敲门，问我想不想吃点点心。“现在不想，妈妈！”我对着没有打开的房门喊道，声音因紧张而显得急促，“我在工作呐！”。

如果那时你问我我爸爸以什么为生，我会给你一个十分确切的答案。他不是银行家，也不是商人，而是一名共同基金经理。我在上东区的一所私立学校上学，所以在我所在的班里，并非只有我一个人能说清楚共同基金与对冲基金的区别以及投资银行与商业银行的区别。不过，由于我是家里唯一的孩子，再加上爸爸经营自己的公司，所以我在办公室里消磨的时光大概比一般的一年级学生要多。那些年里，爸爸的办公室位于金融区的少女巷：漫长的一天过后，那是我休息放松的地方。在那儿，每个人都知道我的名字。坐车去市中心的路上也很让人兴奋：爸爸的司机安杰尔会偷偷地塞给我一些违禁的口香糖，与我闲聊他与新女友最近的感情危机。通过大楼保安的检查总是让我感到新鲜。我喜欢汇报，然后领一张写有我名字的标签。这让我感觉自己是公司的一员。我会上楼去交易大厅，交易员们与我击掌致意，还会教我偶尔说说脏话。爸爸的秘书叫路易丝，她见到我好像总是很开心。当我等爸爸打电话的时候，路易丝会让我坐在她的桌子旁给股票走势图涂色。爸爸办公室的墙上挂着我的美术作品。爸爸总是喜欢给我布置一些让我觉得自己很重要的任务。我会帮忙把股票走势图涂上颜色(“这样我读起来就更方便了。”爸爸会点头赞许道)。有时，他还允许我帮他接听电话。就像参加精彩的派对一样，每次去爸爸办公室我总会得到很多礼物。我几乎从未两手空空地从办公室回家过。这里装补给用品的柜子里摆满了我能想到的摆在自己书桌上的东西：回形针、荧光笔、五颜六色的便利贴。厨房里有免费的可乐、小包蕃茄酱和芥末，这些我都储存起来以备不时之需。当车开出市区时，我会给爸爸展示我的私藏，详细告诉他那些我已经优先用过的新的补给品。“你需要这些，”我告诉他，“这些新笔有四种颜色——你可以像这样点击它们。哦，路易丝说，如果你需要，她会给你订购一个小订书机。”一到家，我就会冲进自己的房间，在桌子上按照彩虹颜色的顺序收拾我的新器物。之后，我就开始工作了。几年前，我偶然在《纽约客》上读到一篇由亚当•高普尼克写的文章。文章很感人，谈论的是他女儿奥利维娅想象中的朋友——查利•拉维奥利。拉维奥利是一个真正的纽约客，住在麦迪逊大街和列克星敦大街的转角处，他的典型特征是时刻忙个不停。事实上，他经常忙得顾不上与奥利维娅玩。奥利维娅叹息说他“不得不跑着走”；他经常在最后一刻取消与她共进午餐。当他忙得顾不上接奥利维娅的电话时(电话显然是用奥利维娅的玩具手机打的)，他的助手劳丽就会转告这一不好的消息。奥利维娅的父母想：一个孩子竟然会虚构一个忙得都顾不上与自己玩的朋友，这难道没有问题吗？这篇文章给出了一个深刻的解释。在与身为发展心理学家的妹妹聊过之后，高普尼克先生写道，孩子创造出想象中的朋友，“不是因为心理遭受过创伤，而是因为能够心平气和地认识到虚构的可能性……(他们)观察成年人的行为举止，静静地将其拼凑在一起，再起个名字”。他妹妹告诉他，这标志着孩子“有足够的信心开始明白如何把自己的经历编到故事中去”。 我越来越认为那也是我曾经做的。我爸爸是我遇到过的真正热爱工作的少数成年人之一，那时是这样，时至今日仍然是这样。他回到家里讲的都是华尔街发生的事。他对工作的热情很具感染力。爸爸喜欢办公，我为什么不呢？我观察到的成年人的生活方式并不一定是压力重重或者忙忙碌碌(虽然这两种方式在我家都甚为普遍)，而是活力四射和热情满怀。爸爸的办公室是起源，因着这个起源，我在自己的卧室里重新创造了一个办公室。26年之后的现在，我又开始做这样的事——或者说是与之类似的事。

“在家里写作难道不寂寞吗？”我的朋友安妮一边喝咖啡一边问我，“在我的想象里，你整天待在自己的公寓里，与一些虚构的人聊天。”她紧握住我的手，看上去甚是担忧。安妮从事公共关系方面的工作，这一职业的特点与写作正好相反。她每天做的事情就是打电话、见客户、建立人脉网络。安妮还有四个兄弟姐妹，因此她习惯了经常与人打交道。 “我是家中唯一的孩子，”我耸耸肩，“我喜欢独处。”

我花了好长时间才达到现在的生活状态：待在家里办公，把我的世界交给想象力。我起初曾尝试在金融方面一试身手，后来又做公司法方面的工作，驱使我这么做的是一种想重建爸爸的职业生活的愿望。几年前，我鼓起勇气开始写小说。我想我找到了把自己的经历编到故事中去的信心。我有时的确怀念办公室生活，但是过了这么多年我才发现，我怀念的是爸爸的办公室，不是我自己的。在有些日子里，我希望能翻翻爸爸的储物柜，或者与爸爸的同事开开玩笑。更多的时候，我只希望爸爸还在，那样我们就能聊聊我们是多么热爱自己的工作。爸爸去世的时候太年轻，也太突然——2001年9月11日，他在自己热爱的办公室里离开了这个世界。但是让我稍稍感到宽慰的是，我坚信即便爸爸知道最终的结局会是这样，他也不会改变自己的生活。 我想，爸爸会喜欢我的新办公室。他会发现我是多么喜欢在这儿工作。每当我写得顺手的时候，我都希望可以和他分享。但我从未感到过寂寞，一次也没有。（译 / 耿烨蔚）

英文

Every only child knows there is a difference between being lonely and being alone. Growing up in Manhattan, I was a master at entertaining myself.

There was one phase I went through—I was 6 at the time, maybe 7—when I would get home from school, race upstairs and close my door. I didn’t have homework yet. I was working on something far more sophisticated than coloring books or puzzles. I was playing Office. In order to play Office, I had to get into character. I would don1) one of my dad’s suit jackets—I preferred a nice gray pinstripe2)—and would attempt to balance a spare pair of his glasses on my small snub3) nose. Sometimes I would shuffle4) around in his wingtips5). Then I would organize piles of papers on my desk, filing them away in folders once they had been properly reviewed. If the mood struck me, I pretended to read The Wall Street Journal.

My mother would sometimes come up to check on me; she would knock gently, ask if I wanted a snack6). “Not now, Mom!” I’d call back through the unopened door, my voice strained with urgency. “I’m working!”

If you had asked me then what my father did for a living, I would have given you a very specific answer. He wasn’t a banker or a businessman. He was a mutual fund7) manager. I went to private school on the Upper East Side8), so I probably wasn’t the only kid in my class who could articulate the difference between a mutual fund and a hedge fund9), an investment bank and a commercial bank. But because I was an only child, and because my dad ran his own business, I probably spent more time hanging around an office than your average first grader.My dad’s office, in those years on Maiden Lane in the Financial District: it was a place where I could relax after a long day, where everyone knew my name. The car ride downtown was part of the thrill: Dad’s driver, Angel, would sneak me contraband10) gum, and gossip with me about his latest crisis with his latest girlfriend. Going through building security never got old, either. I liked signing in11) and getting a sticker with my name on it. It made me feel like part of the team.Upstairs I could go to the trading floor, where the traders would high-five12) me and teach me the occasional curse word. Dad’s secretary, Louise, always seemed happy to see me. She would let me sit at her desk and color while I waited for Dad to get off a call. The walls of Dad’s office were adorned with my artwork. Dad was always willing to give me tasks that made me feel important. I would help color in stock charts (“This makes it easier for me to read,” he would say, nodding approvingly). Sometimes, I was allowed to answer his phone.

And as at any good party, there were always favors. I almost never came home from the office empty-handed. There were supply closets brimming with anything I could ever want for my own desk: paper clips, highlighters, Post-it notes in every shade. There was a kitchen with free Cokes and little packets of ketchup13) and mustard14), which I hoarded in case of emergency. During the car ride uptown, I would show Dad my stash15), and give him a breakdown16) on the new supply goods I had the inside track17) on. “You gotta get these,” I would tell him. “These new pens have four colors—you click ’em like this. Oh, and Louise said she’d order you a mini-stapler if you wanted.” Once home, I’d run to my room and organize my new wares18) on my desk, typically by rainbow order. Then I’d get to work.

A few years ago, I stumbled across19) a touching article in The New Yorker by Adam Gopnik about his daughter Olivia’s imaginary friend, Charlie Ravioli. Ravioli is a true New Yorker; he lives on the corner of Madison and Lexington, and his defining characteristic is that he is always on the go. In fact, Ravioli is often too busy to play with Olivia at all. She laments that he “had to run”; he regularly cancels lunch with her at the last minute. When he is too busy to answer Olivia’s calls (made from her toy cellphone, obviously), his assistant, Laurie, relays the bad news. Her parents wonder: Isn’t there something wrong with a child inventing a friend who is too busy to play with her?

The article offered a profound explanation. After talking to his sister, a developmental psychologist, Mr. Gopnik writes that children create imaginary friends “not out of trauma20) but out of a serene21) sense of the possibilities of fiction … as observations of grownup manners assembled in tranquility and given a name.” It’s a sign, his sister told him, that the child is “confident enough to begin to understand how to organize her experience into stories.”

More and more, I think that’s what I was doing. My dad was then, and remains to this day, one of the few grown-ups I have come across who truly loved his job. He would come home filled with stories about Wall Street. His enthusiasm for work was infectious22). Dad loved playing office; why wouldn’t I? The grown-up manners that I was observing weren’t necessarily stress or busyness (though both of these existed in abundance in our house) but rather excitement and passion. Dad’s office was the source, so I recreated that in my own bedroom.

And 26 years later, I’m doing it—or something like it—again.

“Isn’t writing from home lonely?” My friend Anne asked me over coffee. “I have this vision of you stuck in your apartment all day, talking to imaginary people.” She squeezed my hand, looked concerned. Anne works in public relations, the professional antithesis23) of writing. Her day is spent making calls, meeting people, networking. Anne is also one of five children, so she’s accustomed to constant human contact.

“I’m an only child,” I shrugged. “I like being alone.”

It took me a while to get here: back to my home office, where my imagination can take over. I tried my hand at finance first, then corporate law, driven perhaps by a desire to recreate my father’s professional life. A few years ago, I worked up the nerve24) to start a novel. I found, I suppose, the confidence to organize my experience into stories. I do occasionally miss office life, but I’ve realized over time that it’s Dad’s office I miss, not my own. Some days I wish I had Dad’s supply closet to raid25), or Dad’s colleagues to joke around with. More often, I just wish I had Dad, so we could chat about how much we love our work. He died far too young, and far too suddenly, on Sept. 11, 2001, in the office that he loved. One small measure of comfort for me is my firm belief that he would not have lived his life any differently if he had known that would be the case.

Dad would like my new office, I think. He would see how much I enjoy working here. Whenever I have a successful day of writing, I wish I could share it with him. But not once have I ever felt lonely. （原文标题：For One More Day at the Office）



注释1. don [dɒn] vt. 穿上2. pinstripe [ˈpɪnˌstraɪp] n. 细条纹3. snub [snʌb] adj. (鼻子)短扁上翘的4. shuffle [ˈʃʌf(ə)l] vi. 拖着脚走路5. wingtip [ˈwɪŋˌtɪp] n. 男皮鞋6. snack [snæk] n. 小吃7. mutual fund：共同基金，一种投资公司形式，它集合了一部分委托人的资金，并代表他们的利益进行有预设目的投资。每一个共同基金都有各自的经理、员工、运作方式和目标等。8. Upper East Side：纽约曼哈顿上东区，位于中央公园和东河之间，是很多富有的纽约人的居住地，同时也是文化中心和购物天堂。这里聚集了金融、投资银行的富豪们。9. hedge fund：对冲基金，也称避险基金或套利基金，是投资基金的一种形式，指由金融期货和金融期权等金融衍生工具与金融组织结合后以高风险投机为手段并以盈利为目的的金融基金。10. contraband [ˈkɒntrəbænd] adj. 违禁的11. sign in：汇报，登记12. high-five：向……举手击掌致意13. ketchup [ˈketʃəp] n. 调味蕃茄酱14. mustard [ˈmʌstə(r)d] n. 芥末15. stash [stæʃ] n. 私藏物；私藏处16. breakdown [ˈbreɪkˌdaʊn] n. 分类；细目列表17. have the inside track：(竞争中)占据优势，处于有利地位18. ware [weə(r)] n. 器皿19. stumble across：偶然发现20. trauma [ˈtrɔːmə] n. [医]损伤21. serene [səˈriːn] adj. 平静的22. infectious [ɪnˈfekʃəs] adj. 有感染力的23. antithesis [ænˈtɪθəsɪs] n. 对立面24. work up the nerve：鼓起勇气25. raid [reɪd] vt. 搜查