刪不掉的錄音

It’s been about three months since things ended， and for the most part， I try to avoid the 1）remnants of him. I threw out his old toothbrush. I don’t go to our favorite bar where we had our first date. When I have to be in his neighborhood， I refuse to walk down his street. I don’t listen to the radio on Sundays， because that’s something we would do together and now the sound of our favorite announcer’s voice 2）makes my skin crawl.

But for some reason， I just can’t delete this one digital file. This stupid reminder of a thing I don’t even remember in the first place.

We spent our last weekend wandering around the city. It was one of those glorious spring weekends where you finally start to let yourself believe that the warmer weather is here to stay. I remember standing at the crosswalk on Prince Street waiting for the light to change， his arms wrapping around me like a heavy knit wool sweater in winter. We walked all the way to Brooklyn Bridge Park and sat opposite the sparkling East River， laughing at the toddlers with their 3）faux hawks and their leather high tops. We went to a concert. We stopped into a comedy show. We vowed to do more and to see more. We found that amazing bar where the taps had metal pipes for handles. I can still taste that dark， chocolaty beer with just a hint of cherry swirling on my tongue.

I’ve heard people say that when you’re about to die， your whole life flashes before your eyes. But this death was of a thing， not a person. And the memories rushing in were what I was left with that following Saturday afternoon when he walked into my apartment， kissed me on the mouth， sat me down on my bed， and with my hands in his， told me it was over.

It was more than I could comprehend. Some days， it still is. I find myself searching for him on the sidewalk and in my mind. And once I start 4）rummaging through those old microfilms of memory， it’s hard to make myself stop.

Suddenly， I remember the recording.

I make documentary-style radio pieces， and am prone to recording sound a lot—not always with fancy gear， sometimes just with an app on my phone. And I record a lot， always with an ambitious plan that one day I’ll do something with it. I usually don’t. But for me， to hit record is to feel alive， to be moved to capture the times and places when I am happy and inspired—so much so that I want to take the moment home with me， so that later， I can go through my cherished collections like shiny pebbles brought home from the playground.

A few weeks before the big breakup， I decided to 5）take the plunge and upgrade the operating system on my iPhone. I was annoyed because this meant clearing 3 6）gigabytes of valuable podcast space， or the other sound files I had cluttering the corners—the mother I’d followed through the European gallery at the 7）Met， trying to discuss art theory with her young daughters in front of 8）Monets and 9）Renoirs； a particularly beautiful 10）busker on the 2 train； a 11）snippet of conversation， mostly filled with laughter， from my grandfather’s birthday celebration last year （it was a little late， the family was a little drunk）. None of these files are recorded particularly well—you can barely hear the action above the jumbled 12）ambient noise and the sound that clumsy fingers， surprised to be recording， make when they grip a microphone. Call me sentimental， call me a sound hoarder， but these little bundles of ones and zeros bring a smile to my face.

So I’m carefully combing through my portable catalogue to determine what I could live without， and that’s how I found it： 34 seconds of something called “drew dog beach.” I pressed play.

What you’re hearing might not sound like much， but for me， listening to this clip transports me to a place with weight and dimension and color. It’s mostly me trying to get my microphone-shy boyfriend to talk， to tell me what he feels in this moment when the relationship is new and everything seems right and beautiful. He’s laughing at me because I’m being ridiculous， although he was always a man of few， well-chosen words. And then there’s the kiss. He probably kisses me to get me to stop trying to make him talk. I guess it worked， because that’s where the recording cuts off. But it’s a sound so sweet， and so genuine. In an instant， I smell saltwater， grass， and his shampoo. I feel skin and the late summer air and the feeling of not being afraid to be completely myself in front of someone I care about.

But the thing is； I have absolutely no memory of this even happening. I don’t remember taking this recording. I don’t remember being there. Drew dog beach？ I gave it that name， but I have no idea what it means. The file has a date on it， but I wouldn’t have needed that to know it’s a scene from early in our relationship. It was late summer and Drew and I would take night walks along the Hudson， the sound of crickets 13）reverberating all the way to the 14）Palisades. It was a habit that started on our first date. We left the bar， dizzy on sour ale and nerves， and headed for the water， fumbling at expressing how we were feeling with our words and our limbs.

But something stuck， and things were good. Our river walks continued through the winter. We’d stand on the pier， huddled in down， watching drifts of snow make rippling patterns in the wind before disappearing off the ledge and into the angry， gray water. It’s hard to think of now， but it was a happy time. So I remember what it felt like to be in those 34 seconds of sound. But the actual experience is gone from my memory. And to listen to it， to be reminded of something I lost and miss， is 15）agony.

I’ve been grasping at 16）shreds of what I do recall， trying to solve the mystery of how this sound bite even exists. Lately my line of questioning has turned from how do I have it to why am I saving it. Is this recording a gift， a souvenir of a time that I loved？ Or is it there to remind me that I’m still sad？ If I delete it， will I be free of this memory that I don’t actually have？

Until I decide， it sits on my phone， a handprint in cement， evidence that we existed. Maybe one day I will be brave enough to erase it， the cement melting into sand， the handprint blurring in the rising tide.

戀情告終，一切塵埃落定至今已近三個月。我做過很多努力，想要消除他留下的痕跡。我扔掉了他的舊牙刷，不去我們最愛的酒吧——那里是我們第一次約會的地方。必須去他居住的那片街區(qū)時，我避免走過他所住的那條街道。我不在周日聽廣播，因為那是我們過去常常一起做的事，而如今，我倆最喜歡的那個主持的嗓音讓我毛骨悚然。

但是出于某種原因，我就是無法做到將這段手機中的錄音刪掉。一開始，我甚至對其毫無印象，但它卻成為了一個討厭的提醒，讓我回憶起那件事。

那是我們在一起的最后一個周末，當時我倆就在這個城市漫步。那是某個明媚的春日周末，那種時候，你終于開始相信天氣確實要轉(zhuǎn)暖，不會再冷起來了。我記得，當時站在王子街的人行橫道上，等著交通燈轉(zhuǎn)換顏色，他的手臂環(huán)抱著我，就像冬日里一件厚重的羊毛針織衫。我們一路走到布魯克林大橋公園，然后坐在波光粼粼的東河對面，被蹣跚學步的孩子們頭上的仿莫霍克發(fā)型和高幫皮靴逗得哈哈大笑。我們?nèi)タ戳艘粓鲆魳窌?，駐足觀看了一個喜劇表演。我們發(fā)誓要做更多的事情，看更多的東西。我們發(fā)現(xiàn)了一家令人驚艷的酒吧，那里的龍頭把手是用金屬管子做的?，F(xiàn)在我還能感覺到那濃稠的巧克力味啤酒，帶著一絲櫻桃香停留在舌尖上的味道。

我曾聽過有人說，人臨死前的那一瞬間，整個人生會匆匆閃過眼前。但此刻的逝去不是人，而是情事。紛涌而至的是在那之后的周六下午，在我被遺棄后留給我的那一切。那天，他走進我的公寓，親吻我的雙唇，讓我坐在床邊，抓住我的雙手，然后告訴我說一切都結束了。

那時他的話超出了我的理解能力。如今有些時候，仍然如是。我發(fā)現(xiàn)自己在找尋他的身影，在人行道上，以及腦海之中。一旦開始四處翻找那些記錄著回憶的舊縮影膠卷，我就很難讓自己停下來。

突然間，我想起了這段錄音。

我制作紀實風格的廣播片段，常常忍不住錄下聲音片段——未必是用什么高級器材，有時候僅僅是用一個手機應用程序。我錄了很多，暗暗藏著雄心壯志，期望有一天能用這些聲音來做點什么。我通常沒有這么做。但是對我而言，按下錄音鍵就是去感受自己真切地活著，為捕捉那些我感到快樂和懷有靈感的時間和地點而感動——這些感受強烈到讓我想將這些瞬間帶回家，以便日后能夠重溫這些寶貴的收藏，就像是從運動場上帶回家的閃亮小石頭一般。

這次痛徹心扉的分手發(fā)生之前的幾周，我決定冒險一試，將我的蘋果手機上的操作系統(tǒng)升級。這是件惱人的事，因為這意味著得從寶貴的播客空間，或是其它隨意存放在角落里的聲音文件中清理出3個G——在大都會藝術博物館歐洲畫廊里我一直尾隨的那位母親，她在莫奈和雷諾阿的作品前嘗試著與她年輕的女兒們交流美學；地鐵2號線列車上一個特別漂亮的街頭藝人；一小段大多充斥著歡笑聲的對話片段，錄制于我祖父去年的生日會上（當時天色有點晚了，一家人都醺醺欲醉）。這些片段沒有哪個是錄得特別好的——勉強才能從混亂的噪音中聽得出發(fā)生了什么事，還有抓話筒時那些笨拙的手指擦過聽筒的雜音，也被不小心錄了進去。你可以笑我多愁善感，或者說我有聲音囤積癖，但是這些由一串串0和1編碼而成的小片段總能讓我露出笑顏。

于是，我仔細梳理了一番隨身目錄，想看看哪些是我可以舍棄的，然后我找到了這個：一段歷時34秒的錄音，命名為“德魯狗狗海灘”。我按下了播放鍵。

也許對你來說，這段錄音聽起來沒什么，但是對我而言，聆聽這段聲音將我?guī)Щ亓艘粋€地方，有分量有維度有色彩。錄音里面大多是我在讓那個羞于面對話筒的男朋友發(fā)言，讓他訴說那一刻自己的感受，那時候我倆剛開始戀愛，一切似乎都那么順利，那么美好。他在笑話我滑稽的模樣，盡管他一直是那種少言寡語、字斟句酌的人。然后是親吻的聲音。他很可能是以這個吻來讓我停下來，不再逗他說話。我猜那個吻奏效了，因為錄音到此戛然而止。但是這段錄音如此甜蜜，如此真實。剎那間，我嗅到了海水、草地，還有他洗發(fā)水的味道。我感受到皮膚的碰觸、夏末的空氣，還有那種不懼怕在某個我在乎的人面前完全呈現(xiàn)自我的感覺。

但是情況是，我甚至對這件事全無印象。我不記得曾錄過這段錄音，也不記得曾去過那個地方。德魯狗狗海灘？我給它取了這個名字，但是不知道這是什么意思。這個文件上標有時間，但是無需查看時間，我就能知道這是在我們戀愛初期發(fā)生的一段場景。那是夏末時候，德魯和我會在晚上沿著哈德遜河邊散步，去往帕利塞茲州際公園的一路上，蟋蟀的叫聲此起彼伏。這個漫步的習慣，從我們第一次約會就開始了。我們離開酒吧，帶著喝完酸啤酒的微醺，走向河邊的路上，拙劣地用語言和肢體表達著彼此的感受。

但有些事就停頓在了這里，一切都好。我們的沿河漫步持續(xù)了整個冬天。我們站在碼頭上，依偎著一起向下走，看著雪花在風中飄落翻飛，然后消失在巖壁之下，落向狂怒的灰色水流。現(xiàn)在想起來十分困難，但是那段時光確實非?？鞓?。所以我記得在那34秒的聲音中所能感受的一切，但那段真實的經(jīng)歷卻回憶不起來了。聆聽這段錄音，然后被迫回憶起那些我已經(jīng)遺忘、失去的東西，是件十分痛苦的事。

我一直努力想要抓住腦海里確實能夠回憶起來的那些碎片，嘗試著解開謎團，搞清楚這段錄音片段到底是如何產(chǎn)生的。近來，我的一系列疑問已經(jīng)從我是如何把它錄下來，轉(zhuǎn)變成了為何我要保存它。這份錄音是一份禮物嗎？一份我所鐘愛的一段時光的紀念品？或者它的存在是要提醒我，我的悲傷依舊？如果把它刪掉，我能否從這段我根本記不起的回憶中解脫出來呢？

在我做下任何決定之前，它就那樣留存在我的手機里，像是一個結實的水泥手印，一個我們存在過的證據(jù)。也許有一天我會有足夠的勇氣把它刪掉，那時候水泥就會融化成沙子，手印就會被上漲的潮水沖刷得模糊斑駁。