I stood on tiptoe and handed the card from my school’s help-wanted board to the man behind the counter of Mort’s Deli2 at Farmers Market in Los Angeles. Even before I opened my mouth, he was frowning3 and shaking his head.
“This is a tough job for any high school kid,” the man said. “I need somebody big and strong.”
At 16, I looked younger and was barely five feet tall. “Really, we need someone bigger,” he said, “You’ll find something easier than this, kid.”
　　It was September 1957, and my family had just arrived in California. Without seniority in the local union, my father, a sheet-metal worker, was lucky to get work two or three days a week. Our meager4 saving was gone, and as the oldest boy of the family, I was the only one able to help. I’d applied at retail stores, but without local references shopkeepers were reluctant to let me handle cash.
“Tell you what,” I said, “l(fā)et me work the rest of the week, and if you don’t like the way I do the job, don’t pay me.”
The tall man stared at me, then nodded,“I’m Mort Rubin. What’s your name?”
At Mort’s, I worked very hard. As closing time approached on Saturday, I was in agony5. I also had no idea whether Mort would pay me. Near the end of the day he called me up front.“How much did that card at school say this job paid?” he asked.
“One dollar an hour,” I murmured, “the minimum wage.” I was willing to take less.
“That’s not enough for someone who works as hard as you,” Mort said, “You start at $1.25.”
　　Over the next few weeks I learned a lot about Mort. A few years older than my dad, he was from Chicago and had a daughter my age. When things were slow, he often shared stories from his army days. Early in World War Ⅱ, he was nearly killed in a savage battle in New Guinea. He’d spent some time recuperating6 from the terrible head wound he had suffered.
　　We were closed Sundays, so every Saturday evening Mort urged me to take home the leftover7 soup in a huge jar. It was a meal in itself, a treat for my struggling family.
　　My father usually picked me up after work those days because the soup was too hard to bring home on my bike. Then one Saturday he let me take the family car.
　　After work I drove home and parked. With the warm jar in my arms, I crossed the lawn and passed the living-room window. As I glanced inside, I almost dropped the jar. In my father’s chair was a large bald man. He was cursing my father. My brothers and sisters sat like statues, Dad’s face was stone, Mom wept.
I crept into the kitchen, set the soup on a counter and listened through the door. The man wanted to take our car. Dad offered to make the three payments that were in arrears8, but the man demanded the entire sum—$325—or the car. I had been in Los Angeles just long enough to understand how essential a car is. I slipped out the door, pushed the car down to the corner, started the engine and circled the neighborhood, thinking furiously. Who might have $325? Who would even consider lending me such a large sum?
　　The only person I could think of was Mort. I drove back to his deli, rapped9 on the rear door, then waited until the window shade went up. I found myself staring down the barrel of an army 0.45.“What do you want?” Mort growled10, lowering the gun.
　　I stammered out my tale. “So, could you possibly loan my father $325?” I finished, realizing how absurd11 it sounded.
　　Mort’s eyes bored holes in my face. His cheeks began purpling12, and his lips quivered13. Realizing he was still clutching the gun, I took a step backward. At that, he smiled. “I’m not going to shoot you,” he said, placing the pistol on his tiny desk. Then he knelt, pried14 a worn red tile from the floor to reveal a safe, and began to twist the dial.
　　He counted the money twice and placed it in an old envelope. “This is $325,” he said. “When school is not, you’ll work full time. I’ll take back half your wages until it’s repaid.”
“Thank you,” I said, trembling. “Do you want my father to sign something?”
　　He shook his head. “No, son. I’m betting on you.”
　　I went in the back door like the lord of the manor15, and Dad came rushing into the kitchen, the bald man on his heels. “Quick!” my father cried, “Drive the car away!”
　　I calmly handed the man the envelope. “Count it, give my father a receipt and get out of our house,” I said, a speech I’d rehearsed16 all the way home.
　　That night I was a hero to my family. But the real hero was Mort Robin, who not only saved us from certain penury17, but also quietly raised my salary every month, by summer, I was earning $2.50 an hour, double the original wage. I worked for Mort until I graduated two years later and joined the Army. We stayed in touch for many decades, but I lost track of him several years ago and don’t even know if he’s still alive.
　　But this I do know: Mort Robin made the world a better place.

我踮起腳尖，將我們學(xué)校的求助證明卡遞給了洛杉磯農(nóng)貿(mào)市場(chǎng)莫特熟食店柜臺(tái)后的那個(gè)人。還沒等我開口，他就皺起眉搖了搖頭。
“這項(xiàng)工作中學(xué)生可吃不消，”那人說，“我需要一個(gè)身高力壯的人。”
　　16歲的我看上去比較瘦小，幾乎還不到5英尺高�！拔覀兊拇_需要一個(gè)大個(gè)子，”他說，“孩子，你要找一個(gè)比這輕松的工作�！�
　　這是1957年9月，我家剛搬到加州。我父親是一名金屬薄板工，在當(dāng)?shù)毓��?huì)還沒有資歷，所以一周能工作兩三天已經(jīng)很幸運(yùn)了。我們家微薄的積蓄已經(jīng)用完。身為家中長(zhǎng)子，我是惟一能幫上忙的人。我到一家零售商店去應(yīng)聘，但沒有當(dāng)?shù)厝说耐扑]，店主們不愿讓我接觸現(xiàn)金。
　　“能不能這樣，”我說，“讓我在這周剩下的時(shí)間打工，你要不喜歡我干的活，就別給我工錢�！�
　　那個(gè)高個(gè)子盯著我，然后點(diǎn)了點(diǎn)頭：“我叫莫特·魯賓。你叫什么名字？”
　　在莫特熟食店，我非常賣力地干活。星期六快要打烊時(shí)，我渾身酸痛，也不知道莫特是不是會(huì)付我工錢。這天下午收工時(shí)，莫特把我叫到前臺(tái)，問道：“學(xué)校這張救助卡要求我支付多少工錢？”
　　“每小時(shí)一美元，”我低聲說，“最低工資。”我還準(zhǔn)備接受更少的工錢。
　　“像你這樣拼命工作的人是不夠的�！蹦�特先生說，“先給你開1.25美元�！�
　　在接下來的幾周中，我了解到了莫特先生的很多情況。他比我爸爸大幾歲，來自芝加哥，有一個(gè)跟我同齡的女兒。不太忙時(shí)，他經(jīng)常給我講他當(dāng)兵時(shí)的一些故事。二戰(zhàn)初期，他在新幾內(nèi)亞的一次惡戰(zhàn)中差點(diǎn)兒陣亡。過了一段時(shí)間，他才養(yǎng)好可怕的頭傷。
　　星期天，我們關(guān)門休息。所以，每到星期六傍晚，莫特先生就催我將大罐里剩下的湯帶回家。其實(shí)那本身就是一頓飯，這對(duì)苦苦掙扎的我們一家人更是一頓盛宴。
　　下班后，爸爸經(jīng)常順路把我捎回家，因?yàn)闇�放在我的自行車上很難帶回家。后來，有個(gè)星期六，爸爸讓我開起了家里的汽車。
　　下班后，我驅(qū)車回家，將車停好，然后懷里抱著暖暖的罐子，穿過草坪，從我們家的起居室窗下走過。我向屋里瞧了一眼，差點(diǎn)兒把罐子摔在地上，只見一個(gè)身材高大的禿頂男子坐在爸爸的椅子上，那人正在責(zé)罵我爸爸。弟弟妹妹坐著一動(dòng)不動(dòng)，像石人似的，爸爸面色鐵青，媽媽嗚嗚直哭。
　　我悄悄溜進(jìn)廚房，慢慢將湯放在臺(tái)子上，然后隔著門聽著。那個(gè)人想要拿走我家的汽車。爸爸本打算分三次付清欠款，而那人卻要一次付清325美元，否則就開走汽車。我們剛搬到洛杉磯沒有多久，明白一輛汽車是多么必要。我悄悄地從門里溜出來，將汽車推到拐角，發(fā)動(dòng)引擎，繞過附近地區(qū)，怒氣沖沖地想道：誰會(huì)有325美元？誰又會(huì)借給我這么大一筆錢呢？
　　我惟一能想到的人就是莫特。我將車開回到他的店里，叩響了后門，然后站在那里等著，直到窗戶打開。只見一把0.45英寸口徑軍用手槍的槍口正對(duì)著我�！澳阆敫墒裁矗俊蹦�特放下槍吼道。
　　我結(jié)結(jié)巴巴向他講了事情原委�！澳�能借給我父親325美元嗎？”說完，我意識(shí)到這個(gè)要求是多么荒唐。
　　莫特的目光就像要在我的臉上鉆幾個(gè)洞似的。隨后，他的臉開始發(fā)紫，嘴唇顫抖。我意識(shí)到他的手里仍然攥著槍，就后退了一步�？吹竭@種情形，他露出了微笑�！拔也粫�(huì)向你開槍的�！闭f完，他將手槍放在了小桌子上。隨后，他跪下來，從地板上撬起一塊舊紅磚，露出了一只保險(xiǎn)箱，然后開始轉(zhuǎn)動(dòng)密碼盤。
　　他把錢數(shù)了兩遍，然后放進(jìn)一個(gè)舊信封�！斑@是325美元，”他說，“等你不上學(xué)時(shí)，可以全日工作。我每月扣你一半工資直到你還清�！�
“謝謝，”我聲音顫抖著說，“您要我父親的簽字嗎？”
　　他搖了搖頭�！安�，孩子，我打賭你能還。”
　　我像一個(gè)莊園主般走進(jìn)后門。爸爸沖進(jìn)了廚房，那個(gè)禿頂男人也跟了進(jìn)來�！翱�，”我父親喊道，“把車開走！”
　　我鎮(zhèn)定自若地將手里的信封遞給那個(gè)人�！鞍彦X數(shù)一下，給我父親開個(gè)收據(jù)，然后從我們家滾出去�！蔽艺f，這些話我早已在回家的路上排練好了。
　　那天夜里，我成了家里的英雄。但真正的英雄是莫特·魯賓，他不僅使我家擺脫窘境，而且不動(dòng)聲色地每個(gè)月給我提高了薪水。到了那年夏天，我每小時(shí)的工資長(zhǎng)到了2.5美元，是我最初薪水的兩倍。我為莫特打工，一直到兩年后畢業(yè)參軍。在以后的幾十年中，我們始終保持聯(lián)絡(luò)，但幾年前我和他失去了聯(lián)系，不知道他現(xiàn)在是否還活著。
　　但我的確知道：是莫特·魯賓使這個(gè)世界變成了一個(gè)更加美好的地方。

1. salvation  n. 救助，拯救
2. deli  n. 熟食店
3. frown [fraun] v. 皺眉
4. meager  adj. 不足的
5. agony  n. 劇痛
6. recuperate  v. 恢復(fù)，復(fù)原
7. leftover  adj. 殘留的，殘余的
8. in arrears  拖欠，拖延  arrear  n. 欠款
9. rap  v. 敲擊，急拍
10. growl [graul] v. 咆哮
11. absurd  adj. 荒謬的，可笑的
12. purple  v. （使）成紫色
13. quiver  v. 顫動(dòng)，抖動(dòng)
14. pry [prai] v. 撬起，撬動(dòng)
15. manor  n. 莊園
16. rehearse v. 排演，練習(xí)
17. penury  n. 赤貧