Ilistened to them while I ate my breakfast， a young boy and a man， apparently father and son， on the other side of the wall in the smoking section of the restaurant.

The boy's voice seemed small and quiet， in that awkward range between childhoodand puberty. The man's voice boomed abnormally loud in contrast.

The man had done nothing during all that time but denigrate his son， belittling him for wanting to lift weights， for wanting to read his father's newspaper， for every thing he did and said. \"Jerk，\" I thought， then was overwhelmed by a wash of pity for the boy， always seeking and never winning his father's approval. Couldn't this man see what he was doing to his son?

\"I think I can do it，\" the boy mumbled in that dull， beaten-down tone. I could visualize him， looking down at the table， maybe blushing. His father laughed， cruelly it seemed to me. It was a laugh that told me that he had no confidence in his son's abilities as clearly as any words could have.

\"You ain't smart enough，\" he told the boy disparagingly， and there was another peal of mocking laughter.

I wondered then what kind of life that boy would have. He must already have suffered enough disapproval for a lifetime. With so consistent a message that he was a failure， how could he ever be expected to succeed?

On an afternoon with nothing but sports on television， my mom and I had watched a documentary on one of the first， students who'd shot up a high school， killing his parents beforehand. The documentary pointed out that he had consistently failed at everything he'd tried， but despite his shortcomings his parents had been unflaggingly supportive. He'd simply snapped when he lost his girlfriend， broken under the weight of his failures. In his own words， \"I was tired of letting everyone down.\"

If that kid， from a loving， nurturing family could go berserk， what should we expect from boys like the one in the next room， constantly belittled by his father?

The boy said something else in a low voice. I couldn't distinguish the words， but his father began that cruel laughter again， saying， \"You'll never make it.\"

It made me angry， and I felt a fresh wave of some other emotion I couldn't easily identify. I wanted to confront the father， to tell him to give his son a chance， that the boy couldn't help but fail when all he heard was that he already had. I wanted to tell him to give his son some hope， to give him some possibility of pleasing his father.

But in our society， people don't do that. We mind our own business unless it gets bloody. Nobody says anything until a tragedy strikes. Then we all crowd in front of the camera to tell the world we'd seen it coming.

By the time I'd finished my breakfast， I was so depressed I wanted to cry. As youngsters， we recognize when our parents have treated us unfairly. We vow never to make the same mistakes with our children. Yet every one of us， when grown with children of our own can at one time or another identifies our parents' voices emanating from our mouths. We become what we know.

This boy was doomed to relate to his children in the same abusive way his father was relating to him. I left money on the table for the bill and the tip， gathered my things and moved to leave through the main restaurant. I could have should probably left through the side door， which was much closer. But it was important to me to see this boy， this father. When I reached the doorway， I made a show of putting my jacket on and zipping it up， taking the time to look around the room for the pair I sought. Then I heard the laugh again.

He was an older man， pudgy and bald， dressed in what appeared to be a mechanic's uniform. The boy must have been thirteen or so， tall for his age and very thin， wearing glasses and slumped in his seat.

To my surprise， the father had his arm around his son's shoulder， and in contradiction to the harshness of his laugh， he smiled at the boy. His son smiled up at him self-deprecatingly. The love between them was obvious.

My depression lifted， and I smiled at them when they looked up at me. This boy would be fine， and when he had a son of his own， they'd joke with each other some Saturday morning， having breakfast before be had to go to work， in exactly this same way. It would be a good morning for both of them.

吃早飯時，隔壁吸煙間一個男孩和一個男人的對話傳進了我的耳朵。很明顯，他們是父子倆。男孩的聲音低沉而輕柔，似乎是那種青春期的嗓音，相比之下，男人的嗓音顯得高亢而有力。

男人一直在詆毀他的兒子，不論兒子是要練舉重還是要讀父親的報紙，總之，兒子做的每一件事、說的每一句話都遭到挖苦?！坝薮乐翗O!”我心中說，于是便對那男孩產(chǎn)生了極大的憐憫，他一次次嘗試著，卻從未得到父親的認(rèn)可，難道這個男人不知道自己正在對兒子做著什么嗎?

“我認(rèn)為我能做?！蹦泻⑧止局?，語調(diào)陰郁，似乎受了很大打擊。我能想像出他的樣子，頭垂向桌子，或許還紅著臉。他的父親冷笑著，是那種近乎殘忍的嘲笑。這種笑暗示了他對兒子的能力沒信心，這不言而喻。

“你還是不夠精明?！彼p蔑地告訴男孩，緊接著一陣譏笑。

我真不知道這個男孩過的是什么日子，或許他早已受夠了這種指責(zé)，一次又一次地被否定，怎么能期望他取得什么成功呢?

一天下午，電臺播放的只有體育節(jié)目，母親和我就看了一部紀(jì)實片，講述的是一名中學(xué)生，開槍殺害了父母后，在學(xué)校又槍殺了他的同學(xué)。紀(jì)實片指出，無論做什么事，他總會經(jīng)歷失敗的打擊。雖然他有這么多缺點，但父母還是一如既往地關(guān)心支持他。他的犯罪行為是由于失去女友而導(dǎo)致的。他自己說：“我一直都使別人感到失望，我已經(jīng)厭倦了這種生活?！?/p>

這么一位出身于充滿愛心的、有良好教育背景的家庭的孩子都會沖動地做出這樣的傻事來，那么像隔壁那樣總是被父親蔑視的孩子，我們又能指望他做出什么成就來呢?

男孩又小聲嘀咕著別的事情，我聽不清楚他究竟在說什么，但父親又殘忍地笑了，說道：“你永遠(yuǎn)也做不到!”

我憤怒了，一種無以言狀的感覺油然而生。我想說服這位父親再給兒子一次機會，兒子聽膩了那么多令人泄氣的話，是注定要失敗的。我要讓他給兒子一線希望，一次能讓父親高興的機會。

但在我們的社會，人們不會那么做。除非有流血事件的發(fā)生，否則我們不會去管別人的閑事。除非有悲劇發(fā)生，否則我們不會站出來說一句話。只有看到悲劇發(fā)生了，人們才會擁至攝像機前告知全世界。

吃過早餐后，我郁悶得想哭。年輕時，我們意識到父母對我們極不公平，于是我們便發(fā)誓不會再犯同樣的錯誤，去那樣對待我們的下一代。然而，我們在對待自己的孩子時，都會不由自主地說出當(dāng)年父母曾經(jīng)對我們說過的話。我們成了我們所熟知的那類人。

這個男孩注定會用父親對待他的這種刻薄的方式去對待他的孩子。我把小費連同餐費一起放在桌上，帶好自己的東西，準(zhǔn)備離開飯店。我應(yīng)該從側(cè)門離開，那兒離我比較近，但我是想順便看看那對父子，這對于我來說很重要。到門口時，我故意弄了弄外套，拉了拉衣服拉鏈，以便趁機掃視一下房間，尋找到這對父子。此時，又傳來一陣大笑。

他是一個上了年紀(jì)的人，矮胖，禿頭，身穿機修制服。那個男孩大約十二三歲，與同齡人相比，似乎高許多，也瘦削許多，他戴著一副眼鏡，耷拉著腦袋坐在那里。

令我吃驚的是，那位父親把手臂搭在兒子的肩頭，與剛才那刺耳的譏笑截然不同，他面帶微笑地看著兒子，而兒子也像是在挑戰(zhàn)自我似的抬頭微笑地望著他，彼此間的愛意都溢于言表。

我壓抑的情緒頓時舒朗了許多，我笑著看著他們，此時他們也抬頭看到了我。這男孩一切都會好的，當(dāng)他有了自己的孩子時，他們也會在某個周六早上互相挖苦取笑，共享上班前的早餐，如同現(xiàn)在一樣。對于他們來說，那定會是一個美妙的清晨。