Robert A Heinlein - The unpleasant profession of Johathan Ho

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The Unpleasant Profession of

Jonathan Hoag

Robert A. Heinlein

-- the end it is not well.

From too much love of living,

From hope and fear set free,

We thank with brief thanksgiving

Whatever gods may be

That no life lives forever;

That dead men rise up never;

That even the weariest river

Winds somewhere safe to sea.

-- SWINBURNE

"Is it blood, doctor?" Jonathan Hoag moistened his lips with his tongue and

leaned forward in the chair, trying to see what was written on the slip of paper the medico

held.

Dr. Potbury brought the slip of paper closer to his vest and looked at Hoag over

his spectacles. "Any particular reason," he asked, "why you should find blood under your

fingernails?"

"No. That is to say -- Well, no -- there isn't. But it is blood -- isn't it?"

"No," Potbury said heavily. "No, it isn't blood."

Hoag knew that he should have felt relieved. But he was not. He knew in that

moment that he had clung to the notion that the brown grime under his fingernails was

dry blood rather than let himself dwell on other, less tolerable, ideas.

He felt sick at his stomach. But he had to know --

"What is it, doctor? Tell me."

Potbury looked him up and down. "You asked me a specific question. I've

answered it. You did not ask me what the substance was; you asked me to find out

whether or not it was blood. It is not."

"But -- You are playing with me. Show me the analysis." Hoag half rose from his

chair and reached for the slip of paper.

The doctor held it away from him, then tore it carefully in two. Placing the two

pieces together he tore them again, and again.

"Why, you!"

"Take your practice elsewhere," Potbury answered. "Never mind the fee. Get out.

And don't come back."

Hoag found himself on the street, walking toward the elevated station. He was

still much shaken by the doctor's rudeness. He was afraid of rudeness as some persons are

of snakes, or great heights, or small rooms. Bad manners, even when not directed at him

personally but simply displayed to others in his presence, left him sick and helpless and

overcome with shame.

If he himself were the butt of boorishness he had no defense save flight.

He set one foot on the bottom step of the stairs leading up to the elevated station

and hesitated. A trip by elevated was a trying thing at best, what with the pushing and the

jostling and the grimy dirt and the ever-present chance of uncouth behavior; he knew that

he was not up to it at the moment. If he had to listen to the cars screaming around the

curve as they turned north toward the Loop, he suspected that he would scream, too.

He turned away suddenly and was forced to check himself abruptly, for he was

chest to chest with a man who himself was entering the stairway. He shied away. "Watch

your step, buddy," the man said, and brushed on past him.

"Sorry," Hoag muttered, but the man was already on by.

The man's tone had been brisk rather than unkind; the incident should not have

troubled Hoag, but it did. The man's dress and appearance, his very odor, upset Hoag.

Hoag knew that there was no harm in well-worn dungarees and leather windbreaker, no

lack of virtue in a face made a trifle greasy by sweat dried in place in the course of labor.

Pinned to the bill of the man's cap was an oval badge, with a serial number and some

lettering. Hoag guessed that he was a truck driver, a mechanic, a rigger, any of the

competent, muscular crafts which keep the wheels turning over. Probably a family man

as well, a fond father and a good provider, whose greatest lapse from virtue might be an

extra glass of beer and a tendency to up it a nickel on two pairs.

It was sheer childishness for Hoag to permit himself to be put off by such

appearance and to prefer a white shirt, a decent topcoat, and gloves. Yet if the man had

smelled of shaving lotion rather than sweat the encounter would not have been

distasteful.

He told himself so and told himself that he was silly and weak. Still -- could such

a coarse and brutal face really be the outward mark of warmth and sensitivity? That

shapeless blob of nose, those piggish eyes?

Never mind, he would go home in a taxi, not looking at anyone. There was a

stand just ahead, in front of the delicatessen.

"Where to?" The door of the cab was open; the hackman's voice was impersonally

insistent.

Hoag caught his eye, hesitated and changed his mind. That brutishness again --

eyes with no depth to them and a skin marred by blackheads and enlarged pores.

"Unnh...excuse me. I forgot something." He turned away quickly and stopped

abruptly, as something caught him around the waist. It was a small boy on skates who

had bumped into him. Hoag steadied himself and assumed the look of paternal kindliness

which he used to deal with children. "Whoa, there, young fellow!" He took the boy by the

shoulder and gently dislodged him.

"Maurice!" The voice screamed near his ear, shrill and senseless. It came from a

large woman, smugly fat, who had projected herself out of the door of the delicatessen.

She grabbed the boy's other arm, jerking him away and aiming a swipe at his ear with her

free hand as she did so. Hoag started to plead on the boy's behalf when he saw that the

woman was glaring at him. The youngster, seeing or sensing his mother's attitude, kicked

at Hoag.

The skate clipped him in the shin. It hurt. He hurried away with no other purpose

than to get out of sight. He turned down the first side street, his shin causing him to limp

a little, and his ears and the back of his neck burning quite as if he had indeed been

caught mistreating the brat. The side street was not much better than the street he had left.

It was not lined with shops nor dominated by the harsh steel tunnel of the elevated's

tracks, but it was solid with apartment houses, four stories high and crowded, little better

than tenements.

Poets have sung of the beauty and innocence of childhood. But it could not have

been this street, seen through Hoag's eyes, that they had in mind. The small boys seemed

rat-faced to him, sharp beyond their years, sharp and shallow and snide. The little girls

were no better in his eyes. Those of eight or nine, the shapeless stringy age, seemed to

him to have tattletale written in their pinched faces -- mean souls, born for trouble-

making and cruel gossip. Their slightly older sisters, gutter-wise too young, seemed

entirely concerned with advertising their arrogant new sex -- not for Hoag's benefit, but

for their pimply counterparts loafing around the drugstore.

Even the brats in baby carriages -- Hoag fancied that he liked babies, enjoyed

himself in the role of honorary uncle. Not these. Snotty-nosed and sour-smelling, squalid

and squalling --

The little hotel was like a thousand others, definitely third rate without pretension,

a single bit of neon reading: "Hotel Manchester, Transient & Permanent," a lobby only a

half lot wide, long and narrow and a little dark. They are stopped at by drummers careful

of their expense accounts and are lived in by bachelors who can't afford better. The single

elevator is an iron-grille cage, somewhat disguised with bronze paint. The lobby floor is

tile, the cuspidors are brass. In addition to the clerk's desk there are two discouraged

potted palms and eight leather armchairs. Unattached old men, who seem never to have

had a past, sit in these chairs, live in the rooms above, and every now and then one is

found hanging in his room, necktie to light fixture.

Hoag backed into the door of the Manchester to avoid being caught in a surge of

children charging along the sidewalk. Some sort of game, apparently -- he caught the tail

end of a shrill chant, " -- give him a slap to shut his trap; the last one home's a dirty Jap!"

"Looking for someone, sir? Or did you wish a room?"

He turned quickly around, a little surprised. A room? What he wanted was his

own snug apartment but at the moment a room, any room at all, in which he could be

alone with a locked door between himself and the world seemed the most desirable thing

possible. "Yes, I do want a room."

The clerk turned the register around. "With or without? Five fifty with, three and

a half without."

"With."

The clerk watched him sign, but did not reach for the key until Hoag counted out

five ones and a half. "Glad to have you with us. Bill! Show Mr. Hoag up to 412."

The lone bellman ushered him into the cage, looked him up and down with one

eye, noting the expensive cut of his topcoat and the absence of baggage. Once in 412 he

raised the window a trifle, switched on the bathroom light, and stood by the door.

"Looking for something?" he suggested. "Need any help?"

Hoag tipped him. "Get out," he said hoarsely.

The bellman wiped off the smirk. "Suit yourself," he shrugged.

The room contained one double bed, one chest of drawers with mirror, one

straight chair and one armchair. Over the bed was a framed print titled "The Colosseum

by Moonlight." But the door was lockable and equipped with a bolt as well and the

window faced the alley, away from the street. Hoag sat down in the armchair. It had a

broken spring, but he did not mind.

He took off his gloves and stared at his nails. They were quite clean. Could the

whole thing have been hallucination? Had he ever gone to consult Dr. Potbury? A man

who has had amnesia may have it again, he supposed, and hallucinations as well.

Even so, it could not all be hallucinations; he remembered the incident too

vividly. Or could it be? He strained to recall exactly what had happened.

Today was Wednesday, his customary day off. Yesterday he had returned home

from work as usual. He had been getting ready to dress for dinner -- somewhat absent --

mindedly, he recalled, as he had actually been thinking about where he would dine,

whether to try a new Italian place recommended by his friends, the Robertsons, or

whether it would be more pleasing to return again for the undoubtedly sound goulash

prepared by the chef at the Buda-Pesth.

He had about decided in favor of the safer course when the telephone had rung.

He had almost missed it, as the tap was running in the washbasin. He had thought that he

heard something and had turned off the tap. Surely enough, the phone rang again.

It was Mrs. Pomeroy Jameson, one of his favorite hostesses -- not only a

charming woman for herself but possessed of a cook who could make clear soups that

were not dishwater. And sauces. She had offered a solution to his problem. "I've been

suddenly left in the lurch at the last moment and I've just got to have another man for

dinner. Are you free? Could you help me? Dear Mr. Hoag!"

It had been a very pleasant thought and he had not in the least resented being

asked to fill in at the last minute. After all, one can't expect to be invited to every small

dinner. He had been delighted to oblige Edith Pomeroy. She served an unpretentious but

sound dry white wine with fish and she never committed the vulgarism of serving

champagne at any time. A good hostess and he was glad she felt free to ask him for help.

It was a tribute to him that she felt he would fit in, unplanned.

He had had such thoughts on his mind, he remembered, as he dressed. Probably,

in his preoccupation, what with the interruption of the phone call breaking his routine, he

had neglected to scrub his nails.

It must have been that. Certainly there had been no opportunity to dirty his nails

so atrociously on the way to the Pomeroys'. After all, one wore gloves.

It had been Mrs. Pomeroy's sister-in-law -- a woman he preferred to avoid! -- who

had called his attention to his nails. She had been insisting with the positiveness called

"modern" that every man's occupation was written on his person. "Take my husband --

what could he be but a lawyer? Look at him. And you, Dr. Fitts -- the bedside manner!"

"Not at dinner, I hope."

"You can't shake it."

"But you haven't proved your point. You knew what we are."

Whereupon that impossible woman had looked around the table and nailed him

with her eye. "Mr. Hoag can test me. I don't know what he does. No one does."

"Really, Julia." Mrs. Pomeroy had tried hopelessly to intervene, then had turned

to the man on her left with a smile. "Julia has been studying psychology this season."

The man on her left, Sudkins, or Snuggins -- Stubbins, that was his name.

Stubbins had said, "What does Mr. Hoag do?"

"It's a minor mystery. He never talks shop."

"It's not that," Hoag had offered. "I do not consider -- "

"Don't tell me!" that woman had commanded. "I'll have it in a moment. Some

profession. I can see you with a brief case." He had not intended to tell her. Some

subjects were dinner conversation; some were not. But she had gone on.

"You might be in finance. You might be an art dealer or a book fancier. Or you

might be a writer. Let me see your hands."

He was mildly put off by the demand, but he had placed his hands on the table

without trepidation. That woman had pounced on him. "Got you! You are a chemist."

Everyone looked where she pointed. Everyone saw the dark mourning under his

nails. Her husband had broken the brief silence by saying, "Nonsense, Julia. There are

dozens of things that will stain nails. Hoag may dabble in photography, or do a spot of

engraving. Your inference wouldn't stand up in court."

"That's a lawyer for you! I know I'm right. Aren't I, Mr. Hoag?"

He himself had been staring unbrokenly at his hands. To be caught at a dinner

party with untidy manicure would have been distressing enough -- if he had been able to

understand it.

But he had no slightest idea how his nails had become dirtied. At his work?

Obviously -- but what did he do in the daytime?

He did not know.

"Tell us, Mr. Hoag. I was right, was I not?"

He pulled his eyes away from those horrid fingernails and said faintly, "I must ask

to be excused." With that he had fled from the table. He had found his way to the lavatory

where, conquering an irrational revulsion, he had cleaned out the gummy reddish-brown

filth with the blade of his penknife. The stuff stuck to the blade; he wiped it on cleansing

tissue, wadded it up, and stuck it into a pocket of his waistcoat. Then he had scrubbed his

nails, over and over again.

He could not recall when he had become convinced that the stuff was blood, was

human blood.

He had managed to find his bowler, his coat, gloves, and stick without recourse to

the maid. He let himself out and got away from there as fast as he could.

Thinking it over in the quiet of the dingy hotel room he was convinced that his

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TheUnpleasantProfessionofJonathanHoagRobertA.Heinlein--theenditisnotwell.Fromtoomuchloveofliving,Fromhopeandfearsetfree,WethankwithbriefthanksgivingWhatevergodsmaybeThatnolifelivesforever;Thatdeadmenriseupnever;ThateventheweariestriverWindssomewheresafetosea.--SWINBURNEI"Isitblood,doctor?"JonathanHo...

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