No Doors No Windows by Harlan Ellison

Author:Harlan Ellison [Ellison, Harlan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction, Horror, Thriller, Fantasy
ISBN: 9780441583287
Amazon: 0759243522
Barnesnoble: 0759243522
Goodreads: 332285
Publisher: Ace
Published: 1955-05-05T04:00:00+00:00

Eight. Pride in the Profession

There were many who called the lynching of Eustace Powder a blot on the previously-unbesmirched reputation of Princetown, but for Matthew Carty, it was the handing-down of a latter-day Ten Commandments.

The alleged crime for which the dusty Negro was swung high is of no consequence at this time; suffice to say he was innocent, if not in thought, at least in deed, indeed; but all things pass, and the momentary upheavals that result in the neck-stretching of one unimportant dark man are of no importance in the shadow of later, more electric events.

For it was the excitement, the crowd-respect directed at the man who knotted the rope and threw it over the elm’s thick branch, that struck eight-year-old Matt Carty with such lasting force. The humid, expectant rustle of the summer day, the pavement warm beneath his bare, dirty feet, the women watching flame-eyed. It was all such a rich experience, he could not put it from him.

There was even an unexpected touch of homespun humor. The black, black man’s last request, jocularly offered by one of the local rakehells, was to have a pair of dice, to hold in his hand when they swung him aloft. “Those who live by the bones gonna die by the bones!” replied the last-request-man, and fishing in his own jeans, he came up with a fine set of red plastic dice; as neat a set of see-through galloping dominoes as ever was. And giving them to Eustace Powder, the local happy-smith patted the Negro on the cheek. “Roll a natural, boogie.” He grinned, and the black man clenched them in his fist tightly as they yanked him aloft.

The face of the gap-toothed Eustace Powder, his mouthings of horror and expectation. The gurgle and retching and final gasp as he swung clear of the ground. He seemed to thrash and twitch interminably. It was one of the two high points of Matt Carty’s life, even if Powder did drop one of them.

In the light of that one incident, his existence was systematically directed, till the day he died, many years later.

For Matt Carty liked the idea of being a hangman.

There was a certain pride a man could take in such a profession. So he took pride, and he took the profession. It suited him, and he suited it. A wedding of the right job with the proper tool.

Matt Carty had always been a little man. Not a small man, for that is a thing of personality, and Matt’s personality was just fine, thank you. He was outgoing and dryly witty, with perception to temper it; but this was too much offset by his lack of height—an almost comical lack. He was five feet, one inch tall.

He had often considered elevator shoes. Only the inherent hypocrisy of them prevented their purchase. In their place he substituted an almost pathetic eagerness for love and friendship. Indiscriminately, Matt Carty made friends.

Unfortunately, they did not stick to him for long:

“Jeez, it’s real funny, meeting a guy from Princetown here in Chi.

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