Read Ebook: The Borough Treasurer by Fletcher J S Joseph Smith

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Ebook has 1477 lines and 78522 words, and 30 pages

John's Other Practice

Slot machines usually give you a big pain in the wallet. But Cunningham's Symptometer was more considerate--it also diagnosed the pain....

I knew that John Cunningham had been warned on graduation day that no man with a romantic nature should specialize in gynecology. John was not only a romanticist; he was also the best looking intern north of the equator.

The laws of probability functioned. Within three years, John Cunningham was married, divorced, disgraced and flat broke. And so it was that the winsome, six-foot, blonde-headed nurse's idol of the flashing smile and brilliant mind, approached life with three strangely related goals, namely: To practice medicine successfully without coming in contact with his patients, and yet make back the family fortune he had squandered mixing potions with poetry.

In a much less interesting way, I, too, was diverted from an otherwise promising career in the practice of conventional 21st Century medicine. My final exam before the board revealed an aptitude that landed me a fat offer from the International Medical Association. The job was Special Investigator on the Malpractice Board of Control. My apparent immunity to emotional disturbances from the other sex, ironically, was the deciding factor of my appointment.

My first intimation of John Cunningham's vicarious practice came in the form of an order to check on a complaint from the Hotel Celt in New York. I bussed over to the 48-story hostelry and questioned the manager, a fat, bald man of some forty-two years and no arches.

"A lady doctor," he mourned, "has served warning she will sue unless I take out the slot machines from our mezzanine powder rooms."

"I know," I said. "She filed the complaint that brought me here. What I want to know is what does a slot machine violate by being in the ladies' room?" I meant, what violation beyond the usual federal, state and county restrictions whose ineffectual enforcement rendered them anachronisms in this age of device-gambling.

"Why does this remotely concern the medical profession?"

Mr. Dennithy, the manager plucked an imperfect petal from his buttonhole carnation and reluctantly pointed out. "These machines are vending, not gambling devices. They issue medical advice--on a limited scale," he added hurriedly.

"What!" I yelled in his face. "Let's go see this."

The tastefully decorated lounge was jammed with females, many of whom were bunched in little chirping bevies along the west wall. Stubby queues of women gave the place the look of a pari-mutuel stand, but the cheerful, tinkly chatter had nothing of the grim spirit of betting.

The three women attendants threw up their hands in despair when I told them to clear the room. "We can hardly get them to leave at night so we can clean up the place," one complained.

Impatiently I barged in, flashed my gold and platinum serpent-and-staff badge, and shouted. "These machines are illegal. This is a raid! Stand where you are, every last one of you!"

That did it. I almost got trampled in the stampede of high heels. Score one for my specialty in applied psychology and semantics. I learned later that, compared to one John Cunningham, I was a babe in the maternity ward.

Of this I got my first inkling when I examined one of the ten machines along the wall. It had a slot for a quarter. It was only two feet across by seven feet high and one foot thick. A circular mirror at eye level drew the female attention, and alongside was the slogan in large orange print:

The next machine was named a "Kidney Stone Symptometer." The next advised about allergies, the next, pulmonary tuberculosis, and so on down to the one on the far end. Before this somewhat larger machine was the densest litter of carmine-tipped cigarette butts, some still smoldering on the carpet. This evident number-one favorite on the Symptometer Hit Parade asked disturbingly:

"COULD IT BE YOU ARE PREGNANT?"

Each machine had a bank of detailed questions to answer, each so couched that it could be satisfied by pressing one of three buttons. The instruction read: "Push the Red Button to answer YES, the White Button for NO, and the Yellow Button for SORT OF." This machine required a dollar.

To say that I was intrigued would only be searching for words. Having no change I demanded a silver dollar from Dennithy. He shifted from one foot to the other, and never before have I seen a genuine hotel man blush.

"Really, Mr. Klinghammer--"

"Doctor Klinghammer," I reminded him.

"Oh, yes. But--actually, I hadn't realized the exact nature of these devices. The, er, diseases which they purport to diagnose, I mean. My engineer, Mr. Shiftin merely said--"

"We do not prosecute innocently victimized business-men," I told him. "Now, that dollar, please."

"But wouldn't one of the quarter machines--" he trailed off under my best scowl and produced a silver disc from his fawn-colored vest.

I sent him out for more coins and set about inserting negative symptomatic answers. Upon examination the questions appeared to be remarkably phrased. Several of them seemed unrelated to the condition of pregnancy, but it turned out that Cunningham knew what he was doing.

When the last button was depressed a soft, melodic chime disguised the click of the mechanism which ejected the cardboard tab. It read:

"IF YOU HAVE ANSWERED THESE QUESTIONS HONESTLY THE SYMPTOMETER OBSERVES THAT IT IS EXTREMELY UNLIKELY THAT YOU ARE PREGNANT. YOU ARE URGED TO CONSULT A COMPETENT OBSTETRICIAN. VERIFY THIS OPINION."

Next, I set into the machine the proper answers to describe an ambiguous condition with contradictory symptoms. Dennithy came back with more change, and this time the tab read:

"THERE IS A POSSIBILITY OF PREGNANCY INDICATED. A COMPETENT PHYSICIAN CAN DETERMINE AT ONCE. THERE IS ALSO AN INDICATION THAT YOUR ANSWERS MIGHT BE EITHER INSINCERE OR FACETIOUS. THE INVENTOR OF THE SYMPTOMETER WISHES TO POINT OUT THAT IT'S YOUR DOLLAR YOU JUST SPENT, LADY."

I could imagine the chuckle this would get from the old dowager, wise in the ways of such matters and smugly secure from any such contingency; the woman who would be most likely to feed in such confusing data.

I snatched another coin from Dennithy and pushed in the buttons which should give symptoms of pregnancy in the last week of the last month. The card read:

"MADAME CALL AN AMBULANCE. YOU HAVE NO BUSINESS DOWN TOWN!"

At first I was plain furious. The inventor was selling not only medical diagnoses, but providing penny arcade entertainment as well. Then the impossibility of reporting the results of my investigation to the board struck me. In what conceivable manner could I phrase my findings and still maintain the dignity of our profession? And, worse yet, when you got right down to it, on what grounds could we outlaw and confiscate these machines?

Twenty-four quarters later I confirmed this suspicion. All ten machines were paragons of discretion. Each urged the patient to visit her doctor, or bore some other innocuous medical platitude. They were designed to painlessly accommodate the confirmed hypochondriac without wasting a busy doctor's time. And yet when a truly sick person indicated genuine symptoms, the diagnosis was general but accurate. The instruction to see a physician at once was urgently definite.

I was back before the dollar machine musing at my ugly expression in the mirror, when a light female voice behind me said, "I believe you have the wrong room, gentlemen."

She had short, bronzed, curly hair. She wore trim flannel slacks of dead white. Across her immaculate blouse was slung a pair of straps, one supporting a small tool kit, the other a stout leather pouch which rested on one shapely hip. She looked, to my first embarrassed glance, cute, feminine, intelligent and quite amused.

The reason for this evasion was the fact that emblazoned in red over her left breast was the legend:

"JAYSEE SYMPTOMETER SERVICE"

"Clever machines," I flattered. "Well based in feminine psychology," I added, entirely overlooking that she might reasonably be expected to have the same psychology.

"I only service them," she said shortly. "Please step aside so I can operate." She gave me a long, searching look before she swung open the first top panel. Apparently satisfied I was merely a prospective customer, she let me look on.

A swift look inside gave me a virulent case of the quim-quim. Here was no simple coin-snatcher. The answer buttons were switches. From each one ran leads to a panel which bristled with tiny vacuum tubes. It was uncomfortably remindful of the latest in electronic calculators which were rapidly gaining the reputation of being, "man's other brain."

"Tell me, Miss--"

"Tell me, Dr. Calicoo, how may I get in touch with the supplier of this equipment?"

She handed me a card and with it a slightly interested look that dropped my stability quotient at least three points.

The card was less interesting than the expression in her provocative blue eyes. I broke down and asked, "Doctor of what?"

"Philosophy. Electronics and Mathematics. You don't run a hotel," she said shrewdly.

"Make a liar out of Mr. Dennithy if you choose," I told her, "but would you be kind enough to take me to," I glanced at the card, "to Dr. John Cunningham?"

"I'll take you," she nodded, then her voice hardened a little, "but if you are just a snooper or a patent-jumper it will be no favor."

She invited candor, so she got it. I showed her my badge. Her mouth pulled into a startled little "o," like an oversized, pitted cherry.

We left Dennithy clinking quarters, trying to determine how he might figure into a possible scandal. In the elevator to the basement garage I commented acidly, "You must have known this was inevitable, of course?"

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