“No profession,” said the police car, as if talking to itself. The light held him fixed, like a museum specimen, needle thrust through chest.
“You might say that, “ said Mr. Mead. He hadn't written in years. Magazines and books didn't sell any more. Everything went on in the tomblike houses at night now, he thought, continuing his fancy.
The tombs, ill-lit by television light, where the people sat like the dead, the gray or multicolored lights touching their faces, but never really touching them.
“No profession,” said the phonograph voice, hissing. “What are you doing out?”Why does the police car state that Mr. Mead lacks a profession?
Mr. Mead is only pretending to be a writer.
Being a writer is no longer considered a profession.
The police car knows that people can no longer write.
Mr. Mead is trying to be funny and have a