Ken Kesey - One flew over cuckoo's nest

I’m further off than I’ve ever been. This is what it’s like to be dead. I guess this is what it’s like to be a Vegetable; you lose yourself in the fog. You don’t move. They feed your body till it finally stops eating; then they burn it. It’s not so bad. There’s no pain. I don’t feel much of anything other than a touch of chill I figure will pass in time.

I see my commanding officer pinning notices on the bulletin board, what we’re to wear today. I see the US Department of Interior bearing down on our little tribe with a gravel-crushing machine.

I see Papa come loping out of a draw and slow up to try and take aim at a big six-point buck springing off through the cedars. Shot after shot puffs out of the barrel, knocking dust all around the buck. I come out of the draw behind Papa and bring the buck down with my second shot just as it starts climbing the rimrock. I grin at Papa.

I never knew you to miss a shot like that before, Papa. Eye’s gone, boy. Can’t hold a bead. Sights on my gun just now was shakin’ like a dog shittin’ peach pits.

Papa, I’m telling you: that cactus moon of Sid’s is gonna make you old before your time.

A man drinks that cactus moon of Sid’s boy, he’s already old before his time. Let’s go gut that animal out before the flies blow him.

That’s not even happening now. You see? There’s nothing you can do about a happening out of the past like that.

Look there, my man…

I hear whispers, black boys.

Look there, that old fool Broom, slipped off to sleep.

Tha’s right, Chief Broom, tha’s right. You sleep an’ keep outta trouble. Yasss .

I’m not cold any more. I think I’ve about made it. I’m off to where the cold can’t reach me. I can stay off here for good. I’m not scared any more. They can’t reach me. Just the words reach me, and those’re fading.

Well… in as much as Billy has decided to walk out on the discussion, does anyone else have a problem to bring before the group?

As a matter of fact, ma’am, there does happen to be something…

That’s that McMurphy. He’s far away. He’s still trying to pull people out of the fog. Why don’t he leave me be?

“… remember that vote we had a day or so back-about the TV time? Well, today’s Friday and I thought I might just bring it up again, just to see if anybody else has picked up a little guts.”

“Mr. McMurphy, the purpose of this meeting is therapy, group therapy, and I’m not certain these petty grievances—”

“Yeah, yeah, the hell with that, we’ve heard it before. Me and some of the rest of the guys decided—”

“One moment, Mr. McMurphy, let me pose a question to the group: do any of you feel that Mr. McMurphy is perhaps imposing his personal desires on some of you too much? I’ve been thinking you might be happier if he were moved to a different ward.”

Nobody says anything for a minute. Then someone says, “Let him vote, why dontcha? Why ya want to ship him to Disturbed just for bringing up a vote? What’s so wrong with changing time?”

“Why, Mr. Scanlon, as I recall, you refused to eat for three days until we allowed you to turn the set on at six instead of six-thirty.”

“A man needs to see the world news, don’t he? God, they coulda bombed Washington and it’d been a week before we’d of heard.”

“Yes? And how do you feel about relinquishing your world news to watch a bunch of men play baseball?”

“We can’t have both, huh? No, I suppose not. Well, what the dickens — I don’t guess they’ll bomb us this week.” “Let’s let him have the vote, Miss Ratched.”

“Very well. But I think this is ample evidence of how much he is upsetting some of you patients. What is it you are proposing, Mr. McMurphy?”

“I’m proposing a revote on watching the TV in the afternoon.”

“You’re certain one more vote will satisfy you? We have more important things—”

“It’ll satisfy me. I just’d kind of like to see which of these birds has any guts and which doesn’t.”

“It’s that kind of talk, Doctor Spivey, that makes me wonder if the patients wouldn’t be more content if Mr. McMurphy were moved.”

“Let him call the vote, why dontcha?”

“Certainly, Mr. Cheswick. A vote is now before the group. Will a show of hands be adequate, Mr. McMurphy, or are you going to insist on a secret ballot?”

“I want to see the hands. I want to see the hands that don’t go up, too.”

“Everyone in favor of changing the television time to the afternoon, raise his hand.”

The first hand that comes up, I can tell, is McMurphy’s, because of the bandage where that control panel cut into him when he tried to lift it. And then off down the slope I see them, other hands coming up out of the fog. It’s like… that big red hand of McMurphy’s is reaching into the fog and dropping down and dragging the men up by their hands, dragging them blinking into the open. First one, then another, then the next. Right on down the line of Acutes, dragging them out of the fog till there they stand, all twenty of them, raising not just for watching TV, but against the Big Nurse, against her trying to send McMurphy to Disturbed, against the way she’s talked and acted and beat them down for years.

Nobody says anything. I can feel how stunned everybody is, the patients as well as the staff. The nurse can’t figure what happened; yesterday, before he tried lifting that panel, there wasn’t but four or five men might of voted. But when she talks she don’t let it show in her voice how surprised she is.

“I count only twenty, Mr. McMurphy.”

“Twenty? Well, why not? Twenty is all of us there—” His voice hangs as he realizes what she means. “Now hold on just a goddamned minute, lady—”

“I’m afraid the vote is defeated.”

“Hold on just one goddamned minute!”

“There are forty patients on the ward, Mr. McMurphy. Forty patients, and only twenty voted. You must have a majority to change the ward policy. I’m afraid the vote is closed.”

The hands are coming down across the room. The guys know they’re whipped, are trying to slip back into the safety of the fog. McMurphy is on his feet.

“Well, I’ll be a sonofabitch. You mean to tell me that’s how you’re gonna pull it? Count the votes of those old birds over there too?”

“Didn’t you explain the voting procedure to him, Doctor?”

“I’m afraid — a majority is called for, McMurphy. She’s right, she’s right.”

“A majority, Mr. McMurphy; it’s in the ward constitution.” “And I suppose the way to change the damned constitution is with a majority vote. Sure. Of all the chicken-shit things I’ve ever seen, this by God takes the cake!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. McMurphy, but you’ll find it written in the policy if you’d care for me to—”

“So this’s how you work this democratic bullshit — hell’s bells!”

“You seem upset, Mr. McMurphy. Doesn’t he seem upset, Doctor? I want you to note this.”

“Don’t give me that noise, lady. When a guy’s getting screwed he’s got a right to holler. And we’ve been damn well screwed.”

“Perhaps, Doctor, in view of the patient’s condition, we should bring this meeting to a close early today—”

“Wait! Wait a minute, let me talk to some of those old guys.”

“The vote is closed, Mr. McMurphy.”

“Let me talk to ‘em.”

He’s coming across the day room at us. He gets bigger and bigger, and he’s burning red in the face. He reaches into the fog and tries to drag Ruckly to the surface because Ruckly’s the youngest.

“What about you, buddy? You want to watch the World Series? Baseball? Baseball games? Just raise that hand up there—”