Ken Kesey - One flew over cuckoo's nest

His package is already lying in his lap. He looks down at it like he wishes it wasn’t, then says, “Sure, I always got cigarettes. Reason is, I’m a bum. I bum them whenever I get the chance is why my pack lasts longer than Harding’s here. He smokes only his own. So you can see he’s more likely to run out than—”

“You don’t have to apologize for my inadequacies, my friend. It neither fits your character nor complements mine.”

“No, it doesn’t,” the girl says. “All you have to do is light my cigarette.”

And she leans so far forward to his match that even clear across the room I could see down her blouse.

She talks some more about some of Harding’s friends who she wishes would quit dropping around the house looking for him. “You know the type, don’t you, Mack?” she says. “The hoity-toity boys with the nice long hair combed so perfectly and the limp little wrists that flip so nice.” Harding asks her if it was only him that they were dropping around to see, and she says any man that drops around to see her flips more than his damned limp wrists.

She stands suddenly and says it’s time for her to go. She takes McMurphy’s hand and tells him she hopes she sees him again sometime and she walks out of the library. McMurphy can’t say a word. At the clack of her high heels everybody’s head comes up again, and they watch her walk down the hall till she turns out of sight.

“What do you think?” Harding says.

McMurphy starts. “She’s got one hell of a set of chabobs,” is all he can think of. “Big as Old Lady Ratched’s.”

“I didn’t mean physically, my friend, I mean what do you—”

“Hell’s bells, Harding!” McMurphy yells suddenly. “I don’t know what to think! What do you want out of me? A marriage counsellor? All I know is this: nobody’s very big in the first place, and it looks to me like everybody spends their whole life tearing everybody else down. I know what you want me to think; you want me to feel sorry for you, to think she’s a real bitch. Well, you didn’t make her feel like any queen either. Well, screw you and ‘what do you think?’ I’ve got worries of my own without getting hooked with yours. So just quit!” He glares around the library at the other patients. “Alla you! Quit bugging me, goddammit!”

And sticks his cap back on his head and walks back to his cartoon magazine across the room. All the Acutes are looking at each other with their mouths open. What’s he hollering at them about? Nobody’s been bugging him. Nobody’s asked him for a thing since they found out that he was trying to behave to keep his commitment from being extended. Now they’re surprised at the way he just blew up at Harding and can’t figure the way he grabs the book up from the chair and sits down and holds it up close in front of his face — either to keep people from looking at him or to keep from having to look at people.

That night at supper he apologizes to Harding and says he don’t know what hung him up so at the library. Harding says perhaps it was his wife; she frequently hangs people up. McMurphy sits staring into his coffee and says, “I don’t know, man. I just met her this afternoon. So she sure the hell isn’t the one’s been giving me bad dreams this last miserable week.”

“Why, Mis-tur McMurphy,” Harding cries, trying to talk like the little resident boy who comes to the meetings, “you simply must tell us about these dreams. Ah, wait until I get my pencil and pad.” Harding is trying to be funny to relieve the strain of the apology. He picks up a napkin and a spoon and acts like he’s going to take notes. “Now. Pre-cisely, what was it you saw in these — ah — dreams?”

McMurphy don’t crack a smile. “I don’t know, man. Nothing but faces, I guess — just faces.”

The next morning Martini is behind the control panel in the tub room, playing like he’s a jet pilot. The poker game stops to grin at his act.

“EeeeeeaahHOOoomeerr. Ground to air, ground to air: object sighted four-oh-sixteen-hundred — appears to be enemy missile. Proceed at once! EeeahhOOOmmmm.”

Spins a dial, shoves a lever forward and leans with the bank of the ship. He cranks a needle to “ON FULL” at the side of the panel, but no water comes out of the nozzles set around the square tile booth in front of him. They don’t use hydrotherapy any more, and nobody’s turned the water on. Brand-new chrome equipment and steel panel never been used. Except for the chrome the panel and shower look just like the hydrotherapy outfits they used at the old hospital fifteen years ago: nozzles capable of reaching parts of the body from every angle, a technician in a rubber apron standing on the other side of the room manipulating the controls on that panel, dictating which nozzles squirt where, how hard, how hot — spray opened soft and soothing, then squeezed sharp as a needle-you hung up there between the nozzles in canvas straps, soaked and limp and wrinkled while the technician enjoyed his toy.

“EeeeaaooOOOoommm. … Air to ground, air to ground: missile sighted; coming into my sights now. …

Martini bends down and aims over the panel through the ring of nozzles. He closes one eye and peeps through the ring with the other eye.

“On target! Ready… Aim… Fi — !”

His hands jerk back from the panel and he stands bolt upright, hair flying and both eyes bulging out at the shower booth so wild and scared all the card-players spin around in their chairs to see if they can see it too — but they don’t see anything in there but the buckles hanging among the nozzles on stiff new canvas straps.

Martini turns and looks straight at McMurphy. No one else. “Didn’t you see thum? Didn’t you?”

“See who, Mart? I don’t see anything.”

“In all those straps? Didn’t you?”

McMurphy turns and squints at the shower. “Nope. Not a thing.”

“Hold it a minute. They need you to see thum,” Martini says.

“Damn you, Martini, I told you I can’t see them! Understand? Not a blessed thing!”

“Oh,” Martini says. He nods his head and turns from the shower booth. “Well, I didn’t see thum either. I’s just kidding you.”

McMurphy cuts the deck and shuffles it with a buzzing snap. “Well — I don’t care for that sort of kiddin’, Mart.” He cuts to shuffle again, and the cards splash everywhere like the deck exploded between his two trembling hands.

I remember it was a Friday again, three weeks after we voted on TV, and everybody who could walk was herded over to Building One for what they try to tell us is chest X-rays for TB, which I know is a check to see if everybody’s machinery is functioning up to par.

We’re benched in a long row down a bail leading to a door marked X-RAY. Next to X-ray is a door marked EENT where they check our throats during the winter. Across the hall from us is another bench, and it leads to that metal door. With the line of rivets. And nothing marked on it at all. Two guys are dozing on the bench between two black boys, while another victim inside is getting his treatment and I can hear him screaming. The door opens inward with a whoosh, and I can see the twinkling tubes in the room. They wheel the victim out still smoking, and I grip the bench where I sit to keep from being sucked through that door. A black boy and a white one drag one of the other guys on the bench to his feet, and he sways and staggers under the drugs in him. They usually give you red capsules before Shock. They push him through the door, and the technicians get him under each arm. For a second I see the guy realizes where they got him, and he stiffens both heels into the cement floor to keep from being pulled to the table — then the door pulls shut, phumph, with metal hitting a mattress, and I can’t see him any more.