One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (16 page)

“Saaaaay, Doctor, what I been dyin’ to know is what did this dream I dreamt the other night mean? You see, it was like I was
me
, in the dream, and then again kind of like I
wasn’t
me—like I was somebody else that looked like me—like—like my
daddy!
Yeah, that’s who it was. It was my daddy because sometimes when I saw me—him—I saw there was this iron bolt through the jawbone like daddy used to have—”

“Your father has an iron
bolt
through his jawbone?”

“Well, not any more, but he did once when I was a kid. He went around for about ten months with this big metal bolt going in
here
and coming out
here!
God, he was a regular Frankenstein. He’d been clipped on the jaw with a pole ax when he got into some kinda hassle with this pond man at the logging mill—Hey! Let me tell you how that incident came about…”

Her face is still calm, as though sbe had a cast made and painted to just the look she wants. Confident, patient, and unruffled. No more little jerk, just that terrible cold face, a calm smile stamped out of red plastic; a clean, smooth forehead, not a line in it to show weakness or worry; flat, wide, painted-on green eyes, painted on with an expression that says I can wait, I might lose a yard now and then but I can wait, and be patient and calm and confident, because I know there’s no real losing for me.

I thought for a minute there I saw her whipped. Maybe I did. But I see now that it don’t make any difference. One by one the patients are sneaking looks at her to see how she’s taking the way McMurphy is dominating the meeting, and they see the same thing. She’s too big to be beaten. She covers one whole side of the room like a Jap statue. There’s no moving her and no help against her. She’s lost a little battle here today, but it’s a minor battle in a big war that she’s been winning and that she’ll go on winning. We mustn’t let McMurphy get our hopes up any different, lure us into making some kind of dumb play. She’ll go on winning, just like the Combine, because she has all the power of the Combine behind her. She don’t lose on her losses, but she wins on ours. To beat her you don’t have to whip her two out of three or three out of five, but every time you meet. As soon as you let down your guard, as soon as you lose
once
, she’s won for good. And eventually we all got to lose. Nobody can help that.

Right now, she’s got the fog machine switched on, and it’s rolling in so fast I can’t see a thing but her face, rolling in thicker and thicker, and I feel as hopeless and dead as I felt happy a minute ago, when she gave that little jerk—even more hopeless than ever before, on account of I know now there is no real help against her or her Combine. McMurphy can’t help any more than I could. Nobody can help. And the more I think about how nothing can be helped, the faster the fog rolls in.

And I’m glad when it gets thick enough you’re lost in it and can let go, and be safe again.

There’s a Monopoly game going on in the day room. They’ve been at it for three days, houses and hotels everywhere, two tables pushed together to take care of all the deeds and stacks of play money. McMurphy talked them into making the game interesting by paying a penny for every play dollar the bank issues them; the monopoly box is loaded with change.

“It’s your roll, Cheswick.”

“Hold it a minute before he rolls. What’s a man need to buy thum hotels?”

“You need four houses on every lot of the same color, Martini. Now let’s
go
, for Christsakes.”

“Hold it a minute.”

There’s a flurry of money from that side of the table, red and green and yellow bills blowing in every direction.

“You buying a hotel or you playing happy new year, for Christsakes?”

“It’s your dirty roll, Cheswick.”

“Snake eyes! Hoooeee, Cheswicker, where does that put you? That don’t put you on my Marvin Gardens by any chance? That don’t mean you have to pay me, let’s see, three hundred and fifty dollars?”

“Boogered.”

“What’s thum other things? Hold it a minute. What’s thum other things
all
over the board?”

“Martini, you been seeing them other things all over the board for two days. No wonder I’m losing my ass. McMurphy, I don’t see how you can concentrate with Martini sitting there hallucinating a mile a minute.”

“Cheswick, you never mind about Martini. He’s doing real good. You just come on with that three fifty, and Martini will take care of himself; don’t we get rent from him every time one of his ‘things’ lands on our property?”

“Hold it a minute. There’s so many of thum.”

“That’s okay, Mart. You just keep us posted whose property they land on. You’re still the man with the dice, Cheswick. You rolled a double, so you roll again. Atta boy.
Faw!
a big six.”

“Takes me to… Chance: ‘You Have Been Elected Chairman of the Board; Pay Every Player—’ Boogered and double boogered!”

“Whose hotel is this here for Christsakes on the Reading Railroad?”

“My friend, that, as anyone can see, is not a hotel; it’s a depot.”

“Now
hold
it a minute—”

McMurphy surrounds his end of the table, moving cards, rearranging money, evening up his hotels. There’s a hundred. dollar bill sticking out of the brim of his cap like a press card; mad money, he calls it.

“Scanlon? I believe it’s your turn, buddy.”

“Gimme those dice. I’ll blow this board to pieces. Here we go. Lebenty Leben, count me over eleven, Martini.”

“Why, all right.”

“Not that one, you crazy bastard; that’s not my piece, that’s my
house
.”

“It’s the same color.”

“What’s this little house doing on the Electric Company?”

“That’s a power station.”

“Martini, those ain’t the dice you’re shaking—”

“Let him be; what’s the difference?”

“Those are a couple of houses!”

“
Faw
. And Martini rolls a big, let me see, a big nineteen. Good goin’, Mart; that puts you—Where’s your piece, buddy?”

“Eh? Why here it is.”

“He had it in his mouth, McMurphy. Excellent. That’s two moves over the second and third bicuspid, four moves to the board, which takes you on to—to Baltic Avenue, Martini. Your own and only property. How fortunate can a man get, friends? Martini has been playing three days and lit on his property practically every time.”

“Shut up and roll, Harding. It’s your turn.”

Harding gathers the dice up with his long fingers, feeling the smooth surfaces with his thumb as if he was blind. The fingers are the same color as the dice and look like they were carved by his other hand. The dice rattle in his hand as he shakes it. They tumble to a stop in front of McMurphy.

“
Faw
. Five, six, seven. Tough luck, buddy. That’s another o’ my vast holdin’s. You owe me—oh, two hundred dollars should about cover it.”

Pity.

The game goes round and round, to the rattle of dice and the shuffle of play money.

There’s long spells—three days, years—when you can’t see a thing, know where you are only by the speaker sounding overhead like a bell buoy clanging in the fog. When I can see, the guys are usually moving around as unconcerned as though they didn’t notice so much as a mist in the air. I believe the fog affects their memory some way it doesn’t affect mine.

Even McMurphy doesn’t seem to know he’s been fogged in. If he does, he makes sure not to let on that he’s bothered by it. He’s making sure none of the staff sees him bothered by anything; he knows that there’s no better way in the world to aggravate somebody who’s trying to make it hard for you than by acting like you’re not bothered.

He keeps up his high-class manners around the nurses and the black boys in spite of anything they might say to him, in spite of every trick they pull to get him to lose his temper. A couple of times some stupid rule gets him mad, but he just makes himself act more polite and mannerly than ever till he begins to see how funny the whole thing is—the rules, the disapproving looks they use to enforce the rules, the ways of talking to you like you’re nothing but a three-year-old—and when he sees how funny it is he goes to laughing, and this aggravates them no end. He’s safe as long as he can laugh, he thinks, and it works pretty fair. Just once he loses control and shows he’s mad, and then it’s not because of the black boys or the Big Nurse and something they did, but it’s because of the patients, and something they
didn’t
do.

It happened at one of the group meetings. He got mad at the guys for acting too cagey—too chicken-shit, he called it. He’d been taking bets from all of them on the World Series coming up Friday. He’d had it in mind that they would get to watch the games on TV, even though they didn’t come on during regulation TV time. During the meeting a few days before he asks if it wouldn’t be okay if they did the cleaning work at night, during TV time, and watched the games during the afternoon. The nurse tells him no, which is about what he expected. She tells him how the schedule has been set up for a delicately balanced reason that would be thrown into turmoil by the switch of routines.

This doesn’t surprise him, coming from the nurse; what does surprise him is how the Acutes act when he asks them what they think of the idea. Nobody says a thing. They’re all sunk back out of sight in little pockets of fog. I can barely see them.

“Now look here,” he tells them, but they don’t look. He’s been waiting for somebody to say something, answer his question. Nobody acts like they’ve heard it. “Look here, damn it,” he says when nobody moves, “there’s at least twelve of you guys I know of myself got a leetle personal
interest
who wins these games. Don’t you guys care to watch them?”

“I don’t know, Mack,” Scanlon finally says, “I’m pretty used to seeing that six-o’clock news. And if switching times would really mess up the schedule as bad as Miss Ratched says—”

“The hell with the schedule. You can get back to the bloody schedule next week, when the Series is over. What do you say, buddies? Let’s take a vote on watching the TV during the afternoon instead of at night. All those in favor?”

“Ay,” Cheswick calls out and gets to his feet.

“I mean all those in favor raise their hands. Okay, all those in favor?”

Cheswick’s hand comes up. Some of the other guys look around to see if there’s any other fools. McMurphy can’t believe it.

“Come on now, what is this crap? I thought you guys could vote on policy and that sort of thing. Isn’t that the way it is, Doc?”

The doctor nods without looking up.

“Okay then; now who wants to watch those games?”

Cheswick shoves his hand higher and glares around. Scanlon shakes his head and then raises his hand, keeping his elbow on the arm of the chair. And nobody else. McMurphy can’t say a word.

“If that’s settled, then,” the nurse says, “perhaps we should get on with the meeting.”

“Yeah,” he says, slides down in his chair till the brim of his cap nearly touches his chest. “Yeah, perhaps we should get on with the sonofabitchin’ meeting at that.”

“Yeah,” Cheswick says, giving all the guys a hard look and sitting down, “yeah, get on with the godblessed meeting.” He nods stiffly, then settles his chin down on his chest, scowling. He’s pleased to be sitting next to McMurphy, feeling brave like this. It’s the first time Cheswick ever had somebody along with him on his lost causes.

After the meeting McMurphy won’t say a word to any of them, he’s so mad and disgusted. It’s Billy Bibbit who goes up to him.

“Some of us have b-been here for fi-fi-five years, Randle,” Billy says. He’s got a magazine rolled up and is twisting at it with his hands; you can see the cigarette burns on the backs of his hands. “And some of us will b-be here maybe th-that muh-muh-much longer, long after you’re g-g-gone, long after this Wo-world Series is over. And… don’t you see…” He throws down the magazine and walks away. “Oh, what’s the use of it anyway.”

McMurphy stares after him, that puzzled frown knotting his bleached eyebrows together again.

He argues for the rest of the day with some of the other guys about why they didn’t vote, but they don’t want to talk about it, so he seems to give up, doesn’t say anything about it again till the day before the Series starts. “Here it is Thursday,” he says, sadly shaking his head.

He’s sitting on one of the tables in the tub room with his feet on a chair, trying to spin his cap around one finger. Other Acutes mope around the room and try not to pay any attention to him. Nobody’ll play poker or blackjack with him for money any more—after the patients wouldn’t vote he got mad and skinned them so bad at cards that they’re all so in debt they’re scared to go any deeper—and they can’t play for cigarettes because the nurse has started making the men keep their cartons on the desk in the Nurses’ Station, where she doles them out one pack a day, says it’s for their health, but everybody knows it’s to keep McMurphy from winning them all at cards. With no poker or blackjack, it’s quiet in the tub room, just the sound of the speaker drifting in from the day room. It’s so quiet you can hear that guy upstairs in Disturbed climbing the wall, giving out an occasional signal, loo loo
looo
, a bored, uninterested sound, like a baby yells to yell itself to sleep.

“Thursday,” McMurphy says again.

“
Looooo
,” yells that guy upstairs.

“That’s Rawler,” Scanlon says, looking up at the ceiling. He don’t want to pay any attention to McMurphy. “Rawler the Squawler. He came through this ward a few years back. Wouldn’t keep still to suit Miss Ratched, you remember, Billy? Loo loo loo all the time till I thought I’d go nuts. What they should do with that whole bunch of dingbats up there is toss a couple of grenades in the dorm. They’re no use to anybody—”

“And tomorrow is Friday,” McMurphy says. He won’t let Scanlon change the subject.