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There
was
times
that
week
when
I
'd
hear
that
full-throttled
laugh
,
watch
him
scratching
his
belly
and
stretching
and
yawning
and
leaning
back
to
wink
at
whoever
he
was
joking
with
,
everything
coming
to
him
just
as
natural
as
drawing
breath
,
and
I
'd
quit
worrying
about
the
Big
Nurse
and
the
Combine
behind
her
.
I
'd
think
he
was
strong
enough
being
his
own
self
that
he
would
never
back
down
the
way
she
was
hoping
he
would
.
I
'd
think
,
maybe
he
truly
is
something
extraordinary
.
He
's
what
he
is
,
that
's
it
.
Maybe
that
makes
him
strong
enough
,
being
what
he
is
.
The
Combine
has
n't
got
to
him
in
all
these
years
;
what
makes
that
nurse
think
she
's
gon
na
be
able
to
do
it
in
a
few
weeks
?
He
's
not
gon
na
let
them
twist
him
and
manufacture
him
.
And
later
,
hiding
in
the
latrine
from
the
black
boys
,
I
'd
take
a
look
at
my
own
self
in
the
mirror
and
wonder
how
it
was
possible
that
anybody
could
manage
such
an
enormous
thing
as
being
what
he
was
.
There
'd
be
my
face
in
the
mirror
,
dark
and
hard
with
big
,
high
cheekbones
like
the
cheek
underneath
them
had
been
hacked
out
with
a
hatchet
,
eyes
all
black
and
hard
and
mean-looking
,
just
like
Papa
's
eyes
or
the
eyes
of
all
those
tough
,
mean-looking
Indians
you
see
on
TV
,
and
I
'd
think
,
That
ai
n't
me
,
that
ai
n't
my
face
.
It
was
n't
even
me
when
I
was
trying
to
be
that
face
.
I
was
n't
even
really
me
then
;
I
was
just
being
the
way
I
looked
,
the
way
people
wanted
.
It
do
n't
seem
like
I
ever
have
been
me
.
How
can
McMurphy
be
what
he
is
?
I
was
seeing
him
different
than
when
he
first
came
in
;
I
was
seeing
more
to
him
than
just
big
hands
and
red
sideburns
and
a
broken-nosed
grin
.
I
'd
see
him
do
things
that
did
n't
fit
with
his
face
or
hands
,
things
like
painting
a
picture
at
OT
with
real
paints
on
a
blank
paper
with
no
lines
or
numbers
anywhere
on
it
to
tell
him
where
to
paint
,
or
like
writing
letters
to
somebody
in
a
beautiful
flowing
hand
.
How
could
a
man
who
looked
like
him
paint
pictures
or
write
letters
to
people
,
or
be
upset
and
worried
like
I
saw
him
once
when
he
got
a
letter
back
?
These
were
the
kind
of
things
you
expected
from
Billy
Bibbit
or
Harding
.
Harding
had
hands
that
looked
like
they
should
have
done
paintings
,
though
they
never
did
;
Harding
trapped
his
hands
and
forced
them
to
work
sawing
planks
for
doghouses
.
McMurphy
was
n't
like
that
.
He
had
n't
let
what
he
looked
like
run
his
life
one
way
or
the
other
,
any
more
than
he
'd
let
the
Combine
mill
him
into
fitting
where
they
wanted
him
to
fit
.
I
was
seeing
lots
of
things
different
.
I
figured
the
fog
machine
had
broke
down
in
the
walls
when
they
turned
it
up
too
high
for
that
meeting
on
Friday
,
so
now
they
were
n't
able
to
circulate
fog
and
gas
and
foul
up
the
way
things
looked
.
For
the
first
time
in
years
I
was
seeing
people
with
none
of
that
black
outline
they
used
to
have
,
and
one
night
I
was
even
able
to
see
out
the
windows
.
Like
I
explained
,
most
nights
before
they
ran
me
to
bed
they
gave
me
this
pill
,
knocked
me
out
and
kept
me
out
.
Or
if
something
went
haywire
with
the
dose
and
I
woke
up
,
my
eyes
were
all
crusted
over
and
the
dorm
was
full
of
smoke
,
wires
in
the
walls
loaded
to
the
limit
,
twisting
and
sparking
death
and
hate
in
the
air
--
all
too
much
for
me
to
take
so
I
'd
ram
my
head
under
the
pillow
and
try
to
get
back
to
sleep
.
Every
time
I
peeked
back
out
there
would
be
the
smell
of
burning
hair
and
a
sound
like
sidemeat
on
a
hot
griddle
.
But
this
one
night
,
a
few
nights
after
the
big
meeting
,
I
woke
up
and
the
dorm
was
clean
and
silent
;
except
for
the
soft
breathing
of
the
men
and
the
stuff
rattling
around
loose
under
the
brittle
ribs
of
the
two
old
Vegetables
,
it
was
dead
quiet
.
A
window
was
up
,
and
the
air
in
the
dorm
was
clear
and
had
a
taste
to
it
made
me
feel
kind
of
giddy
and
drunk
,
gave
me
this
sudden
yen
to
get
up
out
of
bed
and
do
something
.
I
slid
from
between
the
sheets
and
walked
barefoot
across
the
cold
tile
between
the
beds
.
I
felt
the
tile
with
my
feet
and
wondered
how
many
times
,
how
many
thousand
times
,
had
I
run
a
mop
over
this
same
tile
floor
and
never
felt
it
at
all
.
That
mopping
seemed
like
a
dream
to
me
,
like
I
could
n't
exactly
believe
all
those
years
of
it
had
really
happened
.
Only
that
cold
linoleum
under
my
feet
was
real
right
then
,
only
that
moment
.
I
walked
among
the
guys
heaped
in
long
white
rows
like
snowbanks
,
careful
not
to
bump
into
somebody
,
till
I
came
to
the
wall
with
the
windows
.
I
walked
down
the
windows
to
one
where
the
shade
popped
softly
in
and
out
with
the
breeze
,
and
I
pressed
my
forehead
up
against
the
mesh
.
The
wire
was
cold
and
sharp
,
and
I
rolled
my
head
against
it
from
side
to
side
to
feel
it
with
my
cheeks
,
and
I
smelled
the
breeze
.
It
's
fall
coming
,
I
thought
,
I
can
smell
that
sour-molasses
smell
of
silage
,
clanging
the
air
like
a
bell
--
smell
somebody
's
been
burning
oak
leaves
,
left
them
to
smolder
overnight
because
they
're
too
green
.
