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The
Big
Nurse
is
able
to
set
the
wall
clock
at
whatever
speed
she
wants
by
just
turning
one
of
those
dials
in
the
steel
door
;
she
takes
a
notion
to
hurry
things
up
,
she
turns
the
speed
up
,
and
those
hands
whip
around
that
disk
like
spokes
in
a
wheel
.
The
scene
in
the
picture-screen
windows
goes
through
rapid
changes
of
light
to
show
morning
,
noon
,
and
night
--
throb
off
and
on
furiously
with
day
and
dark
,
and
everybody
is
driven
like
mad
to
keep
up
with
that
passing
of
fake
time
;
awful
scramble
of
shaves
and
breakfasts
and
appointments
and
lunches
and
medications
and
ten
minutes
of
night
so
you
barely
get
your
eyes
closed
before
the
dorm
light
's
screaming
at
you
to
get
up
and
start
the
scramble
again
,
go
like
a
sonofabitch
this
way
,
going
through
the
full
schedule
of
a
day
maybe
twenty
times
an
hour
,
till
the
Big
Nurse
sees
everybody
is
right
up
to
the
breaking
point
,
and
she
slacks
off
on
the
throttle
,
eases
off
the
pace
on
that
clock-dial
,
like
some
kid
been
fooling
with
the
moving-picture
projection
machine
and
finally
got
tired
watching
the
film
run
at
ten
times
its
natural
speed
,
got
bored
with
all
that
silly
scampering
and
insect
squeak
of
talk
and
turned
it
back
to
normal
.
She
's
given
to
turning
up
the
speed
this
way
on
days
like
,
say
,
when
you
got
somebody
to
visit
you
or
when
the
VFW
brings
down
a
smoker
show
from
Portland
--
times
like
that
,
times
you
'd
like
to
hold
and
have
stretch
out
.
That
's
when
she
speeds
things
up
.
But
generally
it
's
the
other
way
,
the
slow
way
.
She
'll
turn
that
dial
to
a
dead
stop
and
freeze
the
sun
there
on
the
screen
so
it
do
n't
move
a
scant
hair
for
weeks
,
so
not
a
leaf
on
a
tree
or
a
blade
of
grass
in
the
pasture
shimmers
.
The
clock
hands
hang
at
two
minutes
to
three
and
she
's
liable
to
let
them
hang
there
till
we
rust
.
You
sit
solid
and
you
ca
n't
budge
,
you
ca
n't
walk
or
move
to
relieve
the
strain
of
sitting
,
you
ca
n't
swallow
and
you
ca
n't
breathe
.
The
only
thing
you
can
move
is
your
eyes
and
there
's
nothing
to
see
but
petrified
Acutes
across
the
room
waiting
on
one
another
to
decide
whose
play
it
is
.
The
old
Chronic
next
to
me
has
been
dead
six
days
,
and
he
's
rotting
to
the
chair
.
And
instead
of
fog
sometimes
she
'll
let
a
clear
chemical
gas
in
through
the
vents
,
and
the
whole
ward
is
set
solid
when
the
gas
changes
into
plastic
.
Lord
knows
how
long
we
hang
this
way
.
Then
,
gradually
,
she
'll
ease
the
dial
up
a
degree
,
and
that
's
worse
yet
.
I
can
take
hanging
dead
still
better
'n
I
can
take
that
sirup-slow
hand
of
Scanlon
across
the
room
,
taking
three
days
to
lay
down
a
card
.
My
lungs
pull
for
the
thick
plastic
air
like
getting
it
through
a
pinhole
.
I
try
to
go
to
the
latrine
and
I
feel
buried
under
a
ton
of
sand
,
squeezing
my
bladder
till
green
sparks
flash
and
buzz
across
my
forehead
.
I
strain
with
every
muscle
and
bone
to
get
out
of
that
chair
and
go
to
the
latrine
,
work
to
get
up
till
my
arms
and
legs
are
all
ashake
and
my
teeth
hurt
.
I
pull
and
pull
and
all
I
gain
is
maybe
a
quarter-inch
off
the
leather
seat
.
So
I
fall
back
and
give
up
and
let
the
pee
pour
out
,
activating
a
hot
salt
wire
down
my
left
leg
that
sets
off
humiliating
alarms
,
sirens
,
spotlights
,
everybody
up
yelling
and
running
around
and
the
big
black
boys
knocking
the
crowd
aside
right
and
left
as
the
both
of
them
rush
headlong
at
me
,
waving
awful
mops
of
wet
copper
wires
cracking
and
spitting
as
they
short
with
the
water
.
About
the
only
time
we
get
any
let-up
from
this
time
control
is
in
the
fog
;
then
time
does
n't
mean
anything
.
It
's
lost
in
the
fog
,
like
everything
else
.
(
They
have
n't
really
fogged
the
place
full
force
all
day
today
,
not
since
McMurphy
came
in
.
I
bet
he
'd
yell
like
a
bull
if
they
fogged
it
.
)
When
nothing
else
is
going
on
,
you
usually
got
the
fog
or
the
time
control
to
contend
with
,
but
today
something
's
happened
:
there
has
n't
been
any
of
these
things
worked
on
us
all
day
,
not
since
shaving
.
This
afternoon
everything
is
matching
up
.
When
the
swing
shift
comes
on
duty
the
clock
says
four-thirty
,
just
like
it
should
.
The
Big
Nurse
dismisses
the
black
boys
and
takes
a
last
look
around
the
ward
.
She
slides
a
long
silver
hatpin
out
of
the
iron-blue
knot
of
hair
back
of
her
head
,
takes
off
her
white
cap
and
sets
it
careful
in
a
cardboard
box
(
there
's
mothballs
in
that
box
)
,
and
drives
the
hatpin
back
in
the
hair
with
a
stab
of
her
hand
.
Behind
the
glass
I
see
her
tell
everyone
good
evening
.
She
hands
the
little
birthmarked
swing-shift
nurse
a
note
;
then
her
hand
reaches
out
to
the
control
panel
in
the
steel
door
,
clacks
on
the
speaker
in
the
day
room
:
"
Good
evening
,
boys
.
Behave
yourselves
.
"
And
turns
the
music
up
louder
than
ever
.
She
rubs
the
inside
of
her
wrist
across
her
window
;
a
disgusted
look
shows
the
fat
black
boy
who
just
reported
on
duty
that
he
better
get
to
cleaning
it
,
and
he
's
at
the
glass
with
a
paper
towel
before
she
's
so
much
as
locked
the
ward
door
behind
her
.
