One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

by Ken Kesey

“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?”

“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.”

It’s too late to stop it now. McMurphy did something to it that first day, put some kind of hex on it with his hand so it won’t act like I order it. There’s no sense in it, any fool can see; I wouldn’t do it on my own. Just by the way the nurse is staring at me with her mouth empty of words I can see I’m in for trouble, but I can’t stop it. McMurphy’s got hidden wires hooked to it, lifting it slow just to get me out of the fog and into the open where I’m fair game. He’s doing it, wires … No. That’s not the truth. I lifted it myself. McMurphy whoops and drags me standing, pounding my back. “Twenty-one! The Chief’s vote makes it twenty-one! And by God if that ain’t a majority I’ll eat my hat!” “Yippee,” Cheswick yells. The other Acutes are coming across toward me.

“The meeting was closed,” she says. Her smile is still there, but the back of her neck as she walks out of the day room and into the Nurses’ Station, is red and swelling like she’ll blow apart any second. But she don’t blow up, not right off, not until about an hour later. Behind the glass her smile is twisted and queer, like we’ve never seen before. She just sits. I can see her shoulders rise and fall as she breathes.

he’d better help the men with the housework. He ignores her. “I said, Mr. McMurphy, that you are supposed to be working during these hours.” Her voice has a tight whine like an electric saw ripping through pine. “Mr. McMurphy, I’m warning you!”

“You’re committed, you realize. You are … under the jurisdiction of me … the staff.” She’s holding up a fist, all those red-orange fingernails burning into her palm. “Under jurisdiction and control—” Harding shuts off the buffer, and leaves it in the hall, and goes pulls him a chair up alongside McMurphy and sits down and lights him a cigarette too. “Mr. Harding! You return to your scheduled duties!” I think how her voice sounds like it hit a nail, and this strikes me so funny I almost laugh.

Then Cheswick goes and gets him a chair, and then Billy Bibbit goes, and then Scanlon and then Fredrickson and Sefelt, and then we all put down our mops and brooms and scouring rags and we all go pull us chairs up. “You men—Stop this. Stop!“ And we’re all sitting there lined up in front of that blanked-out TV set, watching the gray screen just like we could see the baseball game clear as day, and she’s ranting and screaming behind us. If somebody’d of come in and took a look, men watching a blank TV, a fifty-year-old woman hollering and squealing at the back of their heads about discipline and order and recriminations, they’d of thought the whole bunch was crazy as loons.

The residents, the black boys, all the little nurses, they’re watching her too, waiting for her to go down the hall where it’s time for the meeting she herself called, and waiting to see how she’ll act now that it’s known she can be made to lose control.

I notice all the machinery in the wall is quiet, like it’s still waiting for her to move. There’s no more fog any place. All of a sudden I remember I’m supposed to clean the staff room. I always go down and clean the staff room during these meetings they have, been doing it for years. But now I’m too scared to get out of my chair. The staff always let me clean the room because they didn’t think I could hear, but now that they saw me lift my hand when McMurphy told me to, won’t they know I can hear? Won’t they figure I been hearing all these years, listening to secrets meant only for their ears? What’ll they do to me in that staff room if they know that?

I been in meetings where they kept talking about a patient so long that the patient materialized in the flesh, nude on the coffee table in front of them, vulnerable to any fiendish notion they took; they’d have him smeared around in an awful mess before they were finished.

She lets me slip through the door and stabs me again with both eyes as I go past her, closes that door when I’m in and locks it, and pivots around and glares at me some more. I know she’s suspicious. I thought she might be too upset by the way McMurphy defied her to pay any attention to me, but she don’t look shook at all. She’s clearheaded and wondering now just how did Mr. Bromden hear that Acute McMurphy asking him to raise his hand on that vote? She’s wondering how did he know to lay down his mop and go sit with the Acutes in front of that TV set? None of the other Chronics did that. She’s wondering if it isn’t time we did some checking on our Mr. Chief Bromden.

He smiles around at the residents sipping coffee. He’s trying not to look at the Big Nurse. She’s sitting there so silent it makes him nervous and fidgety. He grabs out his glasses and puts them on for a look at his watch, goes to winding it while he talks. “Fifteen after. It’s past time we started. Now. Miss Ratched, as most of you know, called this get-together. She phoned me before the Therapeutic Community meeting and said that in her opinion McMurphy was due to constitute a disturbance on the ward. Ever so intuitive, considering what went on a few minutes ago, don’t you think?”

“Keep in mind that this man performed violent acts for the sole purpose of getting away from the work farm and into the comparative luxury of this hospital.” “Planned violent acts,” the first boy says.

And the third boy mutters, “Of course, the very nature of this plan could indicate that he is simply a shrewd con man, and not mentally ill at all.”

This man is a Napoleon, a Genghis Khan, Attila the Hun.”

“Yes, Disturbed Ward for ol’ Red McMurphy, I’m afraid. You know what I think, observing him these few days?”

“Negative Oedipal.” They all congratulate him. “Yes, I think there is a lot pointing to it,” he says. “But whatever the final diagnosis is, we must keep one thing in mind: we’re not dealing with an ordinary man.”

I’ve seen her send men half the size of McMurphy up to Disturbed for no more reason than there was a chance they might spit on somebody; now she’s got this bull of a man who’s bucked her and everybody else on the staff, a guy she all but said was on his way off the ward earlier this afternoon, and she says no. “No. I don’t agree. Not at all.” She smiles around at all of them. “I don’t agree that he should be sent up to Disturbed, which would simply be an easy way of passing our problem on to another ward, and I don’t agree that he is some kind of extraordinary being—some kind of ‘super’ psychopath.” She waits but nobody is about to disagree. For the first time she takes a sip of her coffee; the cup comes away from her mouth with that red-orange color on it. I stare at the rim of the cup in spite of myself; she couldn’t be wearing lipstick that color.

She takes another sip and sets the cup on the table; the whack of it sounds like a gavel; all three residents sit bold upright.

“No. He isn’t extraordinary. He is simply a man and no more, and is subject to all the fears and all the cowardice and all the timidity that any other man is subject to. Given a few more days, I have a very strong feeling that he will prove this, to us as well as the rest of the patients.

“If we just wait for a while, our hero will—what is it you college boys say?—give up his bit? Yes?” “But that may take weeks—” the boy starts. “We have weeks,” she says. She stands up, looking more pleased with herself than I’ve seen her look since McMurphy came to trouble her a week ago. “We have weeks, or months, or even years if need be. Keep in mind that Mr. McMurphy is committed. The length of time he spends in this hospital is entirely up to us. Now, if there is nothing else …”

but that didn’t stop him from going right ahead and acting like he always had, hollering up and down the hall, laughing at the black boys, frustrating the whole staff, even going so far as to step up to the Big Nurse in the hall one time and ask her, if she didn’t mind tellin’, just what was the actual inch-by-inch measurement on them great big ol’ breasts that she did her best to conceal but never could. She walked right on past, ignoring him just like she chose to ignore the way nature had tagged her with those outsized badges of femininity, just like she was above him, and sex, and everything else that’s weak and of the flesh.

Once he wrote something on a slip of paper, strange writing that looked like a foreign alphabet, and stuck it up under one of those toilet bowl rims with a wad of gum; when she came to that toilet with her mirror she gave a short gasp at what she read reflected and dropped her mirror in the toilet. But she didn’t lose control. That doll’s face and that doll’s smile were forged in confidence. She stood up from the toilet bowl and gave him a look that would peel paint and told him it was his job to make the latrine cleaner, not dirtier.

As soon as it came time in the afternoon when the schedule called for house duties, it was also time for the baseball games to be on TV, and everybody went and lined the chairs up in front of the set and they didn’t move out of them until dinner. It didn’t make any difference that the power was shut off in the Nurses’ Station and we couldn’t see a thing but that blank gray screen, because McMurphy’d entertain us for hours, sit and talk and tell all kinds of stories,

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.

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 ain’t me, that ain’t my face. It wasn’t even me when I was trying to be that face. I wasn’t even really me then; I was just being the way I looked, the way people wanted. It don’t seem like I ever have been me. How can McMurphy be what he is?

I’d see him do things that didn’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.

I saw it was a dog, a young, gangly mongrel slipped off from home to find out about things went on after dark.

The doctor tilted his head so he could look at the nurse through his glasses. He hadn’t heard about her taking over the extra cigarettes to stop the gambling. “What’s this about cigarettes, Miss Ratched? I don’t believe I’ve heard—” “I feel, Doctor, that three and four and sometimes five packages of cigarettes a day are entirely too many for a man to smoke. That is what seemed to be happening last week—after Mr. McMurphy’s arrival—and that is why I thought it might be best to impound the cartons the men purchased at the canteen and allow each man only one pack a day.”

McMurphy was getting a lot of kick out of all the ruckus he was raising, and I think was a little surprised that he wasn’t getting a lot of pressure from the staff too, especially surprised that the Big Nurse wasn’t having any more to say to him than she was.

Then he learned why the Big Nurse was so sure of her hand. Wednesday’s the day they pack everybody up who hasn’t got some kind of rot and move to the swimming pool, whether we want to go or not.

used to be real brave around water when I was a kid on the Columbia; I’d walk the scaffolding around the falls with all the other men, scrambling around with water roaring green and white all around me and the mist making rainbows, without even any hobnails like the men wore. But when I saw my Papa start getting scared of things, I got scared too, got so I couldn’t even stand a shallow pool.

The lifeguard was standing on the edge of the pool; he had a whistle and a T-shirt on with his ward number on it. He and McMurphy had got to talking about the difference between hospital and jail, and McMurphy was saying how much better the hospital was. The lifeguard wasn’t so sure. I heard him tell McMurphy that, for one thing, being committed ain’t like being sentenced. “You’re sentenced in a jail, and you got a date ahead of you when you know you’re gonna be turned loose,” he said.

That’s why he was up on Disturbed; whenever he wasn’t lifeguarding he was liable to do something like that.

He put his knuckles on the wet tile, went into a three-point stance to test how the arm was coming along. McMurphy watched him a minute, then asked how long he’d been waiting for them to tell him his arm was healed so he could leave the hospital. The lifeguard raised up slowly and rubbed his arm. He acted hurt that McMurphy had asked that, like he thought he was being accused of being soft and licking his wounds. “I’m committed,” he said, “I’d of left here before now if it was up to me. Maybe I couldn’t play first string, with this bum arm, but I could of folded towels, couldn’t I? I could of done something. That nurse on my ward, she keeps telling the doctor I ain’t ready. Not even to fold towels in the crummy old locker room, I ain’t ready.”

McMurphy watched them lift him standing again. “What the devil is he?” he asked. “He has hydrocephalus,” Harding told him; “Some manner of lymph disorder, I believe. Head fills up with liquid. Give us a hand helping him stand up.”

I could see it coming. The next day he surprised everybody on the ward by getting up early and polishing that latrine till it sparkled, and then went to work on the hall floors when the black boys asked him to. Surprised everybody but the Big Nurse; she acted like it was nothing surprising at all. And that afternoon in the meeting when Cheswick said that everybody’d agreed that there should be some kind of showdown on the cigarette situation, saying, “I ain’t no little kid to have cigarettes kept from me like cookies! We want something done about it, ain’t that right, Mack?” and waited for McMurphy to back him up, all he got was silence. He looked over at McMurphy’s corner. Everybody did. McMurphy was there, studying the deck of cards that slid in and out of sight in his hands. He didn’t even look up. It was awfully quiet; there was just that slap of greasy cards and Cheswick’s heavy breathing. “I

“I want something done! Hear me? I want something done! Something! Something! Some—” The two big black boys clamped his arms from behind, and the least one threw a strap around him. He sagged like he’d been punctured, and the two big ones dragged him up to Disturbed; you could hear the soggy bounce of him going up the steps. When they came back and sat down, the Big Nurse turned to the line of Acutes across the room and looked at them. Nothing had been said since Cheswick left. “Is there any more discussion,” she said, “on the rationing of cigarettes?”

After McMurphy doesn’t stand up for us any longer, some of the Acutes talk and say he’s still outsmarting the Big Nurse, say that he got word she was about to send him to Disturbed and decided to toe the line a while, not give her any reason. Others figure he’s letting her relax, then he’s going to spring something new on her, something wilder and more ornery than ever. You can hear them talking in groups, wondering. But me, I know why. I heard him talk to the lifeguard. He’s finally getting cagey,

Then one morning all the Acutes know too, know his real reason for backing down and that the reasons they been making up were just lies to kid themselves. He never says a thing about the talk he had with the lifeguard, but they know. I figure the nurse broadcast this during the night along all the little lines in the dorm floor, because they know all at once. I can tell by the way they look at McMurphy that morning when he comes in to the day room. Not looking like they’re mad with him, or even disappointed, because they can understand as well as I can that the only way he’s going to get the Big Nurse to lift his commitment is by acting like she wants, but still looking at him like they wished things didn’t have to be this way.

Even Cheswick could understand it and didn’t hold anything against McMurphy for not going ahead and making a big fuss over the cigarettes. He came back down from Disturbed on the same day that the nurse broadcast the information to the beds, and he told McMurphy himself that he could understand how he acted and that it was surely the sharpest thing to do, considering, and that if he’d thought about Mack being committed he’d never have put him on the spot like he had the other day. He told McMurphy this while we were all being taken over to the swimming pool. But just as soon as we got to the pool he said he did wish something mighta been done, though, and dove into the water. And got his fingers stuck some way in the grate that’s over the drain at the bottom of the pool, and neither the big lifeguard nor McMurphy nor the two black boys could pry him loose, and by the time they got a screwdriver and undid the grate and brought Cheswick up, with the grate still clutched by his chubby pink and blue fingers, he was drowned.