Chapter 11

           There’slongspells—threedays,years—whenyoucan’tseeathing,knowwhereyouareonlybythespeakersoundingoverheadlikeabellbuoyclanginginthefog.WhenIcansee,theguysareusuallymovingaroundasunconcernedasthoughtheydidn’tnoticesomuchasamistintheair.Ibelievethefogaffectstheirmemorysomewayitdoesn’taffectmine.

           EvenMcMurphydoesn’tseemtoknowhe’sbeenfoggedin.Ifhedoes,hemakessurenottoletonthathe’sbotheredbyit.He’smakingsurenoneofthestaffseeshimbotheredbyanything;heknowsthatthere’snobetterwayintheworldtoaggravatesomebodywho’stryingtomakeithardforyouthanbyactinglikeyou’renotbothered.

           Hekeepsuphishigh-classmannersaroundthenursesandtheblackboysinspiteofanythingtheymightsaytohim,inspiteofeverytricktheypulltogethimtolosehistemper.Acoupleoftimessomestupidrulegetshimmad,buthejustmakeshimselfactmorepoliteandmannerlythanevertillhebeginstoseehowfunnythewholethingis—therules,thedisapprovinglookstheyusetoenforcetherules,thewaysoftalkingtoyoulikeyou’renothingbutathree-year-old—andwhenheseeshowfunnyitishegoestolaughing,andthisaggravatesthemnoend.He’ssafeaslongashecanlaugh,hethinks,anditworksprettyfair.Justoncehelosescontrolandshowshe’smad,andthenit’snotbecauseoftheblackboysortheBigNurseandsomethingtheydid,butit’sbecauseofthepatients,andsomethingtheydidn’tdo.