Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           "Jim,you’reforty-fiveyearsold...")whenIhappenedtocatchalookatMcMurphysittinginhiscorner.Hewasn’tfiddlingwithadeckofcardsordozingintoamagazinelikehehadbeenduringallthemeetingsthelasttwoweeks.Andhewasn’tsloucheddown.Hewassittingupstiffinhischairwithaflushed,recklesslookonhisfaceashelookedbackandforthfromSefelttotheBigNurse.AsIwatched,theringingwenthigher.Hiseyeswerebluestripesunderthosewhiteeyebrows,andtheyshotbackandforthjustthewayhewatchedcardsturninguparoundapokertable.IwascertainthatanyminutehewasgoingtodosomecrazythingtogethimuponDisturbedforsure.I’dseenthesamelookonotherguysbeforethey’dclimbedalloverablackboy.Igrippeddownonthearmofmychairandwaited,scareditwouldhappen,and,Ibegantorealize,justalittlescareditwouldn’t.

           HekeptquietandwatchedtilltheywerefinishedwithSefelt;thenheswunghalfaroundinhischairandwatchedwhileFredrickson,tryingsomewaytogetbackatthemforthewaytheyhadgrilledhisfriend,gripedforafewloudminutesaboutthecigarettesbeingkeptintheNurses’Station.Fredricksontalkedhimselfoutandfinallyflushedandapologizedlikealwaysandsatbackdown.McMurphystillhadn’tmadeanykindofmove.IeasedupwhereI’dbeengrippingthearmofthechair,beginningtothinkI’dbeenwrong.

           Therewasjustacoupleofminutesleftinthemeeting.