Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           YouhavetoknowaboutBillyBibbit:inspiteofhimhavingwrinklesinhisfaceandspecksofgrayinhishair,hestilllookedlikeakid—likeajug-earedandfreckled-facedandbuck-toothedkidwhistlingbarefootacrossoneofthosecalendars,withastringofbullheadsdraggingbehindhiminthedust—andyethewasnothinglikethis.Youwerealwayssurprisedtofindwhenhestoodupnexttooneoftheothermenhewasjustastallasanyone,andthathewasn’tjug-earedorfreckledorbuck-toothedatallunderacloserlook,andwas,infact,thirty-someyearsold.

           Iheardhimgivehisageonlyonetime,overheardhim,totellthetruth,whenhewastalkingtohismotherdowninthelobby.Shewasreceptionistdownthere,asolid,well-packedladywithhairrevolvingfromblondtobluetoblackandbacktoblondagaineveryfewmonths,aneighboroftheBigNurse’s,fromwhatI’dheard,andadearpersonalfriend.Wheneverwe’dgoonsomeactivityBillywouldalwaysbeobligedtostopandleanascarletcheekoverthatdeskforhertodabakisson.ItembarrassedtherestofusasmuchasitdidBilly,andforthatreasonnobodyeverteasedhimaboutit,notevenMcMurphy.