Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           Hegotnohaironhisfaceandnoneonhisheadtospeakof;itlookslikehegluedsomeononcebutitkeptslippingoffandgettinginhiscuffsandhisshirtpocketanddownhiscollar.Maybethat’swhyhekeepshiscollarsotight,tokeepthelittlepiecesofhairfromfallingdowninthere.

           Maybethat’swhyhelaughssomuch,becauseheisn’tabletokeepallthepiecesout.

           Heconductsthesetours—seriouswomeninblazerjackets,noddingtohimashepointsouthowmuchthingshaveimprovedovertheyears.HepointsouttheTV,thebigleatherchairs,thesanitarydrinkingfountains;thentheyallgohavecoffeeintheNurse’sStation.Sometimeshe’llbebyhimselfandjuststandinthemiddleofthedayroomandclaphishands(youcanheartheyarewet),clapthemtwoorthreetimestilltheystick,thenholdthemprayer-liketogetherunderoneofhischinsandstartspinning.Spinroundandaroundthereinthemiddleofthefloor,lookingwildandfranticattheTV,thenewpicturesonthewalls,thesanitarydrinkingfountain.Andlaughing.

           Whatheseesthat’ssofunnyhedon’teverletusinon,andtheonlythingIcanseefunnyishimspinningroundandaroundouttherelikearubbertoy—ifyoupushhimoverhe’sweightedonthebottomandstraightawayrocksbackupright,goestospinningagain.Henever,neverlooksatthemen’sfaces....

           Ten-forty,-forty-five,-fifty,patientsshuttleinandouttoappointmentsinETorOTorPT,orinqueerlittleroomssomewherewherethewallsareneverthesamesizeandthefloorsaren’tlevel.Themachinerysoundsaboutyoureachasteadycruisingspeed.