Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           She’sgiventoturningupthespeedthiswayondayslike,say,whenyougotsomebodytovisityouorwhentheVFWbringsdownasmokershowfromPortland—timeslikethat,timesyou’dliketoholdandhavestretchout.That’swhenshespeedsthingsup.

           Butgenerallyit’stheotherway,theslowway.She’llturnthatdialtoadeadstopandfreezethesunthereonthescreensoitdon’tmoveascanthairforweeks,sonotaleafonatreeorabladeofgrassinthepastureshimmers.Theclockhandshangattwominutestothreeandshe’sliabletoletthemhangtheretillwerust.Yousitsolidandyoucan’tbudge,youcan’twalkormovetorelievethestrainofsitting,youcan’tswallowandyoucan’tbreathe.Theonlythingyoucanmoveisyoureyesandthere’snothingtoseebutpetrifiedAcutesacrosstheroomwaitingononeanothertodecidewhoseplayitis.TheoldChronicnexttomehasbeendeadsixdays,andhe’srottingtothechair.Andinsteadoffogsometimesshe’llletaclearchemicalgasinthroughthevents,andthewholewardissetsolidwhenthegaschangesintoplastic.

           Lordknowshowlongwehangthisway.

           Then,gradually,she’lleasethedialupadegree,andthat’sworseyet.Icantakehangingdeadstillbetter’nIcantakethatsirup-slowhandofScanlonacrosstheroom,takingthreedaystolaydownacard.Mylungspullforthethickplasticairlikegettingitthroughapinhole.ItrytogotothelatrineandIfeelburiedunderatonofsand,squeezingmybladdertillgreensparksflashandbuzzacrossmyforehead.

           Istrainwitheverymuscleandbonetogetoutofthatchairandgotothelatrine,worktogetuptillmyarmsandlegsareallashakeandmyteethhurt.