Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           Themachineryinthewallswhistles,sighs,dropsintoalowergear.

           Then,tillnight,weeatandshowerandgobacktositinthedayroom.OldBlastic,theoldestVegetable,isholdinghisstomachandmoaning.George(theblackboyscallhimRuba-dub)iswashinghishandsinthedrinkingfountain.TheAcutessitandplaycardsandworkatgettingapictureonourTVsetbycarryingtheseteveryplacethecordwillreach,insearchofagoodbeam.

           Thespeakersintheceilingarestillmakingmusic.Themusicfromthespeakersisn’ttransmittedinonaradiobeamiswhythemachinerydon’tinterfere.ThemusiccomesoffalongtapefromtheNurses’Station,atapeweallknowsowellbyheartthattheredon’tanyofusconsciouslyhearitexceptnewmenlikeMcMurphy.Hehasn’tgotusedtoityet.He’sdealingblackjackforcigarettes,andthespeaker’srightoverthecardtable.He’spulledhiscapwayforwardtillhehastoleanhisheadbackandsquintfromunderthebrimtoseehiscards.HeholdsacigarettebetweenhisteethandtalksarounditlikeastockauctioneerIsawonceinacattleauctioninTheDalles.

           "...hey-ya,hey-ya,comeon,comeon,"hesays,high,fast;"I’mwaitin’onyousuckers,youhitoryousit.Hit,yousay?wellwellwellandwithakinguptheboywantsahit.Whaddayaknow.SoComin’atyouandtoobad,alittleladyfortheladandhe’soverthewallanddowntheroad,upthehillanddroppedhisload.Comin’atyou,Scanlon,andIwishsomeidiotinthatnurses’hothousewouldturndownthatfriggingmusic!Hooee!Doesthatthingplaynightandday,Harding?Ineverheardsuchadrivingracketinmylife."

           Hardinggiveshimablanklook."Exactlywhatnoiseisityou’rereferringto,Mr.McMurphy?"