McMurphy looks down at Harding a minute, then laps his big hand over the back of a nearby wooden chair, swings it around so the back is facing Harding, and straddles it like hed straddle a tiny horse. Harding hasnt noticed a thing. McMurphy slaps his pockets till he finds his cigarettes, and takes one out and lights it; he holds it out in front of him and frowns at the tip, licks his thumb and finger, and arranges the fire to suit him.
Each man seems unaware of the other. I cant even tell if Hardings noticed McMurphy at all. Hardings got his thin shoulders folded nearly together around himself, like green wings, and hes sitting very straight near the edge of his chair, with his hands trapped between his knees. Hes staring straight ahead, humming to himself, trying to look calm but hes chewing at his cheeks, and this gives him a funny skull grin, not calm at all.
McMurphy puts his cigarette back between his teeth and folds his hands over the wooden chair back and leans his chin on them, squinting one eye against the smoke. He looks at Harding with his other eye a while, then starts talking with that cigarette wagging up and down in his lips.
Well say, buddy, is this the way these leetle meetings usually go?
Usually go? Hardings humming stops. Hes not chewing his cheeks any more but he still stares ahead, past McMurphys shoulder.
Is this the usual pro-cedure for these Group Therpy shindigs? Bunch of chickens at a peckin party?
Hardings head turns with a jerk and his eyes find McMurphy, like its the first time he knows that anybodys sitting in front of him. His face creases in the middle when he bites his cheeks again, and this makes it look like hes grinning. He pulls his shoulders back and scoots to the back of the chair and tries to look relaxed.
A pecking party? I fear your quaint down-home speech is wasted on me, my friend. I have not the slightest inclination what youre talking about.
Why then, Ill just explain it to you. McMurphy raises his voice; though he doesnt look at the other Acutes listening behind him, its them hes talking to. The flock gets sight of a spot of blood on some chicken and they all go to peckin at it, see, till they rip the chicken to shreds, blood and bones and feathers. But usually a couple of the flock gets spotted in the fracas, then its their turn. And a few more gets spots and gets pecked to death, and more and more. Oh, a peckin party can wipe out the whole flock in a matter of a few hours, buddy, I seen it. A mighty awesome sight. The only way to prevent it with chickens is to clip blinders on them. Sos they cant see.
Harding laces his long fingers around a knee and draws the knee toward him, leaning back in the chair. A pecking party. That certainly is a pleasant analogy, my friend.
And thats just exactly what that meeting I just set through reminded me of, buddy, if you want to know the dirty truth. It reminded me of a flock of dirty chickens.
So that makes me the chicken with the spot of blood, friend?
Thats right, buddy.
Theyre still grinning at each other, but their voices have dropped so low and taut I have to sweep over closer to them with my broom to hear. The other Acutes are moving up closer too.
And you want to know somethin else, buddy? You want to know who pecks that first peck?
Harding waits for him to go on.
Its that old nurse, thats who.
Theres a whine of fear over the silence. I hear the machinery in the walls catch and go on. Harding is having a tough time holding his hands still, but he keeps trying to act calm.
So, he says, its as simple as that, as stupidly simple as that. Youre on our ward six hours and have already simplified all the work of Freud, Jung, and Maxwell Jones and summed it up in one analogy: its a peckin party.
Im not talking about Fred Yoong and Maxwell Jones, buddy, Im just talking about that crummy meeting and what that nurse and those other bastards did to you. Did in spades[10].
Did to me?
Thats right, did. Did you every chance they got. Did you coming and did you going. You must of done something to make a passle of enemies here in this place, buddy, because it seems theres sure a passle got it in for you.
Why, this is incredible. You completely disregard, completely overlook and disregard the fact that what the fellows were doing today was for my own benefit? That any question or discussion raised by Miss Ratched or the rest of the staff is done solely for therapeutic reasons? You must not have heard a word of Doctor Spiveys theory of the Therapeutic Community, or not have had the education to comprehend it if you did. Im disappointed in you, my friend, oh, very disappointed. I had judged from our encounter this morning that you were more intelligent an illiterate clod, perhaps, certainly a backwoods braggart with no more sensitivity than a goose, but basically intelligent nevertheless. But, observant and insightful though I usually am, I still make mistakes.
The hell with you, buddy.
Oh, yes; I forgot to add that I noticed your primitive brutality also this morning. Psychopath with definite sadistic tendencies, probably motivated by an unreasoning egomania. Yes. As you see, all these natural talents certainly qualify you as a competent therapist and render you quite capable of criticizing Miss Ratcheds meeting procedure, in spite of the fact that she is a highly regarded psychiatric nurse with twenty years in the field. Yes, with your talent, my friend, you could work subconscious miracles, soothe the aching id[11] and heal the wounded superego[12]. You could probably bring about a cure for the whole ward, Vegetables and all, in six short months, ladies and gentlemen or your money back.
Instead of rising to the argument, McMurphy just keeps on looking at Harding, finally asks in a level voice, And you really think this crap that went on in the meeting today is bringing about some kinda cure, doing some kinda good?
What other reason would we have for submitting ourselves to it, my friend? The staff desires our cure as much as we do. They arent monsters. Miss Ratched may be a strict middle-aged lady, but shes not some kind of giant monster of the poultry clan, bent on sadistically pecking out our eyes. You cant believe that of her, can you?
No, buddy, not that. She aint peckin at your eyes. Thats not what shes peckin at.
Harding flinches, and I see his hands begin to creep out from between his knees like white spiders from between two moss-covered tree limbs, up the limbs toward the joining at the trunk.
Not our eyes? he says. Pray, then, where is Miss Ratched pecking, my friend?
McMurphy grinned. Why, dont you know, buddy?
No, of course I dont know! I mean, if you insi
At your balls, buddy, at your everlovin balls.
The spiders reach the joining at the trunk and settle there, twitching. Harding tries to grin, but his face and lips are so white the grin is lost. He stares at McMurphy. McMurphy takes the cigarette out of his mouth and repeats what he said.
Right at your balls. No, that nurse aint some kinda monster chicken, buddy, what she is is a ball-cutter. Ive seen a thousand of em, old and young, men and women. Seen em all over the country and in the homes people who try to make you weak so they can get you to toe the line, to follow their rules, to live like they want you to. And the best way to do this, to get you to knuckle under, is to weaken you by gettin you where it hurts the worst. You ever been kneed in the nuts in a brawl, buddy? Stops you cold, dont it? Theres nothing worse. It makes you sick, it saps every bit of strength you got. If youre up against a guy who wants to win by making you weaker instead of making himself stronger, then watch for his knee, hes gonna go for your vitals. And thats what that old buzzard is doing, going for your vitals.
Hardings face is still colorless, but hes got control of his hands again; they flip loosely before him, trying to toss off what McMurphy has been saying:
Our dear Miss Ratched? Our sweet, smiling, tender angel of mercy, Mother Ratched, a ball-cutter? Why, friend, thats most unlikely.
Buddy, dont give me that tender little mother crap. She may be a mother, but shes big as a damn barn and tough as knife metal. She fooled me with that kindly little old mother bit for maybe three minutes when I came in this morning, but no longer. I dont think shes really fooled any of you guys for any six months or a year, neither. Hooowee, Ive seen some bitches in my time, but she takes the cake.
A bitch? But a moment ago she was a ball-cutter, then a buzzard or was it a chicken? Your metaphors are bumping into each other, my friend.
The hell with that; shes a bitch and a buzzard and a ball-cutter, and dont kid me, you know what Im talking about.
Hardings face and hands are moving faster than ever now, a speeded film of gestures, grins, grimaces, sneers. The more he tries to stop it, the faster it goes. When he lets his hands and face move like they want to and doesnt try to hold them back, they flow and gesture in a way thats real pretty to watch, but when he worries about them and tries to hold back he becomes a wild, jerky puppet doing a high-strung dance. Everything is moving faster and faster, and his voice is speeding up to match.
Why, see here, my friend Mr. McMurphy, my psychopathic sidekick, our Miss Ratched is a veritable angel of mercy and why just everyone knows it. Shes unselfish as the wind, toiling thanklessly for the good of all, day after day, five long days a week. That takes heart, my friend, heart. In fact, I have been informed by sources I am not at liberty to disclose my sources, but I might say that Martini is in contact with the same people a good part of the time that she even further serves mankind on her weekends off by doing generous volunteer work about town. Preparing a rich array of charity canned goods, cheese for the binding effect, soap and presenting it to some poor young couple having a difficult time financially. His hands flash in the air, molding the picture he is describing. Ah, look: there she is, our nurse. Her gentle knock on the door. The ribboned basket. The young couple overjoyed to the point of speechlessness. The husband openmouthed, the wife weeping openly. She appraises their dwelling. Promises to send them money for scouring powder, yes. She places the basket in the center of the floor. And when our angel leaves throwing kisses, smiling ethereally she is so intoxicated with the sweet milk of human kindness that her deed has generated within her large bosom, that she is beside herself with generosity. Beside herself, do you hear? Pausing at the door, she draws the timid young bride to one side and offers her twenty dollars of her own: Go, you poor unfortunate underfed child, go, and buy yourself a decent dress. I realize your husband cant afford it, but here, take this, and go. And the couple is forever indebted to her benevolence.
Hes been talking faster and faster, the cords stretching out in his neck. When he stops talking, the ward is completely silent. I dont hear anything but a faint reeling rhythm, what I figure is a tape recorder somewhere getting all of this.
Harding looks around, sees everybodys watching him, and he does his best to laugh. A sound comes out of his mouth like a nail being crowbarred out of a plank of green pine; Eee-eee-eee. He cant stop it. He wrings his hands like a fly and clinches his eyes at the awful sound of that squeaking. But he cant stop it. It gets higher and higher until finally, with a suck of breath, he lets his face fall into his waiting hands.
Oh the bitch, the bitch, the bitch, he whispers through his teeth.
McMurphy lights another cigarette and offers it to him; Harding takes it without a word. McMurphy is still watching Hardings face in front of him there, with a kind of puzzled wonder, looking at it like its the first human face he ever laid eyes on. He watches while Hardings twitching and jerking slows down and the face comes up from the hands.
You are right, Harding says, about all of it. He looks up at the other patients who are watching him. No ones ever dared come out and say it before, but theres not a man among us that doesnt think it, that doesnt feel just as you do about her and the whole business feel it somewhere down deep in his scared little soul.
McMurphy frowns and asks, What about that little fart of a doctor? He might be a little slow in the head, but not so much as not to be able to see how shes taken over and what shes doing.
Harding takes a long pull off the cigarette and lets the smoke drift out with his talk. Doctor Spivey is exactly like the rest of us, McMurphy, completely conscious of his inadequacy. Hes a frightened, desperate, ineffectual little rabbit, totally incapable of running this ward without our Miss Ratcheds help, and he knows it. And, worse, she knows he knows it and reminds him every chance she gets. Every time she finds hes made a little slip in the bookwork or in, say, the charting you can just imagine her in there grinding his nose in it.
Thats right, Cheswick says, coming up beside Mc-Murphy, grinds our noses in our mistakes.
Why dont he fire her?
In this hospital, Harding says, the doctor doesnt hold the power of hiring and firing. That power goes to the supervisor, and the supervisor is a woman, a dear old friend of Miss Ratcheds; they were Army nurses together in the thirties. We are victims of a matriarchy here, my friend, and the doctor is just as helpless against it as we are. He knows that all Ratched has to do is pick up that phone you see sitting at her elbow and call the supervisor and mention, oh, say, that the doctor seems to be making a great number of requisitions for Demerol
Hold it, Harding, Im not up on all this shop talk.
Demerol, my friend, is a synthetic opiate, twice as addictive as heroin. Quite common for doctors to be addicted to it.
That little fart? Is he a dope addict?
Im certain I dont know.
Then where does she get off with accusing him of
Oh, youre not paying attention, my friend. She doesnt accuse. She merely needs to insinuate, insinuate anything, dont you see? Didnt you notice today? Shell call a man to the door of the Nurses Station and stand there and ask him about a Kleenex found under his bed. No more, just ask. And hell feel like hes lying to her, whatever answer he gives. If he says he was cleaning a pen with it, shell say, I see, a pen, or if he says he has a cold in his nose, shell say, I see, a cold, and shell nod her neat little gray coiffure and smile her neat little smile and turn and go back into the Nurses Station, leave him standing there wondering just what did he use that Kleenex for.
He starts to tremble again, and his shoulders fold back around him.
No. She doesnt need to accuse. She has a genius for insinuation. Did you ever hear her, in the course of our discussion today, ever once hear her accuse me of anything? Yet it seems I have been accused of a multitude of things, of jealousy and paranoia, of not being man enough to satisfy my wife, of having relations with male friends of mine, of holding my cigarette in an affected manner, even it seems to me accused of having nothing between my legs but a patch of hair and soft and downy and blond hair at that! Ball-cutter? Oh, you underestimate her!