One flew over cuckoo's nest

It’s the doctor who starts things off. “Now, people, if we can get things rolling?”

He smiles around at the residents sipping coffee. He’s trying not to look at the Big Nurse. She’s sitting there so silent it makes him nervous and fidgety. He grabs out his glasses and puts them on for a look at his watch, goes to winding it while he talks.

“Fifteen after. It’s past time we started. Now. Miss Ratched, as most of you know, called this get-together. She phoned me before the Therapeutic Community meeting and said that in her opinion McMurphy was due to constitute a disturbance on the ward. Ever so intuitive, considering what went on a few minutes ago, don’t you think?”

He stops winding his watch on account of it’s tight enough another twist is going to spray it all over the place, and he sits there smiling at it, drumming the back of his hand with pink little fingers, waiting. Usually at about this point in the meeting she’ll take over, but she doesn’t say anything.

“After today,” the doctor goes on, “no one can say that this is an ordinary man we’re dealing with. No, certainly not. And he is a disturbing factor, that’s obvious. So — ah — as I see it, our course in this discussion is to decide what action to take in dealing with him. I believe the nurse called this meeting — correct me if I’m off base here, Miss Ratched — to talk the situation out and unify the staff’s opinion of what should be done about Mr. McMurphy?”

He gives her a pleading look, but she still doesn’t say anything. She’s lifted her face toward the ceiling, checking for dirt most likely, and doesn’t appear to have heard a thing he’s been saying.

The doctor turns to the line of residents across the room; all of them got the same leg crossed and coffee cup on the same knee. “You fellows,” the doctor says, “I realize you haven’t had adequate time to arrive at a proper diagnosis of the patient, but you have had a chance at observing him in action. What do you think?”

The question pops their heads up. Cleverly, he’s put them on the carpet too. They all look from him to the Big Nurse. Some way she has regained all her old power in a few short minutes. Just sitting there, smiling up at the ceiling and not saying anything, she has taken control again and made everyone aware that she’s the force in here to be dealt with. If these boys don’t play it just right they’re liable to finish their training up in Portland at the alky hospital. They begin to fidget around like the doctor.

“He’s quite a disturbing influence, all right.” The first boy plays it safe.

They all sip their coffee and think about that. Then the next one says, “And he could constitute an actual danger.”

“That’s true, that’s true,” the doctor says.

The boy thinks he may have found the key and goes on. “Quite a danger, in fact,” he says and moves forward in his chair. “Keep in mind that this man performed violent acts for the sole purpose of getting away from the work farm and into the comparative luxury of this hospital.”

“Planned violent acts,” the first boy says.

And the third boy mutters, “Of course, the very nature of this plan could indicate that he is simply a shrewd con man, and not mentally ill at all.”

He glances around to see how this strikes her and sees she still hasn’t moved or given any sign. But the rest of the staff sits there glaring at him like he’s said some awful vulgar thing. He sees how he’s stepped way out of bounds and tries to bring it off as a joke by giggling and adding, “You know, like ‘He Who Marches Out Of Step Hears Another Drum’ ” — but it’s too late. The first resident turns on him after setting down his cup of coffee and reaching in his pocket for a pipe big as your fist.

“Frankly, Alvin,” he says to the third boy, “I’m disappointed in you. Even if one hadn’t read his history all one should need to do is pay attention to his behavior on the ward to realize how absurd the suggestion is. This man is not only very very sick, but I believe he is definitely a Potential Assaultive. I think that is what Miss Ratched was suspecting when she called this meeting. Don’t you recognize the arch type of psychopath? I’ve never heard of a clearer case. This man is a Napoleon, a Genghis Khan, Attila the Hun.”

Another one joins in. He remembers the nurse’s comments about Disturbed. “Robert’s right, Alvin. Didn’t you see the way the man acted out there today? When one of his schemes was thwarted he was up out of his chair, on the verge of violence. You tell us, Doctor Spivey, what do his records say about violence?”

“There is a marked disregard for discipline and authority,” the doctor says.

“Right. His history shows, Alvin, that time and again he has acted out his hostilities against authority figures — in school, in the service, in jail! And I think that his performance after the voting furor today is as conclusive an indication as we can have of what to expect in the future.” He stops and frowns into his pipe, puts it back in his mouth, and strikes a match and sucks the flame into the bowl with a loud popping sound. When it’s lit he sneaks a look up through the yellow cloud of smoke at the Big Nurse; he must take her silence as agreement because he goes on, more enthusiastic and certain than before.

“Pause for a minute and imagine, Alvin,” he says, his words cottony with smoke, “imagine what will happen to one of us when we’re alone in Individual Therapy with Mr. McMurphy. Imagine you are approaching a particularly painful breakthrough and he decides he’s just had all he can take of your — how would he put it? — your ‘damn fool collitch-kid pryin’!’ You tell him he mustn’t get hostile and he says ‘to hell with that,’ and tell him to calm down, in an authoritarian voice, of course, and here he comes, all two hundred and ten red-headed psychopathic Irishman pounds of him, right across the interviewing table at you. Are you — are any of us, for that matter — prepared to deal with Mr. McMurphy when these moments arise?”

He puts his size-ten pipe back in the corner of his mouth and spreads his hands on his knees and waits. Everybody’s thinking about McMurphy’s thick red arms and scarred hands and how his neck comes out of his T-shirt like a rusty wedge. The resident named Alvin has turned pale at the thought, like that yellow pipe smoke his buddy was blowing at him had stained his face.

“So you believe it would be wise,” the doctor asks, “to send him up to Disturbed?”

“I believe it would be at the very least safe,” the guy with the pipe answers, closing his eyes.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to withdraw my suggestion and go along with Robert,” Alvin tells them all, “if only for my own protection.”

They all laugh. They’re all more relaxed now, certain they’ve come round to the plan she was wanting. They all have a sip of coffee on it except the guy with the pipe, and he has a big to-do with the thing going out all the time, goes through a lot of matches and sucking and puffing and popping of his lips. It finally smokes up again to suit him, and he says, a little proudly, “Yes, Disturbed Ward for ol’ Red McMurphy, I’m afraid. You know what I think, observing him these few days?”

“Schizophrenic reaction?” Alvin asks.

Pipe shakes his head.

“Latent Homosexual with Reaction Formation?” the third one says.

Pipe shakes his head again and shuts his eyes. “No,” he says and smiles round the room, “Negative Oedipal.”

They all congratulate him.

“Yes, I think there is a lot pointing to it,” he says. “But whatever the final diagnosis is, we must keep one thing in mind: we’re not dealing with an ordinary man.”

“You — are very, very wrong, Mr. Gideon.” It’s the Big Nurse.

Everybody’s head jerks toward her — mine too, but I check myself and pass the motion off like I’m trying to scrub a speck I just discovered on the wall above my head. Everybody’s confused all to hell for sure now. They figured they were proposing just what she’d want, just what she was planning to propose in the meeting herself. I thought so too. I’ve seen her send men half the size of McMurphy up to Disturbed for no more reason than there was a chance they might spit on somebody; now she’s got this bull of a man who’s bucked her and everybody else on the staff, a guy she all but said was on his way off the ward earlier this afternoon, and she says no.

“No. I don’t agree. Not at all.” She smiles around at all of them. “I don’t agree that he should be sent up to Disturbed, which would simply be an easy way of passing our problem on to another ward, and I don’t agree that he is some kind of extraordinary being — some kind of ‘super’ psychopath.”

She waits but nobody is about to disagree. For the first time she takes a sip of her coffee; the cup comes away from her mouth with that red-orange color on it. I stare at the rim of the cup in spite of myself; she couldn’t be wearing lipstick that color. That color on the rim of the cup must be from heat, touch of her lips set it smoldering.