One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest - Ken Kesey [63]
“And even when I pr-proposed, I flubbed it. I said ‘Huh-honey, will you muh-muh-muh-muh-muh…’ till the girl broke out l-laughing.”
Nurse’s voice, I can’t see where it comes from: “Your mother has spoken to me about this girl, Billy. Apparently she was quite a bit beneath you. What would you speculate it was about her that frightened you so, Billy?”
“I was in luh-love with her.”
I can’t do nothing for you either, Billy. You know that. None of us can. You got to understand that as soon as a man goes to help somebody, he leaves himself wide open. He has to be cagey, Billy, you should know that as well as anyone. What could I do? I can’t fix your stuttering. I can’t wipe the razor-blade scars off your wrists or the cigarette burns off the back of your hands. I can’t give you a new mother. And as far as the nurse riding you like this, rubbing your nose in your weakness till what little dignity you got left is gone and you shrink up to nothing from humiliation, I can’t do anything about that, either. At Anzio, I saw a buddy of mine tied to a tree fifty yards from me, screaming for water, his face blistered in the sun. They wanted me to try to go out and help him. They’d of cut me in half from the farmhouse over there.
Put your face away, Billy.
They kept filing past.
It’s like each face was a sign like one of those “I’m Blind” signs the dago accordion players in Portland hung around their necks, only these signs say “I’m tired” or “I’m scared” or “I’m dying of a bum liver” or “I’m all bound up with machinery and people pushing me alla time.” I can read all the signs, it don’t make any difference how little the print gets. Some of the faces are looking around at one another and could read the other fellow’s if they would, but what’s the sense? The faces blow past in the fog like confetti.
I’m further off than I’ve ever been. This is what it’s like to be dead. I guess this is what it’s like to be a Vegetable; you lose yourself in the fog. You don’t move. They feed your body till it finally stops eating; then they burn it. It’s not so bad. There’s no pain. I don’t feel much of anything other than a touch of chill I figure will pass in time.
I see my commanding officer pinning notices on the bulletin board, what we’re to wear today. I see the US Department of Interior bearing down on our little tribe with a gravel-crushing machine.
I see Papa come loping out of a draw and slow up to try and take aim at a big six-point buck springing off through the cedars. Shot after shot puffs out of the barrel, knocking dust all around the buck. I come out of the draw behind Papa and bring the buck down with my second shot just as it starts climbing the rimrock. I grin at Papa.
I never knew you to miss a shot like that before, Papa.
Eye’s gone, boy. Can’t hold a bead. Sights on my gun just now was shakin’ like a dog shittin’ peach pits.
Papa, I’m telling you: that cactus moon of Sid’s is gonna make you old before your time.
A man drinks that cactus moon of Sid’s, boy, he’s already old before his time. Let’s go gut that animal out before the flies blow him.
That’s not even happening now. You see? There’s nothing you can do about a happening out of the past like that.
Look there, my man…
I hear whispers, black boys.
Look there, that old fool Broom, slipped off to sleep.
Tha’s right, Chief Broom, tha’s right. You sleep an’ keep outa trouble Yasss.
I’m not cold anymore. I think I’ve about made it. I’m off to where the cold can’t reach me. I can stay off here for good. I’m not scared anymore. They can’t reach me. Just the words reach me, and those’re fading.
Well…in as much as Billy has decided to walk out on the discussion, does anyone else have a problem to bring before the group?
As a matter of fact, ma’am, there does happen to be something…