Take it or leave it. I ain’t in business for my health. I’m here a-sellin’ tires. I ain’t givin’ ’em away. I can’t help what happens to you. I got to think what happens to me.
How far’s the nex’ town?
I seen forty-two cars a you fellas go by yesterday. Where you all come from? Where all of you goin’?
Well, California’s a big State.
It ain’t that big. The whole United States ain’t that big. It ain’t that big. It ain’t big enough. There ain’t room enough for you an’ me, for your kind an’ my kind, for rich and poor together all in one country, for thieves and honest men. For hunger and fat. Whyn’t you go back where you come from?
This is a free country. Fella can go where he wants.
That’s what you think! Ever hear of the border patrol on the California line? Police from Los Angeles—stopped you bastards, turned you back. Says, if you can’t buy no real estate we don’t want you. Says, got a driver’s license? Le’s see it. Tore it up. Says you can’t come in without no driver’s license.
It’s a free country.
Well, try to get some freedom to do. Fella says you’re jus’ as free as you got jack to pay for it.
In California they got high wages. I got a han’bill here tells about it.
Baloney! I seen folks comin’ back. Somebody’s kiddin’ you. You want that tire or don’t ya?
Got to take it, but, Jesus, mister, it cuts into our money! We ain’t got much left.
Well, I ain’t no charity. Take her along.
Got to, I guess. Let’s look her over. Open her up, look a’ the casing—you son-of-a-bitch, you said the casing was good. She’s broke damn near through.
The hell she is. Well—by George! How come I didn’ see that?
You did see it, you son-of-a-bitch. You wanta charge us four bucks for a busted casing. I’d like to take a sock at you.
Now keep your shirt on. I didn’ see it, I tell you. Here—tell ya what I’ll do. I’ll give ya this one for three-fifty.
You’ll take a flying jump at the moon! We’ll try to make the nex’ town.
Think we can make it on that tire?
Got to. I’ll go on the rim before I’d give that son-of-a-bitch a dime.
What do ya think a guy in business is? Like he says, he ain’t in it for his health. That’s what business is. What’d you think it was? Fella’s got—See that sign ’longside the road there? Service Club. Luncheon Tuesday, Colmado Hotel? Welcome, brother. That’s a Service Club. Fella had a story. Went to one of them meetings an’ told the story to all them business men. Says, when I was a kid my ol’ man give me a haltered heifer an’ says take her down an’ git her serviced. An’ the fella says, I done it, an’ ever’ time since then when I hear a business man talkin’ about service, I wonder who’s gettin’ screwed. Fella in business got to lie an’ cheat, but he calls it somepin else. That’s what’s important. You go steal that tire an’ you’re a thief, but he tried to steal your four dollars for a busted tire. They call that sound business.
Danny in the back seat wants a cup a water.
Have to wait. Got no water here.
Listen—that the rear end?
Can’t tell.
Sound telegraphs through the frame.
There goes a gasket. Got to go on. Listen to her whistle. Find a nice place to camp an’ I’ll jerk the head off. But, God Almighty, the food’s gettin’ low, the money’s gettin’ low. When we can’t buy no more gas—
what then?
Danny in the back seat wants a cup a water. Little fella’s thirsty.
Listen to that gasket whistle.
Chee-rist! There she went. Blowed tube an’ casing all to hell. Have to fix her. Save that casing to make boots; cut ’em out an’ stick ’em inside a weak place.
Cars pulled up beside the road, engine heads off, tires mended. Cars limping along 66 like wounded things, panting and struggling. Too hot, loose connections, loose bearings, rattling bodies.
Danny wants a cup of water.
People in flight along 66. And the concrete road shone like a mirror under the sun, and in the distance the heat made it seem that there were pools of water in the road.
Danny wants a cup a water.
He’ll have to wait, poor little fella. He’s hot. Nex’ service station. Service station, like the fella says.
Two hundred and fifty thousand people over the road. Fifty thousand old cars—wounded, steaming. Wrecks along the road, abandoned. Well, what happened to them? What happened to the folks in that car? Did they walk? Where are they? Where does the courage come from? Where does the terrible faith come from?
And here’s a story you can hardly believe, but it’s true, and it’s funny and it’s beautiful. There was a family of twelve and they were forced off the land. They had no car. They built a trailer out of junk and loaded it with their possessions. They pulled it to the side of 66 and waited. And pretty soon a sedan picked them up. Five of them rode in the sedan and seven on the trailer, and a dog on the trailer. They got to California in two jumps. The man who pulled them fed them. And that’s true. But how can such courage be, and such faith in their own species? Very few things would teach such faith.
The people in flight from the terror behind—strange things happen to them, some bitterly cruel and some so beautiful that the faith is refired forever.
Chapter 13
The ancient overloaded Hudson creaked and grunted to the highway at Sallisaw and turned west, and the sun was blinding. But on the concrete road Al built up his speed because the flattened springs were not in danger any more. From Sallisaw to Gore is twenty-one miles and the Hudson was doing thirty-five miles an hour. From Gore to Warner thirteen miles; Warner to Checotah fourteen miles; Checotah a long jump to Henrietta—thirty-four miles, but a real town at the end of it. Henrietta to Castle nineteen miles, and the sun was overhead, and the red fields, heated by the high sun, vibrated the air.
Al, at the wheel, his face purposeful, his whole body listening to the car, his restless eyes jumping from the road to the instrument panel. Al was one with his engine, every nerve listening for weaknesses, for the thumps or squeals, hums and chattering that indicate a change that may cause a breakdown. He had become the soul of the car.
Granma, beside him on the seat, half slept, and whimpered in her sleep, opened her eyes to peer ahead, and then dozed again. And Ma sat beside Granma, one elbow out the window, and the skin reddening under the fierce sun. Ma looked ahead too, but her eyes were flat and did not see the road or the fields, the gas stations, the little eating sheds. She did not glance at them as the Hudson went by.
Al shifted himself on the broken seat and changed his grip on the steering wheel. And he sighed, “Makes a racket, but I think she’s awright. God knows what she’ll do if we got to climb a hill with the load we got. Got any hills ’tween here an’ California, Ma?”
Ma turned her head slowly and her eyes came to life. “Seems to me they’s hills,” she said. “’Course I dunno. But seems to me I heard they’s hills an’ even mountains. Big ones.”
Granma drew a long whining sigh in her sleep.
Al said, “We’ll burn right up if we got climbin’ to do. Have to throw out some a’ this stuff. Maybe we shouldn’ a brang that preacher.”
“You’ll be glad a that preacher ’fore we’re through,” said Ma. “That preacher’ll help us.” She looked ahead at the gleaming road again.
Al steered with one hand and put the other on the vibrating gear-shift lever. He had difficulty in speaking. His mouth formed the words silently before he said them aloud. “Ma —” She looked slowly around at him, her head swaying a little with the car’s motion. “Ma, you scared a goin’? You scared a goin’ to a new place?”
Her eyes grew thoughtful and soft. “A little,” she said. “Only it ain’t like scared so much. I’m jus’ a settin’ here waitin’. When somepin happens that I got to do somepin—I’ll do it.”
“Ain’t you thinkin’ wha
t’s it gonna be like when we get there? Ain’t you scared it won’t be nice like we thought?”
“No,” she said quickly. “No, I ain’t. You can’t do that. I can’t do that. It’s too much—livin’ too many lives. Up ahead they’s a thousan’ lives we might live, but when it comes, it’ll on’y be one. If I go ahead on all of ’em, it’s too much. You got to live ahead ’cause you’re so young, but—it’s jus’ the road goin’ by for me. An’ it’s jus’ how soon they gonna wanta eat some more pork bones.” Her face tightened. “That’s all I can do. I can’t do no more. All the rest’d get upset if I done any more’n that. They all depen’ on me jus’ thinkin’ about that.”
Granma yawned shrilly and opened her eyes. She looked wildly about. “I got to get out, praise Gawd,” she said.
“First clump a brush,” said Al. “They’s one up ahead.”
“Brush or no brush, I got to git out, I tell ya.” And she began to whine, “I got to git out. I got to git out.”
Al speeded up, and when he came to the low brush he pulled up short. Ma threw the door open and half pulled the struggling old lady out beside the road and into the bushes. And Ma held her so Granma would not fall when she squatted.
On top of the truck the others stirred to life. Their faces were shining with sunburn they could not escape. Tom and Casy and Noah and Uncle John let themselves wearily down. Ruthie and Winfield swarmed down the side-boards and went off into the bushes. Connie helped Rose of Sharon gently down. Under the canvas, Grampa was awake, his head sticking out, but his eyes were drugged and watery and still senseless. He watched the others, but there was little recognition in his watching.
Tom called to him, “Want to come down, Grampa?”
The old eyes turned listlessly to him. “No,” said Grampa. For a moment the fierceness came into his eyes. “I ain’t a-goin’, I tell you. Gonna stay like Muley.” And then he lost interest again. Ma came back, helping Granma up the bank to the highway.
“Tom,” she said. “Get that pan a bones, under the canvas in back. We got to eat somepin.” Tom got the pan and passed it around, and the family stood by the roadside, gnawing the crisp particles from the pork bones.
“Sure lucky we brang these along,” said Pa. “Git so stiff up there can’t hardly move. Where’s the water?”
“Ain’t it up with you?” Ma asked. “I set out that gallon jug.”
Pa climbed the sides and looked under the canvas. “It ain’t here. We must a forgot it.”
Thirst set in instantly. Winfield moaned, “I wanta drink. I wanta drink.” The men licked their lips, suddenly conscious of their thirst. And a little panic started.
Al felt the fear growing. “We’ll get water first service station we come to. We need some gas too.” The family swarmed up the truck sides; Ma helped Granma in and got in beside her. Al started the motor and they moved on.
Castle to Paden twenty-five miles and the sun passed the zenith and started down. And the radiator cap began to jiggle up and down and steam started to whish out. Near Paden there was a shack beside the road and two gas pumps in front of it; and beside a fence, a water faucet and a hose. Al drove in and nosed the Hudson up to the hose. As they pulled in, a stout man, red of face and arms, got up from a chair behind the gas pumps and moved toward them. He wore brown corduroys, and suspenders and a polo shirt; and he had a cardboard sun helmet, painted silver, on his head. The sweat beaded on his nose and under his eyes and formed streams in the wrinkles of his neck. He strolled toward the truck, looking truculent and stern.
“You folks aim to buy anything? Gasoline or stuff ?” he asked.
Al was out already, unscrewing the steaming radiator cap with the tips of his fingers, jerking his hand away to escape the spurt when the cap should come loose. “Need some gas, mister.”
“Got any money?”
“Sure. Think we’re beggin’?”
The truculence left the fat man’s face. “Well, that’s all right, folks. He’p yourself to water.” And he hastened to explain. “Road is full a people, come in, use water, dirty up the toilet, an’ then, by God, they’ll steal stuff an’ don’t buy nothin’. Got no money to buy with. Come beggin’ a gallon gas to move on.”
Tom dropped angrily to the ground and moved toward the fat man. “We’re payin’ our way,” he said fiercely. “You got no call to give us a goin’-over. We ain’t asked you for nothin’.”
“I ain’t,” the fat man said quickly. The sweat began to soak through his short-sleeved polo shirt. “Jus’ he’p yourself to water, and go use the toilet if you want.”
Winfield had got the hose. He drank from the end and then turned the stream over his head and face, and emerged dripping. “It ain’t cool,” he said.
“I don’ know what the country’s comin’ to,” the fat man continued. His complaint had shifted now and he was no longer talking to or about the Joads. “Fifty-sixty cars a folks go by ever’ day, folks all movin’ west with kids an’ househol’ stuff. Where they goin’? What they gonna do?”
“Doin’ the same as us,” said Tom. “Goin’ someplace to live. Tryin’ to get along. That’s all.”
“Well, I don’ know what the country’s comin’ to. I jus’ don’ know. Here’s me tryin’ to get along, too. Think any them big new cars stops here? No, sir! They go on to them yella-painted company stations in town. They don’t stop no place like this. Most folks stops here ain’t got nothin’.”
Al flipped the radiator cap and it jumped into the air with a head of steam behind it, and a hollow bubbling sound came out of the radiator. On top of the truck, the suffering hound dog crawled timidly to the edge of the load and looked over, whimpering, toward the water. Uncle John climbed up and lifted him down by the scruff of the neck. For a moment the dog staggered on stiff legs, and then he went to lap the mud under the faucet. In the highway the cars whizzed by, glistening in the heat, and the hot wind of their going fanned into the service-station yard. Al filled the radiator with the hose.
“It ain’t that I’m tryin’ to git trade outa rich folks,” the fat man went on. “I’m jus’ tryin’ to git trade. Why, the folks that stops here begs gasoline an’ they trades for gasoline. I could show you in my back room the stuff they’ll trade for gas an’ oil: beds an’ baby buggies an’ pots an’ pans. One family traded a doll their kid had for a gallon. An’ what’m I gonna do with the stuff, open a junk shop? Why, one fella wanted to gimme his shoes for a gallon. An’ if I was that kinda fella I bet I could git —” He glanced at Ma and stopped.
Jim Casy had wet his head, and the drops still coursed down his high forehead, and his muscled neck was wet, and his shirt was wet. He moved over beside Tom. “It ain’t the people’s fault,” he said. “How’d you like to sell the bed you sleep on for a tankful a gas?”
“I know it ain’t their fault. Ever’ person I talked to is on the move for a damn good reason. But what’s the country comin’ to? That’s what I wanta know. What’s it comin’ to? Fella can’t make a livin’ no more. Folks can’t make a livin’ farmin’. I ask you, what’s it comin’ to? I can’t figure her out. Ever’body I ask, they can’t figure her out. Fella wants to trade his shoes so he can git a hunderd miles on. I can’t figure her out.” He took off his silver hat and wiped his forehead with his palm. And Tom took off his cap and wiped his forehead with it. He went to the hose and wet the cap through and squeezed it and put it on again. Ma worked a tin cup out through the side bars of the truck, and she took water to Granma and to Grampa on top of the load. She stood on the bars and handed the cup to Grampa, and he wet his lips, and then shook his head and refused more. The old eyes looked up at Ma in pain and bewilderment for a moment before the awareness receded again.
Al started the motor and backed the truck to the gas pump. “Fill her up. She’ll take about seven,” said Al. “We’ll give her six so she don’t spill none.”
The fat man put the hose in the tank. “No, sir,” he said. “I jus’ don’t know what the country’s comin’ to.
Relief an’ all.”
Casy said, “I been walkin’ aroun’ in the country. Ever’body’s askin’ that. What we comin’ to? Seems to me we don’t never come to nothin’. Always on the way. Always goin’ and goin’. Why don’t folks think about that? They’s movement now. People moving. We know why, an’ we know how. Movin’ ’cause they got to. That’s why folks always move. Movin’ ’cause they want somepin better’n what they got. An’ that’s the on’y way they’ll ever git it. Wantin’ it an’ needin’ it, they’ll go out an’ git it. It’s bein’ hurt that makes folks mad to fightin’. I been walkin’ aroun’ the country, an’ hearin’ folks talk like you.”
The fat man pumped the gasoline and the needle turned on the pump dial, recording the amount. “Yeah, but what’s it comin’ to? That’s what I want ta know.”
Tom broke in irritably, “Well, you ain’t never gonna know. Casy tries to tell ya an’ you jest ast the same thing over. I seen fellas like you before. You ain’t askin’ nothin’; you’re jus’ singin’ a kinda song. ‘What we comin’ to?’ You don’ wanta know. Country’s movin’ aroun’, goin’ places. They’s folks dyin’ all aroun’. Maybe you’ll die pretty soon, but you won’t know nothin’. I seen too many fellas like you. You don’t want to know nothin’. Just sing yourself to sleep with a song—‘What we comin’ to?”’ He looked at the gas pump, rusted and old, and at the shack behind it, built of old lumber, the nail holes of its first use still showing through the paint that had been brave, the brave yellow paint that had tried to imitate the big company stations in town. But the paint couldn’t cover the old nail holes and the old cracks in the lumber, and the paint could not be renewed. The imitation was a failure and the owner had known it was a failure. And inside the open door of the shack Tom saw the oil barrels, only two of them, and the candy counter with stale candies and licorice whips turning brown with age, and cigarettes. He saw the broken chair and the fly screen with a rusted hole in it. And the littered yard that should have been graveled, and behind, the corn field drying and dying in the sun. Beside the house the little stock of used tires and retreaded tires. And he saw for the first time the fat man’s cheap washed pants and his cheap polo shirt and his paper hat. He said, “I didn’ mean to sound off at ya, mister. It’s the heat. You ain’t got nothin’. Pretty soon you’ll be on the road yourse’f. And it ain’t tractors’ll put you there. It’s them pretty yella stations in town. Folks is movin’,” he said ashamedly. “An’ you’ll be movin’, mister.”
The Grapes of Wrath Page 20