The Grapes of Wrath

by John Steinbeck

  “What the hell’s the matter with ’im?” Tom demanded.

  The young man chuckled. “He’s jus’ nuts like you an’ me. Maybe he’s a little nutser’n me, I don’ know.”

  Pa said, “I jus’ ast him if we could camp here.”

  The young man wiped his greasy hands on his trousers. “Sure. Why not? You folks jus’ come acrost?”

  “Yeah,” said Tom. “Jus’ got in this mornin’.”

  “Never been in Hooverville before?”

  “Where’s Hooverville?”

  “This here’s her.”

  “Oh!” said Tom. “We jus’ got in.”

  Winfield and Ruthie came back, carrying a bucket of water between them.

  Ma said, “Le’s get the camp up. I’m tuckered out. Maybe we can all rest.” Pa and Uncle John climbed up on the truck to unload the canvas and the beds.

  Tom sauntered to the young man, and walked beside him back to the car he had been working on. The valve-grinding brace lay on the exposed block, and a little yellow can of valve-grinding compound was wedged on top of the vacuum tank. Tom asked, “What the hell was the matter’th that ol’ fella with the beard?”

  The young man picked up his brace and went to work, twisting back and forth, grinding valve against valve seat. The Mayor? Chris’ knows. I guess maybe he’s bull-simple.”

  “What’s ‘bull-simple’?”

  “I guess cops push ’im aroun’ so much he’s still spinning.”

  Tom asked, “Why would they push a fella like that aroun’?”

  The young man stopped his work and looked in Tom’s eyes. “Chris’ knows,” he said. “You jus’ come. Maybe you can figger her out. Some fellas says one thing, an’ some says another thing. But you jus’ camp in one place a little while, an’ you see how quick a deputy sheriff shoves you along.” He lifted a valve and smeared compound on the seat.

  “But what the hell for?”

  “I tell ya I don’t know. Some says they don’t want us to vote; keep us movin’ so we can’t vote. An’ some says so we can’t get on relief. An’ some says if we set in one place we’d get organized. I don’ know why. I on’y know we get rode all the time. You wait, you’ll see.”

  “We ain’t no bums,” Tom insisted. “We’re lookin’ for work. We’ll take any kind a work.”

  The young man paused in fitting the brace to the valve slot. He looked in amazement at Tom. “Lookin’ for work?” he said. “So you’re lookin’ for work. What ya think ever’body else is lookin’ for? Di’monds? What you think I wore my ass down to a nub lookin’ for?” He twisted the brace back and forth.

  Tom looked about at the grimy tents, the junk equipment, at the old cars, the lumpy mattresses out in the sun, at the blackened cans on fire-blackened holes where the people cooked. He asked quietly, “Ain’t they no work?”

  “I don’ know. Mus’ be. Ain’t no crop right here now. Grapes to pick later, an’ cotton to pick later. We’re a-movin’ on, soon’s I get these here valves groun’. Me an’ my wife an’ my kids. We heard they was work up north. We’re shovin’ north, up aroun’ Salinas.”

  Tom saw Uncle John and Pa and the preacher hoisting the tarpaulin on the tent poles and Ma on her knees inside, brushing off the mattresses on the ground. A circle of quiet children stood to watch the new family get settled, quiet children with bare feet and dirty faces. Tom said, “Back home some fellas come through with han’bills—orange ones. Says they need lots a people out here to work the crops.”

  The young man laughed. “They say they’s three hunderd thousan’ us folks here, an’ I bet ever’ dam’ fam’ly seen them han’bills.”

  “Yeah, but if they don’ need folks, what’d they go to the trouble puttin’ them things out for?”

  “Use your head, why don’cha?”

  “Yeah, but I wanta know.”

  “Look,” the young man said. “S’pose you got a job a work, an’ there’s jus’ one fella wants the job. You got to pay ’im what he asts. But s’pose they’s a hunderd men.” He put down his tool. His eyes hardened and his voice sharpened. “S’pose they’s a hunderd men wants that job. S’pose them men got kids, an’ them kids is hungry. S’pose a lousy dime’ll buy a box a mush for them kids. S’pose a nickel’ll buy at leas’ somepin for them kids. An’ you got a hunderd men. Jus’ offer ’em a nickel—why, they’ll kill each other fightin’ for that nickel. Know what they was payin’, las’ job I had? Fifteen cents an hour. Ten hours for a dollar an’ a half, an’ ya can’t stay on the place. Got to burn gasoline gettin’ there.” He was panting with anger, and his eyes blazed with hate. “That’s why them han’bills was out. You can print a hell of a lot of han’bills with what ya save payin’ fifteen cents an hour for fiel’ work.”

  Tom said, “That’s stinkin’.”

  The young man laughed harshly. “You stay out here a little while, an’ if you smell any roses, you come let me smell, too.”

  “But they is work,” Tom insisted. “Christ Almighty, with all this stuff a-growin’: orchards, grapes, vegetables—I seen it. They got to have men. I seen all that stuff.”

  A child cried in the tent beside the car. The young man went into the tent and his voice came softly through the canvas. Tom picked up the brace, fitted it in the slot of the valve, and ground away, his hand whipping back and forth. The child’s crying stopped. The young man came out and watched Tom. “You can do her,” he said. “Damn good thing. You’ll need to.”

  “How ’bout what I said?” Tom resumed. “I seen all the stuff growin’.”

  The young man squatted on his heels. “I’ll tell ya,” he said quietly. “They’s a big son-of-a-bitch of a peach orchard I worked in. Takes nine men all the year roun’.” He paused impressively. “Takes three thousan’ men for two weeks when them peaches is ripe. Got to have ’em or them peaches’ll rot. So what do they do? They send out han’bills all over hell. They need three thousan’, an’ they get six thousan’. They get them men for what they wanta pay. If ya don’ wanta take what they pay, goddamn it, they’s a thousan’ men waitin’ for your job. So ya pick, an’ ya pick, an’ then she’s done. Whole part a the country’s peaches. All ripe together. When ya get ’em picked, ever’ goddamn one is picked. There ain’t another damn thing in that part a the country to do. An’ then them owners don’ want you there no more. Three thousan’ of you. The work’s done. You might steal, you might get drunk, you might jus’ raise hell. An’ besides, you don’ look nice, livin’ in ol’ tents; an’ it’s a pretty country, but you stink it up. They don’ want you aroun’. So they kick you out, they move you along. That’s how it is.”

  Tom, looking down toward the Joad tent, saw his mother, heavy and slow with weariness, build a little trash fire and put the cooking pots over the flame. The circle of children drew closer, and the calm wide eyes of the children watched every move of Ma’s hands. An old, old man with a bent back came like a badger out of a tent and snooped near, sniffing the air as he came. He laced his arms behind him and joined the children to watch Ma. Ruthie and Winfield stood near to Ma and eyed the strangers belligerently.

  Tom said angrily, “Them peaches got to be picked right now, don’t they? Jus’ when they’re ripe?”

  “’Course they do.”

  “Well, s’pose them people got together an’says, ‘Let ’em rot.’ Wouldn’ be long ’fore the price went up, by God!”

  The young man looked up from the valves, looked sardonically at Tom. “Well, you figgered out somepin, didn’ you. Come right outa your own head.”

  “I’m tar’d,” said Tom. “Drove all night. I don’t wanta start no argument. An’ I’m so goddamn tar’d I’d argue easy. Don’ be smart with me. I’m askin’ you.”

  The young man grinned. “I didn’ mean it. You ain’t been here. Folks figgered that out. An’ the folks with the peach orchard figgered her out too. Look, if the folks gets together, they’s a leader—got to be—fella that does the talkin’. Well, first time this fella opens his mouth th
ey grab ’im an’ stick ’im in jail. An’ if they’s another leader pops up, why, they stick ’im in jail.”

  Tom said, “Well, a fella eats in jail anyways.”

  “His kids don’t. How’d you like to be in an’ your kids starvin’ to death?”

  “Yeah,” said Tom slowly. “Yeah.”

  “An’ here’s another thing. Ever hear a’ the blacklist?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, you jus’ open your trap about us folks gettin’ together, an’ you’ll see. They take your pitcher an’ send it all over. Then you can’t get work nowhere. An’ if you got kids——”

  Tom took off his cap and twisted it in his hands. “So we take what we can get, huh, or we starve; an’ if we yelp we starve.”

  The young man made a sweeping circle with his hand, and his hand took in the ragged tents and the rusty cars.

  Tom looked down at his mother again, where she sat scraping potatoes. And the children had drawn closer. He said, “I ain’t gonna take it. Goddamn it, I an’ my folks ain’t no sheep. I’ll kick the hell outa somebody.”

  “Like a cop?”

  “Like anybody.”

  “You’re nuts,” said the young man. “They’ll pick you right off. You got no name, no property. They’ll find you in a ditch, with the blood dried on your mouth an’ your nose. Be one little line in the paper—know what it’ll say? ‘Vagrant foun’ dead.’ An’ that’s all. You’ll see a lot of them little lines, ‘Vagrant foun’ dead.”’

  Tom said, “They’ll be somebody else foun’ dead right ’longside of this here vagrant.”

  “You’re nuts,” said the young man. “Won’t be no good in that.”

  “Well, what you doin’ about it?” He looked into the grease-streaked face. And a veil drew down over the eyes of the young man.

  “Nothin’. Where you from?”

  “Us? Right near Sallisaw, Oklahoma.”

  “Jus’ get in?”

  “Jus’ today.”

  “Gonna be aroun’ here long?”

  “Don’t know. We’ll stay wherever we can get work. Why?”

  “Nothin’.” And the veil came down again.

  “Got to sleep up,” said Tom. “Tomorra we’ll go out lookin’ for work.”

  “You kin try.”

  Tom turned away and moved toward the Joad tent.

  The young man took up the can of valve compound and dug his finger into it. “Hi!” he called.

  Tom turned. “What you want?”

  “I want ta tell ya.” He motioned with his finger, on which a blob of compound stuck. “I jus’ want ta tell ya. Don’ go lookin’ for no trouble. ’Member how that bull-simple guy looked?”

  “Fella in the tent up there?”

  “Yeah—looked dumb—no sense?”

  “What about him?”

  “Well, when the cops come in, an’ they come in all a time, that’s how you want ta be. Dumb—don’t know nothin’. Don’t understan’ nothin’. That’s how the cops like us. Don’t hit no cops. That’s jus’ suicide. Be bull-simple.”

  “Let them goddamn cops run over me, an’ me do nothin’?”

  “No, looka here. I’ll come for ya tonight. Maybe I’m wrong. There’s stools aroun’ all a time. I’m takin’ a chancet, an’ I got a kid, too. But I’ll come for ya. An’ if ya see a cop, why, you’re a goddamn dumb Okie, see?”

  “Tha’s awright if we’re doin’ anythin’,” said Tom.

  “Don’ you worry. We’re doin’ somepin, on’y we ain’t stickin’ our necks out. A kid starves quick. Two-three days for a kid.” He went back to his job, spread the compound on a valve seat, and his hand jerked rapidly back and forth on the brace, and his face was dull and dumb.

  Tom strolled slowly back to his camp. “Bull-simple,” he said under his breath.

  Pa and Uncle John came toward the camp, their arms loaded with dry willow sticks, and they threw them down by the fire and squatted on their hams. “Got her picked over pretty good,” said Pa. “Had ta go a long ways for wood.” He looked up at the circle of staring children. “Lord God Almighty!” he said. “Where’d you come from?” All of the children looked self-consciously at their feet.

  “Guess they smelled the cookin’,” said Ma. “Winfiel’, get out from under foot.” She pushed him out of her way. “Got ta make us up a little stew,” she said. “We ain’t et nothin’ cooked right sence we come from home. Pa, you go up to the store there an’ get me some neck meat. Make a nice stew here.” Pa stood up and sauntered away.

  Al had the hood of the car up, and he looked down at the greasy engine. He looked up when Tom approached. “You sure look happy as a buzzard,” Al said.

  “I’m jus’ gay as a toad in spring rain,” said Tom.

  “Looka the engine,” Al pointed. “Purty good, huh?”

  Tom peered in. “Looks awright to me.”

  “Awright? Jesus, she’s wonderful. She ain’t shot no oil nor nothin’.” He unscrewed a spark plug and stuck his forefinger in the hole. “Crusted up some, but she’s dry.”

  Tom said, “You done a nice job a pickin’. That what ya want me to say?”

  “Well, I sure was scairt the whole way, figgerin’ she’d bust down an’ it’d be my fault.”

  “No, you done good. Better get her in shape, ’cause tomorra we’re goin’ out lookin’ for work.”

  “She’ll roll,” said Al. “Don’t you worry none about that.” He took out a pocket knife and scraped the points of the spark plug.

  Tom walked around the side of the tent, and he found Casy sitting on the earth, wisely regarding one bare foot. Tom sat down heavily beside him. “Think she’s gonna work?”

  “What?” asked Casy.

  “Them toes of yourn.”

  “Oh! Jus’ settin’ here a-thinkin’.”

  “You always get good an’ comf’table for it,” said Tom.

  Casy waggled his big toe up and his second toe down, and he smiled quietly. “Hard enough for a fella to think ’thout kinkin’ himself up to do it.”

  “Ain’t heard a peep outa you for days,” said Tom. “Thinkin’ all the time?”

  “Yeah, thinkin’ all the time.”

  Tom took off his cloth cap, dirty now, and ruinous, the visor pointed as a bird’s beak. He turned the sweat band out and removed a long strip of folded newspaper. “Sweat so much she’s shrank,” he said. He looked at Casy’s waving toes. “Could ya come down from your thinkin’ an’ listen a minute?”

  Casy turned his head on the stalk-like neck. “Listen all the time. That’s why I been thinkin’. Listen to people a-talkin’, an’ purty soon I hear the way folks are feelin’. Goin’ on all the time. I hear ’em an’ feel ’em; an’ they’re beating their wings like a bird in a attic. Gonna bust their wings on a dusty winda tryin’ ta get out.”

  Tom regarded him with widened eyes, and then he turned and looked at a gray tent twenty feet away. Washed jeans and shirts and a dress hung to dry on the tent guys. He said softly, “That was about what I was gonna tell ya. An’ you seen awready.”

  “I seen,” Casy agreed. “They’s a army of us without no harness.” He bowed his head and ran his extended hand slowly up his forehead and into his hair. “All along I seen it,” he said. “Ever’ place we stopped I seen it. Folks hungry for side-meat, an’ when they get it, they ain’t fed. An’ when they’d get so hungry they couldn’ stan’ it no more, why, they’d ast me to pray for ’em, an’ sometimes I done it.” He clasped his hands around drawn-up knees and pulled his legs in. “I use ta think that’d cut ’er,” he said. “Use ta rip off a prayer an’ all the troubles’d stick to that prayer like flies on flypaper, an’ the prayer’d go a-sailin’ off, a-takin’ them troubles along. But it don’ work no more.”

  Tom said, “Prayer never brought in no side-meat. Takes a shoat to bring in pork.”

  “Yeah,” Casy said. “An’ Almighty God never raised no wages. These here folks want to live decent and bring up their kids decent. An’ when
they’re old they wanta set in the door an’ watch the downing sun. An’ when they’re young they wanta dance an’ sing an’ lay together. They wanta eat an’ get drunk and work. An’ that’sit—they wanta jus’fling their goddamn muscles aroun’ an’ get tired. Christ! What’m I talkin’ about?”

  “I dunno,” said Tom. “Sounds kinda nice. When ya think you can get ta work an’ quit thinkin’ a spell? We got to get work. Money’s ’bout gone. Pa give five dollars to get a painted piece of board stuck up over Granma. We ain’t got much lef’.”

  A lean brown mongrel dog came sniffing around the side of the tent. He was nervous and flexed to run. He sniffed close before he was aware of the two men, and then looking up he saw them, leaped sideways, and fled, ears back, bony tail clamped protectively. Casy watched him go, dodging around a tent to get out of sight. Casy sighed. “I ain’t doin’ nobody no good,” he said. “Me or nobody else. I was thinkin’ I’d go off alone by myself. I’m a-eatin’ your food an’ a-takin’ up room. An’ I ain’t give you nothin’. Maybe I could get a steady job an’ maybe pay back some a the stuff you’ve give me.”

  Tom opened his mouth and thrust his lower jaw forward, and he tapped his lower teeth with a dried piece of mustard stalk. His eyes stared over the camp, over the gray tents and the shacks of weed and tin and paper. “Wisht I had a sack a Durham,” he said. “I ain’t had a smoke in a hell of a time. Use ta get tobacco in McAlester. Almost wisht I was back.” He tapped his teeth again and suddenly he turned on the preacher. “Ever been in a jail house?”

  “No,” said Casy. “Never been.”

  “Don’t go away right yet,” said Tom. “Not right yet.”

  “Quicker I get lookin’ for work—quicker I’m gonna find some.”

  Tom studied him with half-shut eyes and he put on his cap again. “Look,” he said, “this ain’t no lan’ of milk an’ honey like the preachers say. They’s a mean thing here. The folks here is scared of us people comin’ west; an’ so they got cops out tryin’ to scare us back.”

  “Yeah,” said Casy. “I know. What you ask about me bein’ in jail for?”