Cars lined up, noses forward, rusty noses, flat tires. Parked close together.
Like to get in to see that one? Sure, no trouble. I’ll pull her out of the line.
Get ’em under obligation. Make ’em take up your time. Don’t let ’em forget they’re takin’ your time. People are nice, mostly. They hate to put you out. Make ’em put you out, an’ then sock it to ’em.
Cars lined up, Model T’s, high and snotty, creaking wheel, worn bands. Buicks, Nashes, De Sotos.
Yes, sir. ’ 22 Dodge. Best goddamn car Dodge ever made. Never wear out. Low compression. High compression got lots a sap for a while, but the metal ain’t made that’ll hold it for long. Plymouths, Rocknes, Stars.
Jesus, where’d that Apperson come from, the Ark? And a Chalmers and a Chandler—ain’t made ’em for years. We ain’t sellin’ cars—rolling junk. Goddamn it, I got to get jalopies. I don’t want nothing for more’n twenty-five, thirty bucks. Sell ’em for fifty, seventy-five. That’s a good profit. Christ, what cut do you make on a new car? Get jalopies. I can sell ’em fast as I get ’em. Nothing over two hundred fifty. Jim, corral that old bastard on the sidewalk. Don’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. Try him on that Apperson. Say, where is that Apperson? Sold? If we don’t get some jalopies we got nothing to sell.
Flags, red and white, white and blue—all along the curb. Used Cars. Good Used Cars.
Today’s bargain—up on the platform. Never sell it. Makes folks come in, though. If we sold that bargain at that price we’d hardly make a dime. Tell ’em it’s jus’ sold. Take out that yard battery before you make delivery. Put in that dumb cell. Christ, what they want for six bits? Roll up your sleeves—pitch in. This ain’t gonna last. If I had enough jalopies I’d retire in six months.
Listen, Jim, I heard that Chevvy’s rear end. Sounds like bustin’ bottles. Squirt in a couple quarts of sawdust. Put some in the gears, too. We got to move that lemon for thirty-five dollars. Bastard cheated me on that one. I offer ten an’ he jerks me to fifteen, an’ then the son-of-a-bitch took the tools out. God Almighty! I wisht I had five hundred jalopies. This ain’t gonna last. He don’t like the tires? Tell ’im they got ten thousand in ’em, knock off a buck an’ a half.
Piles of rusty ruins against the fence, rows of wrecks in back, fenders, grease-black wrecks, blocks lying on the ground and a pig weed growing up through the cylinders. Brake rods, exhausts, piled like snakes. Grease, gasoline.
See if you can’t find a spark plug that ain’t cracked. Christ, if I had fifty trailers at under a hundred I’d clean up. What the hell is he kickin’ about? We sell ’em, but we don’t push ’em home for him. That’s good! Don’t push ’em home. Get that one in the Monthly, I bet. You don’t think he’s a prospect? Well, kick ’im out. We got too much to do to bother with a guy that can’t make up his mind. Take the right front tire off the Graham. Turn that mended side down. The rest looks swell. Got tread an’ everything.
Sure! There’s fifty thousan’ in that ol’ heap yet. Keep plenty oil in. So long. Good luck.
Lookin’ for a car? What did you have in mind? See anything attracts you? I’m dry. How about a little snort a good stuff? Come on, while your wife’s lookin’ at that La Salle. You don’t want no La Salle. Bearings shot. Uses too much oil. Got a Lincoln ’24. There’s a car. Run forever. Make her into a truck.
Hot sun on rusted metal. Oil on the ground. People are wandering in, bewildered, needing a car.
Wipe your feet. Don’t lean on that car, it’s dirty. How do you buy a car? What does it cost? Watch the children, now. I wonder how much for this one? We’ll ask. It don’t cost money to ask. We can ask, can’t we? Can’t pay a nickel over seventy-five, or there won’t be enough to get to California.
God, if I could only get a hundred jalopies. I don’t care if they run or not.
Tires, used, bruised tires, stacked in tall cylinders; tubes, red, gray, hanging like sausages.
Tire patch? Radiator cleaner? Spark intensifier? Drop this little pill in your gas tank and get ten extra miles to the gallon. Just paint it on—you got a new surface for fifty cents. Wipers, fan belts, gaskets? Maybe it’s the valve. Get a new valve stem. What can you lose for a nickel?
All right, Joe. You soften ’em up an’ shoot ’em in here. I’ll close ’em, I’ll deal ’em or I’ll kill ’em. Don’t send in no bums. I want deals.
Yes, sir, step in. You got a buy there. Yes, sir! At eighty bucks you got a buy.
I can’t go no higher than fifty. The fella outside says fifty.
Fifty. Fifty? He’s nuts. Paid seventy-eight fifty for that little number. Joe, you crazy fool, you tryin’ to bust us? Have to can that guy. I might take sixty. Now look here, mister, I ain’t got all day. I’m a business man but I ain’t out to stick nobody. Got anything to trade?
Got a pair of mules I’ll trade.
Mules! Hey, Joe, hear this? This guy wants to trade mules. Didn’t nobody tell you this is the machine age? They don’t use mules for nothing but glue no more.
Fine big mules—five and seven years old. Maybe we better look around.
Look around! You come in when we’re busy, an’ take up our time an’ then walk out! Joe, did you know you was talkin’ to pikers?
I ain’t a piker. I got to get a car. We’re goin’ to California. I got to get a car.
Well, I’m a sucker. Joe says I’m a sucker. Says if I don’t quit givin’ my shirt away I’ll starve to death. Tell you what I’ll do—I can get five bucks apiece for them mules for dog feed.
I wouldn’t want them to go for dog feed.
Well, maybe I can get ten or seven maybe. Tell you what we’ll do. We’ll take your mules for twenty. Wagon goes with ’em, don’t it? An’ you put up fifty, an’ you can sign a contract to send the rest at ten dollars a month.
But you said eighty.
Didn’t you never hear about carrying charges and insurance? That just boosts her a little. You’ll get her all paid up in four-five months. Sign your name right here. We’ll take care of ever’thing.
Well, I don’t know——
Now, look here. I’m givin’ you my shirt, an’ you took all this time. I might a made three sales while I been talkin’ to you. I’m disgusted. Yeah, sign right there. All right, sir. Joe, fill up the tank for this gentleman. We’ll give him gas.
Jesus, Joe, that was a hot one! What’d we give for that jalopy? Thirty bucks—thirty-five wasn’t it? I got that team, an’ if I can’t get seventy-five for that team, I ain’t a business man. An’ I got fifty cash an’ a contract for forty more. Oh, I know they’re not all honest, but it’ll surprise you how many kick through with the rest. One guy come through with a hundred two years after I wrote him off. I bet you this guy sends the money. Christ, if I could only get five hundred jalopies! Roll up your sleeves, Joe. Go out an’ soften ’em, an’ send ’em in to me. You get twenty on that last deal. You ain’t doing bad.
Limp flags in the afternoon sun. Today’s Bargain. ’29 Ford pickup, runs good.
What do you want for fifty bucks—a Zephyr?
Horsehair curling out of seat cushions, fenders battered and hammered back. Bumpers torn loose and hanging. Fancy Ford roadster with little colored lights at fender guide, at radiator cap, and three behind. Mud aprons, and a big die on the gear-shift lever. Pretty girl on tire cover, painted in color and named Cora. Afternoon sun on the dusty windshields.
Christ, I ain’t had time to go out an’ eat! Joe, send a kid for a hamburger.
Spattering roar of ancient engines.
There’s a dumb-bunny lookin’ at that Chrysler. Find out if he got any jack in his jeans. Some a these farm boys is sneaky. Soften ’em up an’ roll ’em in to me, Joe. You’re doin’ good.
Sure, we sold it. Guarantee? We guaranteed it to be an automobile. We didn’t guarantee to wet-nurse it. Now listen here, you—you bought a car, an’ now you’re squawkin’. I don’t give a damn if you don’t make payments. We ain’t got your paper. We turn that over to t
he finance company. They’ll get after you, not us. We don’t hold no paper. Yeah? Well you jus’ get tough an’ I’ll call a cop. No, we did not switch the tires. Run ’im outa here, Joe. He bought a car, an’ now he ain’t satisfied. How’d you think if I bought a steak an’ et half an’ try to bring it back? We’re runnin’ a business, not a charity ward. Can ya imagine that guy, Joe? Say—looka there! Got a Elk’s tooth! Run over there. Let ’em glance over that ’36 Pontiac. Yeah.
Square noses, round noses, rusty noses, shovel noses, and the long curves of streamlines, and the flat surfaces before streamlining. Bargains Today. Old monsters with deep upholstery—you can cut her into a truck easy. Two-wheel trailers, axles rusty in the hard afternoon sun. Used Cars. Good Used Cars. Clean, runs good. Don’t pump oil.
Christ, look at ’er! Somebody took nice care of ’er.
Cadillacs, La Salles, Buicks, Plymouths, Packards, Chevvies, Fords, Pontiacs. Row on row, headlights glinting in the afternoon sun. Good Used Cars.
Soften ’em up, Joe. Jesus, I wisht I had a thousand jalopies! Get ’em ready to deal, an’ I’ll close ’em.
Goin’ to California? Here’s jus’ what you need. Looks shot, but they’s thousan’s of miles in her.
Lined up side by side. Good Used Cars. Bargains. Clean, runs good.
Chapter 8
The sky grayed among the stars, and the pale, late quarter-moon was insubstantial and thin. Tom Joad and the preacher walked quickly along a road that was only wheel tracks and beaten caterpillar tracks through a cotton field. Only the unbalanced sky showed the approach of dawn, no horizon to the west, and a line to the east. The two men walked in silence and smelled the dust their feet kicked into the air.
“I hope you’re dead sure of the way,” Jim Casy said. “I’d hate to have the dawn come and us be way to hell an’ gone somewhere.” The cotton field scurried with waking life, the quick flutter of morning birds feeding on the ground, the scamper over the clods of disturbed rabbits. The quiet thudding of the men’s feet in the dust, the squeak of crushed clods under their shoes, sounded against the secret noises of the dawn.
Tom said, “I could shut my eyes an’ walk right there. On’y way I can go wrong is think about her. Jus’ forget about her, an’ I’ll go right there. Hell, man, I was born right aroun’ in here. I run aroun’ here when I was a kid. They’s a tree over there—look, you can jus’ make it out. Well, once my old man hung up a dead coyote in that tree. Hung there till it was all sort of melted, an’ then dropped off. Dried up, like. Jesus, I hope Ma’s cookin’ somepin. My belly’s caved.”
“Me too,” said Casy. “Like a little eatin’ tobacca? Keeps ya from gettin’ too hungry. Been better if we didn’ start so damn early. Better if it was light.” He paused to gnaw off a piece of plug. “I was sleepin’ nice.”
“That crazy Muley done it,” said Tom. “He got me clear jumpy. Wakes me up an’ says, ‘’By, Tom. I’m goin’ on. I got places to go.’ An’ he says, ‘Better get goin’ too, so’s you’ll be offa this lan’ when the light comes.’ He’s gettin’ screwy as a gopher, livin’ like he does. You’d think Injuns was after him. Think he’s nuts?”
“Well, I dunno. You seen that car come las’ night when we had a little fire. You seen how the house was smashed. They’s somepin purty mean goin’ on. ’Course Muley’s crazy, all right. Creepin’ aroun’ like a coyote; that’s boun’ to make him crazy. He’ll kill somebody purty soon an’ they’ll run him down with dogs. I can see it like a prophecy. He’ll get worse an’ worse. Wouldn’ come along with us, you say?”
“No,” said Joad. “I think he’s scared to see people now. Wonder he come up to us. We’ll be at Uncle John’s place by sunrise.” They walked along in silence for a time, and the late owls flew over toward the barns, the hollow trees, the tank houses, where they hid from daylight. The eastern sky grew fairer and it was possible to see the cotton plants and the graying earth. “Damn’ if I know how they’re all sleepin’ at Uncle John’s. He on’y got one room an’ a cookin’ leanto, an’ a little bit of a barn. Must be a mob there now.”
The preacher said, “I don’t recollect that John had a fambly. Just a lone man, ain’t he? I don’t recollect much about him.”
“Lonest goddamn man in the world,” said Joad. “Crazy kind of son-of-a-bitch, too—somepin like Muley, on’y worse in some ways. Might see ’im anywheres—at Shawnee, drunk, or visitin’ a widow twenty miles away, or workin’ his place with a lantern. Crazy. Ever’body thought he wouldn’t live long. A lone man like that don’t live long. But Uncle John’s older’n Pa. Jus’ gets stringier an’ meaner ever’ year. Meaner’n Grampa.”
“Look a the light comin’,” said the preacher. “Silvery-like. Didn’ John never have no fambly?”
“Well, yes, he did, an’ that’ll show you the kind a fella he is—set in his ways. Pa tells about it. Uncle John, he had a young wife. Married four months. She was in a family way, too, an’ one night she gets a pain in her stomick, an’ she says, ‘You better go for a doctor.’ Well, John, he’s settin’ there, an’ he says, ‘You just got a stomickache. You et too much. Take a dose a pain killer. You crowd up ya stomick an’ ya get a stomickache,’ he says. Nex’ noon she’s outa her head, an’ she dies at about four in the afternoon.”
“What was it?” Casy asked. “Poisoned from somepin she et?”
“No, somepin jus’ bust in her. Ap—appendick or somepin. Well, Uncle John, he’s always been a easy-goin’ fella, an’ he takes it hard. Takes it for a sin. For a long time he won’t have nothin’ to say to nobody. Just walks aroun’ like he don’t see nothin’, an’ he prays some. Took ’im two years to come out of it, an’ then he ain’t the same. Sort of wild. Made a damn nuisance of hisself. Ever’ time one of us kids got worms or a gutache Uncle John brings a doctor out. Pa finally tol’ him he got to stop. Kids all the time gettin’ a gutache. He figures it’s his fault his woman died. Funny fella. He’s all the time makin’ it up to somebody—givin’ kids stuff, droppin’ a sack a meal on somebody’s porch. Give away about ever’thing he got, an’ still he ain’t very happy. Gets walkin’ around alone at night sometimes. He’s a good farmer, though. Keeps his lan’ nice.”
“Poor fella,” said the preacher. “Poor lonely fella. Did he go to church much when his woman died?”
“No, he didn’. Never wanted to get close to folks. Wanted to be off alone. I never seen a kid that wasn’t crazy about him. He’d come to our house in the night sometimes, an’ we knowed he come ’cause jus’ as sure as he come there’d be a pack a gum in the bed right beside ever’ one of us. We thought he was Jesus Christ Awmighty.”
The preacher walked along, head down. He didn’t answer. And the light of the coming morning made his forehead seem to shine, and his hands, swinging beside him, flicked into the light and out again.
Tom was silent too, as though he had said too intimate a thing and was ashamed. He quickened his pace and the preacher kept step. They could see a little into gray distance ahead now. A snake wriggled slowly from the cotton rows into the road. Tom stopped short of it and peered. “Gopher snake,” he said. “Let him go.” They walked around the snake and went on their way. A little color came into the eastern sky, and almost immediately the lonely dawn light crept over the land. Green appeared on the cotton plants and the earth was gray-brown. The faces of the men lost their grayish shine. Joad’s face seemed to darken with the growing light. “This is the good time,” Joad said softly. “When I was a kid I used to get up an’ walk around by myself when it was like this. What’s that ahead?”
A committee of dogs had met in the road, in honor of a bitch. Five males, shepherd mongrels, collie mongrels, dogs whose breeds had been blurred by a freedom of social life, were engaged in complimenting the bitch. For each dog sniffed daintily and then stalked to a cotton plant on stiff legs, raised a hind foot ceremoniously and wetted, then went back to smell. Joad and the preacher stopped to watch, and suddenly Joad laughed joyously. “By God!” he said. �
�By God!” Now all dogs met and hackles rose, and they all growled and stood stiffly, each waiting for the others to start a fight. One dog mounted and, now that it was accomplished, the others gave way and watched with interest, and their tongues were out, and their tongues dripped. The two men walked on. “By God!” Joad said. “I think that up-dog is our Flash. I thought he’d be dead. Come, Flash!” He laughed again. “What the hell, if somebody called me, I wouldn’t hear him neither. ’Minds me of a story they tell about Willy Feeley when he was a young fella. Willy was bashful, awful bashful. Well, one day he takes a heifer over to Graves’ bull. Ever’body was out but Elsie Graves, and Elsie wasn’t bashful at all. Willy, he stood there turnin’ red an’ he couldn’t even talk. Elsie says, ‘I know what you come for; the bull’s out in back a the barn.’ Well, they took the heifer out there an’ Willy an’ Elsie sat on the fence to watch. Purty soon Willy got feelin’ purty fly. Elsie looks over an’ says, like she don’t know, ‘What’s a matter, Willy?’ Willy’s so randy he can’t hardly set still. ‘By God,’ he says, ‘by God, I wisht I was a-doin’ that!’ Elsie says, ‘Why not, Willy? It’s your heifer.’”
The preacher laughed softly. “You know,” he said, “it’s a nice thing not bein’ a preacher no more. Nobody use’ ta tell stories when I was there, or if they did I couldn’ laugh. An’ I couldn’ cuss. Now I cuss all I want, any time I want, an’ it does a fella good to cuss if he wants to.”
A redness grew up out of the eastern horizon, and on the ground birds began to chirp, sharply. “Look!” said Joad. “Right ahead. That’s Uncle John’s tank. Can’t see the win’mill, but there’s his tank. See it against the sky?” He speeded his walk. “I wonder if all the folks are there.” The hulk of the tank stood above a rise. Joad, hurrying, raised a cloud of dust about his knees. “I wonder if Ma —” They saw the tank legs now, and the house, a square little box, unpainted and bare, and the barn, low-roofed and huddled. Smoke was rising from the tin chimney of the house. In the yard was a litter, piled furniture, the blades and motor of the windmill, bedsteads, chairs, tables. “Holy Christ, they’re fixin’ to go!” Joad said. A truck stood in the yard, a truck with high sides, but a strange truck, for while the front of it was a sedan, the top had been cut off in the middle and the truck bed fitted on. And as they drew near, the men could hear pounding from the yard, and as the rim of the blinding sun came up over the horizon, it fell on the truck, and they saw a man and the flash of his hammer as it rose and fell. And the sun flashed on the windows of the house. The weathered boards were bright. Two red chickens on the ground flamed with reflected light.
The Grapes of Wrath Page 13
