Al said, “Oh! I won’t talk about it no more, Tom.”
“Thirty days is all right,” Tom said. “An’ a hunderd an’ eighty days is all right. But over a year—I dunno. There’s somepin about it that ain’t like nothin’ else in the worl’. Somepin screwy about it, somepin screwy about the whole idea a lockin’ people up. Oh, the hell with it! I don’ wanna talk about it. Look a the sun a-flashin’ on them windas.”
The truck drove to the service-station belt, and there on the right-hand side of the road was a wrecking yard—an acre lot surrounded by a high barbed-wire fence, a corrugated iron shed in front with used tires piled up by the doors, and price-marked. Behind the shed there was a little shack built of scrap, scrap lumber and pieces of tin. The windows were windshields built into the walls. In the grassy lot the wrecks lay, cars with twisted, stove-in noses, wounded cars lying on their sides with the wheels gone. Engines rusting on the ground and against the shed. A great pile of junk; fenders and truck sides, wheels and axles; over the whole lot a spirit of decay, of mold and rust; twisted iron, half-gutted engines, a mass of derelicts.
Al drove the truck up on the oily ground in front of the shed. Tom got out and looked into the dark doorway. “Don’t see nobody,” he said, and he called, “Anybody here?”
“Jesus, I hope they got a ’25 Dodge.”
Behind the shed a door banged. A specter of a man came through the dark shed. Thin, dirty, oily skin tight against stringy muscles. One eye was gone, and the raw, uncovered socket squirmed with eye muscles when his good eye moved. His jeans and shirt were thick and shiny with old grease, and his hands cracked and lined and cut. His heavy, pouting underlip hung out sullenly.
Tom asked, “You the boss?”
The one eye glared. “I work for the boss,” he said sullenly. “Whatcha want?”
“Got a wrecked ’ 25 Dodge? We need a con-rod.”
“I don’t know. If the boss was here he could tell ya—but he ain’t here. He’s went home.”
“Can we look an’ see?”
The man blew his nose into the palm of his hand and wiped his hand on his trousers. “You from hereabouts?”
“Come from east—goin’ west.”
“Look aroun’ then. Burn the goddamn place down, for all I care.”
“Looks like you don’t love your boss none.”
The man shambled close, his one eye flaring. “I hate ’im,” he said softly. “I hate the son-of-a-bitch! Gone home now. Gone home to his house.” The words fell stumbling out. “He got a way—he got a way a-pickin’ a fella an’ a-tearin’ a fella. He—the son-of-a-bitch. Got a girl nineteen, purty. Says to me, ‘How’d ya like ta marry her?’ Says that right to me. An’ tonight—says, ‘They’s a dance; how’d ya like to go?’ Me, he says it to me!” Tears formed in his eyes and tears dripped from the corner of the red eye socket. “Some day, by God—some day I’m gonna have a pipe wrench in my pocket. When he says them things he looks at my eye. An’ I’m gonna, I’m gonna jus’ take his head right down off his neck with that wrench, little piece at a time.” He panted with his fury. “Little piece at a time, right down off’n his neck.”
The sun disappeared behind the mountains. Al looked into the lot at the wrecked cars. “Over there, look, Tom! That there looks like a ’25 or ’26.”
Tom turned to the one-eyed man. “Mind if we look?”
“Hell, no! Take any goddamn thing you want.”
They walked, threading their way among the dead automobiles, to a rusting sedan, resting on flat tires.
“Sure it’s a ’25,” Al cried. “Can we yank off the pan, mister?”
Tom kneeled down and looked under the car. “Pan’s off awready. One rod’s been took. Looks like one gone.” He wriggled under the car. “Get a crank an’ turn her over, Al.” He worked the rod against the shaft. “Purty much froze with grease.” Al turned the crank slowly. “Easy,” Tom called. He picked a splinter of wood from the ground and scraped the cake of grease from the bearing and the bearing bolts.
“How is she for tight?” Al asked.
“Well, she’s a little loose, but not bad.”
“Well, how is she for wore?”
“Got plenty shim. Ain’t been all took up. Yeah, she’s O.K. Turn her over easy now. Get her down, easy—there! Run over the truck an’ get some tools.”
The one-eyed man said, “I’ll get you a box a tools.” He shuffled off among the rusty cars and in a moment he came back with a tin box of tools. Tom dug out a socket wrench and handed it to Al.
“You take her off. Don’ lose no shims an’ don’ let the bolts get away, an’ keep track a the cotter-pins. Hurry up. The light’s gettin’ dim.”
Al crawled under the car. “We oughta get us a set a socket wrenches,” he called. “Can’t get in no place with a monkey wrench.”
“Yell out if you want a hand,” Tom said.
The one-eyed man stood helplessly by. “I’ll help ya if ya want,” he said. “Know what that son-of-a-bitch done? He come by an’ he got on white pants. An’ he says, ‘Come on, le’s go out to my yacht.’ By God, I’ll whang him some day!” He breathed heavily. “I ain’t been out with a woman sence I los’ my eye. An’ he says stuff like that.” And big tears cut channels in the dirt beside his nose.
Tom said impatiently, “Whyn’t you roll on? Got no guards to keep ya here.”
“Yeah, that’s easy to say. Ain’t so easy to get a job—not for a one-eye’ man.”
Tom turned on him. “Now look-a-here, fella. You got that eye wide open. An’ ya dirty, ya stink. Ya jus’ askin’ for it. Ya like it. Lets ya feel sorry for yaself. ’Course ya can’t get no woman with that empty eye flappin’ aroun’. Put somepin over it an’ wash ya face. You ain’t hittin’ nobody with no pipe wrench.”
“I tell ya, a one-eye’ fella got a hard row,” the man said. “Can’t see stuff the way other fellas can. Can’t see how far off a thing is. Ever’thing’s jus’ flat.”
Tom said, “Ya full a crap. Why, I knowed a one-legged whore one time. Think she was takin’ two-bits in a alley? No, by God! She’s gettin’ half a dollar extra. She says, ‘How many one-legged women you slep’ with? None!’ she says. ‘O.K.,’ she says. ‘You got somepin pretty special here, an’ it’s gonna cos’ ya half a buck extry.’ An’ by God, she was gettin’ ’em, too, an’ the fellas comin’ out thinkin’ they’re pretty lucky. She says she’s good luck. An’ I knowed a hump-back in—in a place I was. Make his whole livin’ lettin’ folks rub his hump for luck. Jesus Christ, an’ all you got is one eye gone.”
The man said stumblingly, “Well, Jesus, ya see somebody edge away from ya, an’ it gets into ya.”
“Cover it up then, goddamn it. Ya stickin’ it out like a cow’s ass. Ya like to feel sorry for yaself. There ain’t nothin’ the matter with you. Buy yaself some white pants. Ya gettin’ drunk an’ cryin’ in ya bed, I bet. Need any help, Al?”
“No,” said Al. “I got this here bearin’ loose. Jus’ tryin’ to work the piston down.”
“Don’ bang yaself,” said Tom.
The one-eyed man said softly, “Think—somebody’d like—me?”
“Why, sure,” said Tom. “Tell ’em ya dong’s growed sence you los’ your eye.”
“Where at you fellas goin’?”
“California. Whole family. Gonna get work out there.”
“Well, ya think a fella like me could get work? Black patch on my eye?”
“Why not? You ain’t no cripple.”
“Well—could I catch a ride with you fellas?”
“Christ, no. We’re so goddamn full now we can’t move. You get out some other way. Fix up one a these here wrecks an’ go out by yaself.”
“Maybe I will, by God,” said the one-eyed man.
There was a clash of metal. “I got her,” Al called.
“Well, bring her out, let’s look at her.” Al handed him the piston and connecting-rod and the lower half of the bearing.
Tom wiped the babbitt surf
ace and sighted along it sideways. “Looks O.K. to me,” he said. “Say, by God, if we had a light we could get this here in tonight.”
“Say, Tom,” Al said, “I been thinkin’. We got no ring clamps. Gonna be a job gettin’ them rings in, specially underneath.”
Tom said, “Ya know, a fella tol’ me one time ya wrap some fine brass wire aroun’ the ring to hol’ her.”
“Yeah, but how ya gonna get the wire off?”
“Ya don’t get her off. She melts off an’ don’t hurt nothin’.”
“Copper wire’d be better.”
“It ain’t strong enough,” said Tom. He turned to the one-eyed man. “Got any fine brass wire?”
“I dunno. I think they’s a spool somewheres. Where d’ya think a fella could get one a them patches one-eye’ fellas wear?”
“I don’ know,” said Tom. “Le’s see if you can fin’ that wire.”
In the iron shed they dug through boxes until they found the spool. Tom set the rod in a vise and carefully wrapped the wire around the piston rings, forcing them deep into their slots, and where the wire was twisted he hammered it flat; and then he turned the piston and tapped the wire all around until it cleared the piston wall. He ran his finger up and down to make sure that the rings and wire were flush with the wall. It was getting dark in the shed. The one-eyed man brought a flashlight and shone its beam on the work.
“There she is!” said Tom. “Say—what’ll ya take for that light?”
“Well, it ain’t much good. Got fifteen cents’ a new batteries. You can have her for—oh, thirty-five cents.”
“O.K. An’ what we owe ya for this here con-rod an’ piston?”
The one-eyed man rubbed his forehead with a knuckle, and a line of dirt peeled off. “Well, sir, I jus’ dunno. If the boss was here, he’d go to a parts book an’ he’d find out how much is a new one, an’ while you was workin’, he’d be findin’ out how bad you’re hung up, an’ how much jack ya got, an’ then he’d—well, say it’s eight bucks in the part book—he’d make a price a five bucks. An’ if you put up a squawk, you’d get it for three. You say it’s all me, but, by God, he’s a son-of-a-bitch. Figgers how bad ya need it. I seen him git more for a ring gear than he give for the whole car.”
“Yeah! But how much am I gonna give you for this here?”
“’Bout a buck, I guess.”
“Awright, an’ I’ll give ya a quarter for this here socket wrench. Make it twice as easy.” He handed over the silver. “Thank ya. An’ cover up that goddamn eye.”
Tom and Al got into the truck. It was deep dark. Al started the motor and turned on the lights. “So long,” Tom called. “See ya maybe in California.” They turned across the highway and started back.
The one-eyed man watched them go, and then he went through the iron shed to his shack behind. It was dark inside. He felt his way to the mattress on the floor, and he stretched out and cried in his bed, and the cars whizzing by on the highway only strengthened the walls of his loneliness.
Tom said, “If you’d tol’ me we’d get this here thing an’ get her in tonight, I’d said you was nuts.”
“We’ll get her in awright,” said Al. “You got to do her, though. I’d be scared I’d get her too tight an’ she’d burn out, or too loose an’ she’d hammer out.”
“I’ll stick her in,” said Tom. “If she goes out again, she goes out. I got nothin’ to lose.”
Al peered into the dusk. The lights made no impression on the gloom; but ahead, the eyes of a hunting cat flashed green in reflection of the lights. “You sure give that fella hell,” Al said. “Sure did tell him where to lay down his dogs.”
“Well, goddamn it, he was askin’ for it! Jus’ a pattin’ his-self ’cause he got one eye, puttin’ all the blame on his eye. He’s a lazy, dirty son-of-a-bitch. Maybe he can snap out of it if he knowed people was wise to him.”
Al said, “Tom, it wasn’t nothin’ I done burned out that bearin’.”
Tom was silent for a moment, then, “I’m gonna take a fall outa you, Al. You jus’ scrabblin’ ass over tit, fear somebody gonna pin some blame on you. I know what’s a matter. Young fella, all full a piss an’ vinegar. Wanta be a hell of a guy all the time. But, goddamn it, Al, don’ keep ya guard up when nobody ain’t sparrin’ with ya. You gonna be all right.”
Al did not answer him. He looked straight ahead. The truck rattled and banged over the road. A cat whipped out from the side of the road and Al swerved to hit it, but the wheels missed and the cat leaped into the grass.
“Nearly got him,” said Al. “Say, Tom. You heard Connie talkin’ how he’s gonna study nights? I been thinkin’ maybe I’d study nights too. You know, radio or television or Diesel engines. Fella might get started that-a-way.”
“Might,” said Tom. “Find out how much they gonna sock ya for the lessons, first. An’figger out if you’re gonna study ’em. There was fellas takin’ them mail lessons in McAlester. I never knowed one of ’em that finished up. Got sick of it an’ left ’em slide.”
“God Awmighty, we forgot to get somepin to eat.”
“Well, Ma sent down plenty; preacher couldn’ eat it all. Be some lef’. I wonder how long it’ll take us to get to California.”
“Christ, I don’ know. Jus’ plug away at her.”
They fell into silence, and the dark came and the stars were sharp and white.
Casy got out of the back seat of the Dodge and strolled to the side of the road when the truck pulled up. “I never expected you so soon,” he said.
Tom gathered the parts in the piece of sacking on the floor. “We was lucky,” he said. “Got a flashlight, too. Gonna fix her right up.”
“You forgot to take your dinner,” said Casy.
“I’ll get it when I finish. Here, Al, pull off the road a little more an’ come hol’ the light for me.” He went directly to the Dodge and crawled under on his back. Al crawled under on his belly and directed the beam of the flashlight. “Not in my eyes. There, put her up.” Tom worked the piston up into the cylinder, twisting and turning. The brass wire caught a little on the cylinder wall. With a quick push he forced it past the rings. “Lucky she’s loose or the compression’d stop her. I think she’s gonna work all right.”
“Hope that wire don’t clog the rings,” said Al.
“Well, that’s why I hammered her flat. She won’t roll off. I think she’ll jus’ melt out an’ maybe give the walls a brass plate.”
“Think she might score the walls?”
Tom laughed. “Jesus Christ, them walls can take it. She’s drinkin’ oil like a gopher hole awready. Little more ain’t gonna hurt none.” He worked the rod down over the shaft and tested the lower half. “She’ll take some shim.” He said, “Casy!”
“Yeah.”
“I’m takin’ up this here bearing now. Get out to that crank an’ turn her over slow when I tell ya.” He tightened the bolts. “Now. Over slow!” And as the angular shaft turned, he worked the bearing against it. “Too much shim,” Tom said. “Hold it, Casy.” He took out the bolts and removed thin shims from each side and put the bolts back. “Try her again, Casy!” And he worked the rod again. “She’s a lit-tle bit loose yet. Wonder if she’d be too tight if I took out more shim. I’ll try her.” Again he removed the bolts and took out another pair of the thin strips. “Now try her, Casy.”
“That looks good,” said Al.
Tom called, “She any harder to turn, Casy?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, I think she’s snug here. I hope to God she is. Can’t hone no babbitt without tools. This here socket wrench makes her a hell of a lot easier.”
Al said, “Boss a that yard gonna be purty mad when he looks for that size socket an’ she ain’t there.”
“That’s his screwin’,” said Tom. “We didn’ steal her.” He tapped the cotter-pins in and bent the ends out. “I think that’s good. Look, Casy, you hold the light while me an’ Al get this here pan up.”
Cas
y knelt down and took the flashlight. He kept the beam on the working hands as they patted the gasket gently in place and lined the holes with the pan bolts. The two men strained at the weight of the pan, caught the end bolts, and then set in the others; and when they were all engaged, Tom took them up little by little until the pan settled evenly in against the gasket, and he tightened hard against the nuts.
“I guess that’s her,” Tom said. He tightened the oil tap, looked carefully up at the pan, and took the light and searched the ground. “There she is. Le’s get the oil back in her.”
They crawled out and poured the bucket of oil back in the crank case. Tom inspected the gasket for leaks.
“O.K., Al. Turn her over,” he said. Al got into the car and stepped on the starter. The motor caught with a roar. Blue smoke poured from the exhaust pipe. “Throttle down!” Tom shouted. “She’ll burn oil till that wire goes. Gettin’ thinner now.” And as the motor turned over, he listened carefully. “Put up the spark an’ let her idle.” He listened again. “O.K., Al. Turn her off. I think we done her. Where’s that meat now?”
“You make a darn good mechanic,” Al said.
“Why not? I worked in the shop a year. We’ll take her good an’ slow for a couple hunderd miles. Give her a chance to work in.”
They wiped their grease-covered hands on bunches of weeds and finally rubbed them on their trousers. They fell hungrily on the boiled pork and swigged the water from the bottle.
“I like to starved,” said Al. “What we gonna do now, go on to the camp?”
“I dunno,” said Tom. “Maybe they’d charge us a extry half-buck. Le’s go on an’ talk to the folks—tell ’em we’re fixed. Then if they wanta sock us extry—we’ll move on. The folks’ll wanta know. Jesus, I’m glad Ma stopped us this afternoon. Look around with the light, Al. See we don’t leave nothin’. Get that socket wrench in. We may need her again.”
The Grapes of Wrath Page 27
