The Grapes of Wrath

by John Steinbeck

  Al searched the ground with the flashlight. “Don’t see nothin’.”

  “All right. I’ll drive her. You bring the truck, Al.” Tom started the engine. The preacher got in the car. Tom moved slowly, keeping the engine at a low speed, and Al followed in the truck. He crossed the shallow ditch, crawling in low gear. Tom said, “These here Dodges can pull a house in low gear. She’s sure ratio’d down. Good thing for us—I wanta break that bearin’ in easy.”

  On the highway the Dodge moved along slowly. The 12-volt headlights threw a short blob of yellowish light on the pavement.

  Casy turned to Tom. “Funny how you fellas can fix a car. Jus’ light right in an’ fix her. I couldn’t fix no car, not even now when I seen you do it.”

  “Got to grow into her when you’re a little kid,” Tom said. “It ain’t jus’ knowin’. It’s more’n that. Kids now can tear down a car ’thout even thinkin’ about it.”

  A jackrabbit got caught in the lights and he bounced along ahead, cruising easily, his great ears flopping with every jump. Now and then he tried to break off the road, but the wall of darkness thrust him back. Far ahead bright headlights appeared and bore down on them. The rabbit hesitated, faltered, then turned and bolted toward the lesser lights of the Dodge. There was a small soft jolt as he went under the wheels. The oncoming car swished by.

  “We sure squashed him,” said Casy.

  Tom said, “Some fellas like to hit ’em. Gives me a little shakes ever’ time. Car sounds OK. Them rings must a broke loose by now. She ain’t smokin’ so bad.”

  “You done a nice job,” said Casy.

  A small wooden house dominated the camp ground, and on the porch of the house a gasoline lantern hissed and threw its white glare in a great circle. Half a dozen tents were pitched near the house, and cars stood beside the tents. Cooking for the night was over, but the coals of the campfires still glowed on the ground by the camping places. A group of men had gathered to the porch where the lantern burned, and their faces were strong and muscled under the harsh white light, light that threw black shadows of their hats over their foreheads and eyes and made their chins seem to jut out. They sat on the steps, and some stood on the ground, resting their elbows on the porch floor. The proprietor, a sullen lanky man, sat in a chair on the porch. He leaned back against the wall, and he drummed his fingers on his knee. Inside the house a kerosene lamp burned, but its thin light was blasted by the hissing glare of the gasoline lantern. The gathering of men surrounded the proprietor.

  Tom drove the Dodge to the side of the road and parked. Al drove through the gate in the truck. “No need to take her in,” Tom said. He got out and walked through the gate to the white glare of the lantern.

  The proprietor dropped his front chair legs to the floor and leaned forward. “You men wanta camp here?”

  “No,” said Tom. “We got folks here. Hi, Pa.”

  Pa, seated on the bottom step, said, “Thought you was gonna be all week. Get her fixed?”

  “We was pig lucky,” said Tom. “Got a part ’fore dark. We can get goin’ fust thing in the mornin’.”

  “That’s a pretty nice thing,” said Pa. “Ma’s worried. Ya Granma’s off her chump.”

  “Yeah, Al tol’ me. She any better now?”

  “Well, anyways she’s a-sleepin’.”

  The proprietor said, “If you wanta pull in here an’ camp it’ll cost you four bits. Get a place to camp an’ water an’ wood. An’ nobody won’t bother you.”

  “What the hell,” said Tom. “We can sleep in the ditch right beside the road, an’ it won’t cost nothin’.”

  The owner drummed his knee with his fingers. “Deputy sheriff comes on by in the night. Might make it tough for ya. Got a law against sleepin’ out in this State. Got a law about vagrants.”

  “If I pay you a half a dollar I ain’t a vagrant, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  Tom’s eyes glowed angrily. “Deputy sheriff ain’t your brother-’n-law by any chance?”

  The owner leaned forward. “No, he ain’t. An’ the time ain’t come yet when us local folks got to take no talk from you goddamn bums, neither.”

  “It don’t trouble you none to take our four bits. An’ when’d we get to be bums? We ain’t asked ya for nothin’. All of us bums, huh? Well, we ain’t askin’ no nickels from you for the chance to lay down an’ rest.”

  The men on the porch were rigid, motionless, quiet. Expression was gone from their faces; and their eyes, in the shadows under their hats, moved secretly up to the face of the proprietor.

  Pa growled, “Come off it, Tom.”

  “Sure, I’ll come off it.”

  The circle of men were quiet, sitting on the steps, leaning on the high porch. Their eyes glittered under the harsh light of the gas lantern. Their faces were hard in the hard light, and they were very still. Only their eyes moved from speaker to speaker, and their faces were expressionless and quiet. A lamp bug slammed into the lantern and broke itself, and fell into the darkness.

  In one of the tents a child wailed in complaint, and a woman’s soft voice soothed it and then broke into a low song, “Jesus loves you in the night. Sleep good, sleep good. Jesus watches in the night. Sleep, oh, sleep, oh.”

  The lantern hissed on the porch. The owner scratched in the V of his open shirt, where a tangle of white chest hair showed. He was watchful and ringed with trouble. He watched the men in the circle, watched for some expression. And they made no move.

  Tom was silent for a long time. His dark eyes looked slowly up at the proprietor. “I don’t wanta make no trouble,” he said. “It’s a hard thing to be named a bum. I ain’t afraid,” he said softly. “I’ll go for you an’ your deputy with my mitts—here now, or jump Jesus. But there ain’t no good in it.”

  The men stirred, changed positions, and their glittering eyes moved slowly upward to the mouth of the proprietor, and their eyes watched for his lips to move. He was reassured. He felt that he had won, but not decisively enough to charge in. “Ain’t you got half a buck?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I got it. But I’m gonna need it. I can’t set it out jus’ for sleepin’.”

  “Well, we all got to make a livin’.”

  “Yeah,” Tom said. “On’y I wisht they was some way to make her ’thout takin’ her away from somebody else.”

  The men shifted again. And Pa said, “We’ll get movin’ smart early. Look, mister. We paid. This here fella is part a our folks. Can’t he stay? We paid.”

  “Half a dollar a car,” said the proprietor.

  “Well, he ain’t got no car. Car’s out in the road.”

  “He came in a car,” said the proprietor. “Ever’body’d leave their car out there an’ come in an’ use my place for nothin’.”

  Tom said, “We’ll drive along the road. Meet ya in the morning. We’ll watch for ya. Al can stay an’ Uncle John can come with us —” He looked at the proprietor. “That awright with you?”

  He made a quick decision, with a concession in it. “If the same number stays that come an’ paid—that’s awright.”

  Tom brought out his bag of tobacco, a limp gray rag by now, with a little damp tobacco dust in the bottom of it. He made a lean cigarette and tossed the bag away. “We’ll go along pretty soon,” he said.

  Pa spoke generally to the circle. “It’s dirt hard for folks to tear up an’ go. Folks like us that had our place. We ain’t shif’less. Till we got tractored off, we was people with a farm.”

  A young thin man, with eyebrows sunburned yellow, turned his head slowly. “Croppin’?” he asked.

  “Sure we was sharecroppin’. Use’ ta own the place.”

  The young man faced forward again. “Same as us,” he said.

  “Lucky for us it ain’t gonna las’ long,” said Pa. “We’ll get out west an’ we’ll get work an’ we’ll get a piece a growin’ land with water.”

  Near the edge of the porch a ragged man stood. His black coat dripped torn streamers. The knees were
gone from his dungarees. His face was black with dust, and lined where sweat had washed through. He swung his head towards Pa. “You folks must have a nice little pot a money.”

  “No, we ain’t got no money,” Pa said. “But they’s plenty of us to work, an’ we’re all good men. Get good wages out there an’ we’ll put ’em together. We’ll make out.”

  The ragged man stared while Pa spoke, and then he laughed, and his laughter turned to a high whinnying giggle. The circle of faces turned to him. The giggling got out of control and turned into coughing. His eyes were red and watering when he finally controlled the spasms. “You goin’ out there—oh, Christ!” The giggling started again. “You goin’ out an’ get—good wages—oh, Christ!” He stopped and said slyly, “Pickin’ oranges maybe? Gonna pick peaches?”

  Pa’s tone was dignified. “We gonna take what they got. They got lots a stuff to work in.” The ragged man giggled under his breath.

  Tom turned irritably. “What’s so goddamn funny about that?”

  The ragged man shut his mouth and looked sullenly at the porch boards. “You folks all goin’ to California, I bet.”

  “I tol’ you that,” said Pa. “You didn’ guess nothin’.”

  The ragged man said slowly, “Me—I’m comin’ back. I been there.”

  The faces turned quickly toward him. The men were rigid. The hiss of the lantern dropped to a sigh and the proprietor lowered the front chair legs to the porch, stood up, and pumped the lantern until the hiss was sharp and high again. He went back to his chair, but he did not tilt back again. The ragged man turned toward the faces. “I’m goin’ back to starve. I ruther starve all over at oncet.”

  Pa said, “What the hell you talkin’ about? I got a han’bill says they got good wages, an’ little while ago I seen a thing in the paper says they need folks to pick fruit.”

  The ragged man turned to Pa. “You got any place to go, back home?”

  “No,” said Pa. “We’re out. They put a tractor past the house.”

  “You wouldn’ go back then?”

  “’Course not.”

  “Then I ain’t gonna fret you,” said the ragged man.

  “’Course you ain’t gonna fret me. I got a han’bill says they need men. Don’t make no sense if they don’t need men. Costs money for them bills. They wouldn’ put ’em out if they didn’ need men.”

  “I don’ wanna fret you.”

  Pa said angrily, “You done some jackassin’. You ain’t gonna shut up now. My han’bill says they need men. You laugh an’ say they don’t. Now, which one’s a liar?”

  The ragged man looked down into Pa’s angry eyes. He looked sorry. “Han’bill’s right,” he said. “They need men.”

  “Then why the hell you stirrin’ us up laughin’?”

  “’Cause you don’t know what kind a men they need.”

  “What you talkin’ about?”

  The ragged man reached a decision. “Look,” he said. “How many men they say they want on your han’bill?”

  “Eight hunderd, an’ that’s in one little place.”

  “Orange color han’bill?”

  “Why—yes.”

  “Give the name a the fella—says so and so, labor contractor?”

  Pa reached in his pocket and brought out the folded handbill. “That’s right. How’d you know?”

  “Look,” said the man. “It don’t make no sense. This fella wants eight hunderd men. So he prints up five thousand of them things an’ maybe twenty thousan’ people sees ’em. An’ maybe two-three thousan’ folks gets movin’ account a this here han’bill. Folks that’s crazy with worry.”

  “But it don’t make no sense!” Pa cried.

  “Not till you see the fella that put out this here bill. You’ll see him, or somebody that’s workin’ for him. You’ll be a-campin’ by a ditch, you an’fifty other famblies. An’ he’ll look in your tent an’ see if you got anything lef’ to eat. An’ if you got nothin’, he says, ‘Wanna job?’ An’ you’ll say, ‘I sure do, mister. I’ll sure thank you for a chance to do some work.’ An’ he’ll say, ‘I can use you.’ An’ you’ll say, ‘When do I start?’ An’ he’ll tell you where to go, an’ what time, an’ then he’ll go on. Maybe he needs two hunderd men, so he talks to five hunderd, an’ they tell other folks, an’ when you get to the place, they’s a thousan’ men. This here fella says, ‘I’m payin’ twenty cents an hour.’ An’ maybe half a the men walk off. But they’s still five hunderd that’s so goddamn hungry they’ll work for nothin’ but biscuits. Well, this here fella’s got a contract to pick them peaches or—chop that cotton. You see now? The more fellas he can get, an’ the hungrier, less he’s gonna pay. An’ he’ll get a fella with kids if he can, ’cause—hell, I says I wasn’t gonna fret ya.” The circle of faces looked coldly at him. The eyes tested his words. The ragged man grew self-conscious. “I says I wasn’t gonna fret ya, an’ here I’m a-doin’ it. You gonna go on. You ain’t goin’ back.” The silence hung on the porch. And the light hissed, and a halo of moths swung around and around the lantern. The ragged man went on nervously, “Lemme tell ya what to do when ya meet that fella says he got work. Lemme tell ya. Ast him what he’s gonna pay. Ast him to write down what he’s gonna pay. Ast him that. I tell you men you’re gonna get fooled if you don’t.”

  The proprietor leaned forward in his chair, the better to see the ragged dirty man. He scratched among the gray hairs on his chest. He said coldly, “You sure you ain’t one of these here troublemakers? You sure you ain’t a labor faker?”

  And the ragged man cried, “I swear to God I ain’t!”

  “They’s plenty of ’em,” the proprietor said. “Goin’ aroun’ stirrin’ up trouble. Gettin’ folks mad. Chiselin’ in. They’s plenty of ’em. Time’s gonna come when we string ’em all up, all them troublemakers. We gonna run ’em outa the country. Man wants to work, O.K. If he don’t—the hell with him. We ain’t gonna let him stir up trouble.”

  The ragged man drew himself up. “I tried to tell you folks,” he said. “Somepin it took me a year to find out. Took two kids dead, took my wife dead to show me. But I can’t tell you. I should of knew that. Nobody couldn’t tell me, neither. I can’t tell ya about them little fellas layin’ in the tent with their bellies puffed out an’ jus’ skin on their bones, an’ shiverin’ an’ whinin’ like pups, an’ me runnin’ aroun’ tryin’ to get work—not for money, not for wages!” he shouted. “Jesus Christ, jus’ for a cup a flour an’ a spoon a lard. An’ then the coroner come. ‘Them children died a heart failure,’ he said. Put it on his paper. Shiverin’, they was, an’ their bellies stuck out like a pig bladder.”

  The circle was quiet, and mouths were open a little. The men breathed shallowly, and watched.

  The ragged man looked around at the circle, and then he turned and walked quickly away into the darkness. The dark swallowed him, but his dragging footsteps could be heard a long time after he had gone, footsteps along the road; and a car came by on the highway, and its lights showed the ragged man shuffling along the road, his head hanging down and his hands in the black coat pockets.

  The men were uneasy. One said, “Well—gettin’ late. Got to get to sleep.”

  The proprietor said, “Prob’ly shif’less. They’s so goddamn many shif’less fellas on the road now.” And then he was quiet. And he tipped his chair back against the wall again and fingered his throat.

  Tom said, “Guess I’ll go see Ma for a minute, an’ then we’ll shove along a piece.” The Joad men moved away.

  Pa said, “S’pose he’s tellin’ the truth—that fella?”

  The preacher answered, “He’s tellin’ the truth, awright. The truth for him. He wasn’t makin’ nothin’ up.”

  “How about us?” Tom demanded. “Is that the truth for us?”

  “I don’ know,” said Casy.

  “I don’ know,” said Pa.

  They walked to the tent, tarpaulin spread over a rope. And it was dark inside, and quiet. When they came near, a
grayish mass stirred near the door and arose to person height. Ma came out to meet them.

  “All sleepin’,” she said. “Granma finally dozed off.” Then she saw it was Tom. “How’d you get here?” she demanded anxiously. “You ain’t had no trouble?”

  “Got her fixed,” said Tom. “We’re ready to go when the rest is.”

  “Thank the dear God for that,” Ma said. “I’m just a-twitterin’ to go on. Wanta get where it’s rich an’ green. Wanta get there quick.”

  Pa cleared his throat. “Fella was jus’ sayin’—”

  Tom grabbed his arm and yanked it. “Funny what he says,” Tom said. “Says they’s lots a folks on the way.”

  Ma peered through the darkness at them. Inside the tent Ruthie coughed and snorted in her sleep. “I washed ’em up,” Ma said. “Fust water we got enough of to give ’em a goin’-over. Lef’ the buckets out for you fellas to wash too. Can’t keep nothin’ clean on the road.”

  “Ever’body in?” Pa asked.

  “All but Connie an’ Rosasharn. They went off to sleep in the open. Says it’s too warm in under cover.”

  Pa observed querulously, “That Rosasharn is gettin’ awful scary an’ nimsy-mimsy.”

  “It’s her first,” said Ma. “Her an’ Connie sets a lot a store by it. You done the same thing.”

  “We’ll go now,” Tom said. “Pull off the road a little piece ahead. Watch out for us ef we don’t see you. Be off right-han’ side.”

  “Al’s stayin’?”

  “Yeah. Leave Uncle John come with us. ’Night, Ma.”

  They walked away through the sleeping camp. In front of one tent a low fitful fire burned, and a woman watched a kettle that cooked early breakfast. The smell of the cooking beans was strong and fine.

  “Like to have a plate a them,” Tom said politely as they went by.

  The woman smiled. “They ain’t done or you’d be welcome,” she said. “Come aroun’ in the daybreak.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Tom said. He and Casy and Uncle John walked by the porch. The proprietor still sat in his chair, and the lantern hissed and flared. He turned his head as the three went by. “Ya runnin’ outa gas,” Tom said.