In Dubious Battle

by John Steinbeck

  Jim asked, "How did it happen? You didn't say much, but they started working like a clock, and they liked it. They felt fine."

  "Sure they liked it. Men always like to work together. There's a hunger in men to work together. Do you know that ten men can lift nearly twelve times as big a load as one man can? It only takes a little spark to get them going. Most of the time they're suspicious, because every time someone gets 'em working in a group the profit of their work is taken away from them; but wait till they get working for themselves. Tonight the work concerned them, it was their job; and see how well they did it."

  Jim said, "You didn't need all that cloth. Why did you tell London to burn it?"

  "Look, Jim. Don't you see? Every man who gave part of his clothes felt that the work was his own. They all feel responsible for that baby. It's theirs, because something from them went to it. To give back the cloth would cut them out. There's no better way to make men part of a movement than to have them give something to it. I bet they all feel fine right now."

  "Are we going to work today?" Jim asked.

  "No, we'll let the story of last night go the rounds. It'll be a hell of a big story by tomorrow. No, we'll go to work later. We need sleep now. But Jesus, what a swell set-up it is for us so far."

  The willows stirred over their heads, and a few leaves fell down on the men. Jim said, "I don't know when I ever was so tired, but I do feel fine."

  Mac opened his eyes for a moment. "You're doing all right, kid. I think you'll make a good worker. I'm glad you came down with me. You helped a lot last night. Now try to shut your Goddamned eyes and mouth and get some sleep."

  5

  THE afternoon sun glanced on the tops of the apple trees and then broke into stripes and layers of slanting light beneath the heavy branches, and threw blots of sunshine on the ground. The wide aisles between the trees stretched away until the rows seemed to meet in a visual infinity. The great orchard crawled with activity. Long ladders leaned among the branches and piles of new yellow boxes stood in the aisles. From far away came the rumble of the sorting machines and the tap of the boxers' hammers. The men, with their big buckets slung to baldrics, ran up the ladders and twisted the big green pippins free and filled the buckets until they could hold no more, and then they ran down the ladders to empty the buckets into the boxes. Between the rows came the trucks to load the picked apples and take them to the sorting and packing plant. A checker stood beside the boxes and marked with a pencil in his little book as the bucket men came up. The orchard was alive. The branches of the trees shook under the ladders. The overripes dropped with dull plops to the ground underneath the trees. Somewhere, hidden in a tree-top, a whistling virtuoso trilled.

  Jim hurried down his ladder and carried his bucket to the box pile and emptied the load. The checker, a blond young man in washed white corduroys, made a mark in his book and nodded his head. "Don't dump 'em in so hard, buddy," he warned. "You'll bruise 'em."

  "O.K.," said Jim. He walked back to his ladder, drumming on the bucket with his knee as he went. Up the ladder he climbed, and he hooked the wire of the bale-hook over a limb. And then in the tree he saw another man, who had stepped off the ladder and stood on a big limb. He reached high over his head for a cluster of apples. He felt the tree shudder under Jim's weight and looked down.

  "Hello, kid. I didn't know this was your tree."

  Jim stared up at him, a lean old man with black eyes and a sparse, chewed beard. The veins stood out heavy and blue on his hands. His legs seemed as thin and straight as sticks, too thin for the big feet with great heavy-soled shoes.

  Jim said, "I don't give a damn about the tree. Aren't you too old to be climbing around like a monkey, Dad?"

  The old man spat and watched the big white drop hit the ground. His bleak eyes grew fierce. "That's what you think," he said. "Lots of young punks think I'm too old. I can out-work you any day in the week, and don't you forget it, neither." He put an artificial springiness in his knees as he spoke. He reached up and picked the whole cluster of apples, twig and all, skinned the apples into his bucket and contemptuously dropped the twig on the ground.

  The voice of the checker called, "Careful of those trees, over there."

  The old man grinned maliciously, showing two upper and two lower yellow teeth, long and sloped outward, like a gopher's teeth. "Busy bastard, ain't he," he remarked to Jim.

  "College boy," said Jim. "Every place you go you run into 'em."

  The old man squatted down on his limb. "And what do they know?" he demanded. "They go to them colleges, and they don't learn a God damn thing. That smart guy with the little book couldn't keep his ass dry in a barn." He spat again.

  "They get pretty smart, all right," Jim agreed.

  "Now you and me," the old man went on, "We know--not much, maybe, but what we know we know good."

  Jim was silent for a moment, and then he lanced at the old man's pride as he had heard Mac do to other men. "You don't know enough to keep out of a tree when you're seventy. I don't know enough to wear white cords and make pencil marks in a little book."

  The old man snarled, "We got no pull, that's what. You got to have pull to get an easy job. We just get rode over because we got no pull."

  "Well, what you going to do about it?"

  The question seemed to let air out of the old man. His anger disappeared. His eyes grew puzzled and a little frightened. "Christ only knows," he said. "We just take it, that's all. We move about the country like a bunch of hogs and get beat on the ass by a college boy."

  "It's not his fault," said Jim. "He's just got a job. If he's going to keep the job, he's got to do it."

  The old man reached for another cluster of apples, picked them with little twisting lifts and put each one carefully into his bucket. "When I was a young man, I used to think somethin' could be done," he said," but I'm seventy-one." His voice was tired.

  A truck went by, carrying off the filled boxes. The old man continued, "I was in the north woods when the Wobblies was raising hell. I'm a top-faller, a damn good one. Maybe you noticed how I take to a tree at my age. Well, I had hopes then. 'Course the Wobblies done some good, used to be there was no crappers but a hole in the ground, and no place to take a bath. The meat used to spoil. Well, them Wobblies made 'em put in toilets and showers; but, hell, it all went to pieces." His hand went up automatically for more apples. "I joined unions," he said. "We'd elect a president and first thing we knowed, he'd be kissing the ass of the superintendent, and then he'd sell us out. We'd pay dues, and the treasurer'd run out on us. I don' know. Maybe you young squirts can figure something out. We done what we could."

  "You all ready to give up?" Jim asked, glancing at him again.

  The old man squatted down on his limb and held himself there with one big skinny hand. "I got feelings in my skin," he said. "You may think I'm a crazy old coot; them other things was planned; nothing come of 'em; but I got feelings in my skin."

  "What kind of feelings?"

  "It's hard to say, kid. You know quite a bit before water boils, it gets to heavin' around? That's the kind of feeling I got. I been with workin' stiffs all my life. There ain't a plan in this at all. It's just like that water heavin' before it boils." His eyes were dim, seeing nothing. His head rose up so that two strings of skin tautened between his chin and his throat. "Maybe there's been too much goin' hungry; maybe too many bosses've kicked hell out of the men. I dunno. I just feel it in my skin."

  "Well, what is it?" Jim asked.

  "It's anger," the old man cried. "That's what it is. You know when you're about to get fightin', crazy mad, you get a hot, sick, weak feelin' in your guts? Well, that's what it is. Only it ain't just in one man. It's like the whole bunch, millions and millions was one man, and he's been beat and starved, and he's gettin' that sick feelin' in his guts. The stiffs don't know what's happenin', but when the big guy gets mad, they'll all be there; and by Christ, I hate to think of it. They'll be bitin' out throats with their teeth, and clawin' o
ff lips. It's anger, that's what it is." He swayed on his limb, and tightened his arms to steady himself. "I feel it in my skin," he said. "Ever' place I go, it's like water just before it gets to boilin'."

  Jim trembled with excitement. "There's got to be a plan," he said. "When the thing busts, there's got to be a plan all ready to direct it, so it'll do some good."

  The old man seemed tired after his outburst. "When that big guy busts loose, there won't be no plan that can hold him. That big guy'll run like a mad dog, and bite anything that moves. He's been hungry too long, and he's been hurt too much; and worst thing of all, he's had his feelings hurt too much."

  "But if enough men expected it and had a plan----" Jim insisted.

  The old man shook his head. "I hope I'm dead before it happens. They'll be bitin' out throats with their teeth. They'll kill each other off an' after they're all wore out or dead, it'll be the same thing over again. I want to die and get shut of it. You young squirts got hopes." He lifted his full bucket down. "I got no hope. Get out of the way, I'm comin' down the ladder. We can't make no money talkin': that's for college boys."

  Jim stood aside on a limb and let him down the ladder. The old man emptied his bucket and then went to another tree. Although Jim waited for him, he did not come back. The sorting belt rumbled on its rollers in the packinghouse, and the hammers tapped. Along the highway the big transport trucks roared by. Jim picked his bucket full and took it to the box pile. The checker made a mark in his book.

  "You're going to owe us money if you don't get off your dime," the checker said.

  Jim's face went red and his shoulders dropped. "You keep to your God-damn book," he said.

  "Tough guy, huh?"

  Then Jim caught himself and grinned in embarrassment. "I'm tired," he apologized. "It's a new kind of work to me."

  The blond checker smiled. "I know how it is," he said. "You get pretty touchy when you're tired. Why don't you get up in a tree and have a smoke?"

  "I guess I will." Jim went back to his tree. He hooked his bucket over a limb and went to picking again. He said aloud to himself. "Even me, like a mad dog. Can't do that. My old man did that." He did not work quickly, but he reduced his movements to a machine-like perfection. The sun went low, until it left the ground entirely and remained only on the tops of the trees. Far away, in the town, a whistle blew. But Jim worked steadily on. It was growing dusky when the rumble in the packinghouse stopped at last and the checkers called out, "Come on in, you men. It's time to quit."

  Jim climbed down the ladder, emptied his bucket and stacked it up with the others. The checker marked in the buckets and then totaled the picking. The men stood about for a few moments, rolling cigarettes, talking softly in the evening. They walked slowly away down a row, toward the county road, where the orchard bunk houses were.

  Jim saw the old man ahead of him and speeded up to catch him. The thin legs moved with jointed stiffness. "It's you again," he said as Jim caught up with him.

  "Thought I'd walk in with you."

  "Well, who's stoppin' you?" Obviously he was pleased.

  "You got any folks here?" Jim asked.

  "Folks? No."

  Jim said, "Well, if you're all alone, why don't you get into some charity racket and make the county take care of you?"

  The old man's tone was chilled with contempt. "I'm a top-faller. Listen, punk, if you never been in the woods, that don't mean nothing to you. Damn few top-fallers ever get to be my age. I've had punks like you damn near die of heart failure just watchin' me work; and here I'm climbin' a lousy apple tree. Me take charity! I done work in my life that took guts. I been ninety foot up a pole and had the butt split and snap my safety-belt. I worked with guys that got swatted to pulp with a limb. Me take charity! They'd say, 'Dan, come get your soup,' and I'd sop my bread in my soup and suck the soup out of it. By Christ, I'd jump out of an apple tree and break my neck before I'd take charity. I'm a top-faller."

  They trudged along between the trees. Jim took off his hat and carried it in his hand. "You didn't get anything out of it," he said. "They just kicked you out when you got too old."

  Dan's big hand found Jim's arm just above the elbow, and crushed it until it hurt. "I got things out of it while I was at it," he said. "I'd go up a pole, and I'd know that the boss and the owner of the timber and the president of the company didn't have the guts to do what I was doing. It was me. I'd look down on ever'thing from up there. And ever'thing looked small, and the men were little, but I was up there. I was my own size. I got things out of it, all right."

  "They took all the profits from your work," Jim said. "They got rich, an' when you couldn't go up any more, they kicked you out."

  "Yes," said Dan, "they did that, all right. I guess I must be gettin' pretty old, kid. I don't give a damn if they did--I just don't give a damn."

  Ahead they could see the low, whitewashed building the owners set aside for the pickers--a low shed nearly fifty yards long, with a door and a little square window every ten feet. Through some of the open doors lamps and candles could be seen burning. Some men sat in the doorways and looked out at the dusk. In front of the long building stood a faucet where a clot of men and women had gathered. As the turn of each came, he cupped his hands under the stream and threw water on his face and hair and rubbed his hands together for a moment. The women carried cans and cooking pots to fill at the faucet. In and out of the dark doorways children swarmed, restless as rats. A tired, soft conversation arose from the group. Men and women were coming back, men from the orchard, women from the sorting and packing house. So built that it formed a short angle at the north end of the building stood the orchard's store, brightly lighted now. Here food and work clothes were sold on credit against the working sheets. A line of women and men stood waiting to get in, and another line came out carrying canned goods and loaves of bread.

  Jim and old Dan walked up to the building. "There's the kennel," Jim said. "It wouldn't be so bad if you had a woman to cook for you."

  Dan said, "Guess I'll go over to the store and get me a can of beans. These damn fools pay seventeen cents for a pound of canned beans. Why, they could get four pounds of dried beans for that, and cooked up that'd make nearly eight pounds."

  Jim asked, "Why don't you do that, Dan?"

  "I ain't got the time. I come in tired an' I want to eat."

  "Well, what time have the others got? Women work all day, men work all day; and the owner charges three cents extra for a can of beans because the men are too damn tired to go into town for groceries."

  Dan turned his bristly beard to Jim. "You sure worry at the thing, don't you, kid? Just like a puppy with a knuckle-bone. You chew and chew at it, but you don't make no marks on it, and maybe pretty soon you break a tooth."

  "If enough guys got to chewing they'd split it."

  "Maybe--but I lived seventy-one years with dogs and men, and mostly I seen 'em try to steal the bone from each other. I never seen two dogs help each other break a bone; but I seen 'em chew hell out of each other tryin' to steal it."

  Jim said, "You make a guy feel there isn't much use."

  Old Dan showed his four long, gopher teeth. "I'm seventy-one," he apologized. "You get on with your bone, and don't mind me. Maybe dogs and men ain't the same as they used to be."

  As they drew nearer on the cloddy ground a figure detached itself from the crowd around the faucet and strolled out toward them. "That's my pardner," Jim said. "That's Mac. He's a swell guy."

  Old Dan replied ungraciously. "Well, I don't want to talk to nobody. I don't think I'll even heat my beans."

  Mac reached them. "Hello, Jim. How'd you make out?"

  "Pretty good. This is Dan, Mac. He was in the north woods when the Wobblies were working up there."

  "Glad to meet you." Mac put a tone of deference in his voice. "I heard about that time. There was some sabotage."

  The tone pleased old Dan. "I wasn't no Wobbly," he said. "I'm a top-faller. Them Wobblies was a bunch of double-crossin'
sons-of-bitches, but they done the work. Damn it, they'd burn down a sawmill as quick as they'd look at it."

  The tone of respect remained in Mac's voice. "Well, if they got the work done, I guess that's all you can expect."

  "They was a tough bunch," said Dan. "A man couldn't take no pleasure talkin' to 'em. They hated ever'thing. Guess I'll go over and get my beans." He turned to the right and walked away from them.

  It was almost dark. Jim, looking up at the sky saw a black V flying across. "Mac, look, what's that?"

  "Wild ducks. Flying pretty early this year. Didn't you ever see ducks before?"

  "I guess not," said Jim. "I guess I've read about them."

  "Say, Jim, you won't mind if we just have some sardines and bread, will you? We've got things to do tonight. I don't want to take time to cook anything."

  Jim had been walking loosely, tired from the new kind of work. Now his muscles tightened and his head came up. "What you got on, Mac?"

  "Well, look. I worked alongside London today. That guy doesn't miss much. He came about two-thirds of the way. Now he says he thinks he can swing this bunch of stiffs. He knows a guy that kind of throws another crowd. They're on the biggest orchard of the lot, four thousand acres of apples. London's so damn mad at this wage drop, he'll do anything. His friend on the Hunter place is called Dakin. We're going over there and talk to Dakin tonight."

  "You got it really moving, then?" Jim demanded.

  "Looks that way." Mac went into one of the dark doorways and in a moment he emerged with a can of sardines and a loaf of bread. He laid the bread down on the doorstep and turned the key in the sardine can, rolling back the tin. "Did you sound out the men the way I told you, Jim?"