The Grapes of Wrath

And next there was a huge tent, ragged, torn in strips and the tears mended with pieces of wire. The flaps were up, and inside four wide mattresses lay on the ground. A clothes line strung along the side bore pink cotton dresses and several pairs of overalls. There were forty tents and shacks, and beside each habitation some kind of automobile. Far down the line a few children stood and stared at the newly arrived truck, and they moved toward it, little boys in overalls and bare feet, their hair gray with dust.

Tom stopped the truck and looked at Pa. “She ain’t very purty,” he said. “Want to go somewheres else?”

“Can’t go nowhere else till we know where we’re at,” Pa said. “We got to ast about work.”

Tom opened the door and stepped out. The family climbed down from the load and looked curiously at the camp. Ruthie and Winfield, from the habit of the road, took down the bucket and walked toward the willows, where there would be water; and the line of children parted for them and closed after them.

The flaps of the first shack parted and a woman looked out. Her gray hair was braided, and she wore a dirty, flowered Mother Hubbard. Her face was wizened and dull, deep gray pouches under blank eyes, and a mouth slack and loose.

Pa said, “Can we jus’ pull up anywheres an’ camp?”

The head was withdrawn inside the shack. For a moment there was quiet and then the flaps were pushed aside and a bearded man in shirt sleeves stepped out. The woman looked out after him, but she did not come into the open.

The bearded man said, “Howdy, folks,” and his restless dark eyes jumped to each member of the family, and from them to the truck to the equipment.

Pa said, “I jus’ ast your woman if it’s all right to set our stuff anywheres.”

The bearded man looked at Pa intently, as though he had said something very wise that needed thought. “Set down anywheres, here in this place?” he asked.

“Sure. Anybody own this place, that we got to see ’fore we can camp?”

The bearded man squinted one eye nearly closed and studied Pa. “You wanta camp here?”

Pa’s irritation arose. The gray woman peered out of the burlap shack. “What you think I’m a-sayin’?” Pa said.

“Well, if you wanta camp here, why don’t ya? I ain’t a-stoppin’ you.”

Tom laughed. “He got it.”

Pa gathered his temper. “I jus’ wanted to know does anybody own it? Do we got to pay?”

The bearded man thrust out his jaw. “Who owns it?” he demanded.

Pa turned away. “The hell with it,” he said. The woman’s head popped back in the tent.

The bearded man stepped forward menacingly. “Who owns it?” he demanded. “Who’s gonna kick us outa here? You tell me.”

Tom stepped in front of Pa. “You better go take a good long sleep,” he said. The bearded man dropped his mouth open and put a dirty finger against his lower gums. For a moment he continued to look wisely, speculatively at Tom, and then he turned on his heels and popped into the shack after the gray woman.

Tom turned on Pa. “What the hell was that?” he asked.

Pa shrugged his shoulders. He was looking across the camp. In front of a tent stood an old Buick, and the head was off. A young man was grinding the valves, and as he twisted back and forth, back and forth, on the tool, he looked up at the Joad truck. They could see that he was laughing to himself. When the bearded man was gone, the young man left his work and sauntered over.

“H’are ya?” he said, and his blue eyes were shiny with amusement. “I seen you just met the Mayor.”

“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’?”