The Grapes of Wrath

The young man squatted on his heels. “I’ll tell ya,” he said quietly. “They’s a big son-of-a-bitch of a peach orchard I worked in. Takes nine men all the year roun’.” He paused impressively. “Takes three thousan’ men for two weeks when them peaches is ripe. Got to have ’em or them peaches’ll rot. So what do they do? They send out han’bills all over hell. They need three thousan’, an’ they get six thousan’. They get them men for what they wanta pay. If ya don’t wanta take what they pay, goddamn it, they’s a thousan’ men waitin’ for your job. So ya pick, an’ ya pick, an’ then she’s done. Whole part a the country’s peaches. All ripe together. When ya get ’em picked, ever’ goddamn one is picked. There ain’t another damn thing in that part a the country to do. An’ them owners don’ want you there no more. Three thousan’ of you. The work’s done. You might steal, you might get drunk, you might jus’ raise hell. An’ besides, you don’ look nice, livin’ in ol’ tents; an’ it’s a pretty country, but you stink it up. They don’ want you aroun’. So they kick you out, they move you along. That’s how it is.”

Tom, looking down toward the Joad tent, saw his mother, heavy and slow with weariness, build a little trash fire and put the cooking pots over the flame. The circle of children drew closer, and the calm wide eyes of the children watched every move of Ma’s hands. An old, old man with a bent back came like a badger out of a tent and snooped near, sniffing the air as he came. He laced his arms behind him and joined the children to watch Ma. Ruthie and Winfield stood near to Ma and eyed the strangers belligerently.

Tom said angrily, “Them peaches got to be picked right now, don’t they? Jus’ when they’re ripe?”

“’Course they do.”

“Well, s’pose them people got together an’ says, ’Let em rot.’

Wouldn’ be long ’fore the price went up, by God!”

The young man looked up from the valves, looked sardonically at Tom.

“Well, you figgered out somepin, didn’ you. Come right outa your own head.”

“I’m tar’d,” said Tom. “Drove all night. I don’t wanta start no argument. An’ I’m so goddamn tar’d I’d argue easy. Don’t be smart with me. I’m askin’ you.”

The young man grinned. “I didn’ mean it. You ain’t been here. Folks figgered that out. An’ the folks with the peach orchard figgered her out too. Look, if the folks gets together, they’s a leader— got to be— fella that does the talkin’. Well, first time this fella opens his mouth they grab ’im an’ stick ’im in jail. An’ if they’s another leader pops up, why, they stick ’im in jail.”

Tom said, “Well, a fella eats in jail anyways.”

“His kids don’t. How’d you like to be in an’ your kids starvin’ to death?”

“Yeah,” said Tom slowly. “Yeah.”

“An’ here’s another thing. Ever hear a’ the blacklist?”

“What’s that?”

“Well, you jus’ open your trap about us folks gettin’ together, an’ you’ll see. They take your pitcher an’ send it all over. Then you can’t get work nowhere. An’ if you got kids—”

Tom took off his cap, and twisted it in his hands. “So we take what we can get, huh, or we starve; an’ if we yelp we starve.”

The young man made a sweeping circle with his hand, and his hand took in the ragged tents and the rusty cars.

Tom looked down at his mother again, where she sat scraping potatoes. And the children had drawn closer. He said, “I ain’t gonna take it. Goddamn it, I an’ my folks ain’t no sheep. I’ll kick the hell outa somebody.”

“Like a cop?”

“Like anybody.”

“You’re nuts,” said the young man. “They’ll pick you right off. You got no name, no property. They’ll find you in a ditch, with the blood dried on your mouth an’ your nose. Be one little line in the paper— know what it’ll say? ’Vagrant foun’ dead.’ An’ that’s all. You’ll see a lot of them little lines, ’Vagrant foun’ dead.’”

Tom said, “They’ll be somebody else foun’ dead right ’longside of this here vagrant.”

“You’re nuts,” said the young man. “Won’t be no good in that.”

“Well, what you doin’ about it?” He looked into the grease-streaked face. And a veil drew down over the eyes of the young man.

“Nothin’. Where you from?”

“Us? Right near Sallisaw, Oklahoma.”

“Jus’ get in?”

“Jus’ today.”

“Gonna be aroun’ here long?”

“Don’t know. We’ll stay wherever we can get work. Why?”

“Nothin’.” And the veil came down again.

“Got to sleep up,” said Tom. “Tomorra we’ll go out lookin’ for work.”

“You kin try.”

Tom turned away and moved toward the Joad tent.

The young man took up the can of valve compound and dug his finger into it. “Hi!” he called.

Tom turned. “What you want?”

“I want ta tell ya.” He motioned with his finger, on which a blob of compound stuck. “I jus’ want ta tell ya. Don’ go lookin’ for no trouble. ’Member how that bull-simple guy looked?”

“Fella in the tent up there?”

“Yeah— looked dumb— no sense?”

“What about him?”

“Well, when the cops come in, an’ they come in all a time, that’s how you want ta be. Dumb— don’t know nothin’. Don’ understan’ nothin’. That’s how the cops like us. Don’t hit no cops. That’s jus’ suicide. Be bull-simple.”