The Grapes of Wrath

“Let ’im off ’cause it was a fight,” said Al.

“He don’t look like a quarreler.”

“Oh, he ain’t. But Tom don’t take nothin’ from nobody.” Al’s voice was very proud. “Tom, he’s quiet. But— look out!”

“Well— I talked to ’im. He didn’ soun’ mean.”

“He ain’t. Jus’ as nice as pie till he’s roused, an’ then— look out.” The young man ground at the last valve. “Like me to he’p you get them valves set an’ the head on?”

“Sure, if you got nothin’ else to do.”

“Oughta get some sleep,” said Al. “But, hell, I can’t keep my han’s out of a tore-down car. Jus’ got to git in.”

“Well, I’d admire to git a hand,” said the young man. “My name’s

Floyd Knowles.”

“I’m Al Joad.”

“Proud to meet ya.”

“Me too,” said Al. “Gonna use the same gasket?”

“Got to,” said Floyd.

Al took out his pocket knife and scraped at the block. “Jesus!” he said. “They ain’t nothin’ I love like the guts of a engine.”

“How ’bout girls?”

“Yeah, girls too! Wisht I could tear down a Rolls an’ put her back. I looked under the hood of a Cad’ 16 one time an’, God Awmighty, you never seen nothin’ so sweet in your life! In Sallisaw— an’ here’s this 16 a-standin’ in front of a restaurant, so I lifts the hood. An’ a guy comes out an’ says, ’What the hell you doin’?’ I says, ’Jus’ lookin’. Ain’t she swell?’ An’ he jus’ stands there. I don’t think he ever looked in her before. Jus’ stands there. Rich fella in a straw hat. Got a stripe’ shirt on, an’ eye glasses. We don’ say nothin’. Jus’ look. An’ purty soon he says, ’How’d you like to drive her?’”

Floyd said, “The hell!”

“Sure— ’How’d you like to drive her?’ Well, hell, I got on jeansall dirty. I says, ’I’d get her dirty.’ ’Come on!’ he says. ’Jus’ take her roun’ the block.’ Well, sir, I set in that seat an’ I took her roun’ the block eight times, an’, oh, my God Almighty!”

“Nice?” Floyd asked.

“Oh, Jesus!” said Al. “If I could of tore her down, why— I’d a giveanythin’.”

Floyd slowed his jerking arm. He lifted the last valve from its seat and looked at it. “You better git use’ ta a jalopy,” he said, “’cause you ain’t goin’ a drive no 16.” He put his brace down on the running board and took up a chisel to scrape the crust from the block. Two stocky women, bare-headed and bare-footed, went by carrying a bucket of milky water between them. They limped against the weight of the bucket, and neither one looked up from the ground. The sun was half down in afternoon.

Al said, “You don’t like nothin’ much.”

Floyd scraped harder with the chisel. “I been here six months,” he said. “I been scrabblin’ over this here State tryin’ to work hard enough and move fast enough to get meat an’ potatoes for me an’ my wife an’ my kids. I’ve run myself like a jackrabbit an’— I can’t quite make her. There just ain’t quite enough to eat no matter what I do. I’m gettin’ tired, that’s all. I’m gettin’ tired way past where sleep rests me. An’ I jus’ don’ know what to do.”

“Ain’t there no steady work for a fella?” Al asked.

“No, they ain’t no steady work.” With his chisel he pushed the crust off the block, and he wiped the dull metal with a greasy rag.

A rusty touring car drove down into the camp and there were four men in it, men with brown hard faces. The car drove slowly through the camp. Floyd called to them, “Any luck?”

The car stopped. The driver said, “We covered a hell of a lot of ground. They ain’t a hand’s work in this here country. We gotta move.”

“Where to?” Al called.

“God knows. We worked this here place over.” He let in his clutch and moved slowly down the camp.

Al looked after them. “Wouldn’ it be better if one fella went alone?

Then if they was one piece of work, a fella’d get it.”

Floyd put down the chisel and smiled sourly. “You ain’t learned,” he said. “Takes gas to get roun’ the country. Gas costs fifteen cents a gallon. Them four fellas can’t take four cars. So each of ’em puts in a dime an’ they get gas. You got to learn.”

“Al!”

Al looked down at Winfield standing importantly beside him. “Al, Ma’s dishin’ up stew. She says come git it.”

Al wiped his hands on his trousers. “We ain’t et today,” he said to Floyd. “I’ll come give you a han’ when I eat.”

“No need ’less you want ta.”

“Sure, I’ll do it.” He followed Winfield toward the Joad camp.

It was crowded now. The strange children stood close to the stew pot, so close that Ma brushed them with her elbows as she worked. Tom and Uncle John stood beside her.

Ma said helplessly, “I dunno what to do. I got to feed the fambly. What’m I gonna do with these here?” The children stood stiffly and looked at her. Their faces were blank, rigid, and their eyes went mechanically from the pot to the tin plate she held. Their eyes followed the spoon from pot to plate, and when she passed the steaming plate up to Uncle John, their eyes followed it up. Uncle John dug his spoon into the stew, and the banked eyes rose up with the spoon. A piece of potato went into John’s mouth and the banked eyes were on his face, watching to see how he would react. Would it be good? Would he like it?