The Grapes of Wrath

“Well, you go north to Pixley, that’s thirty-five or six miles, and you turn east. Go about six miles. Ask anybody where the Hooper ranch is. You’ll find plenty of work there.”

“We sure will.”

“Know where there’s other people looking for work?”

“Sure,” said Tom. “Down at the Weedpatch camp they’s plenty lookin’ for work.”

“I’ll take a run down there. We can use quite a few. Remember now, turn east at Pixley and keep straight east to the Hooper ranch.”

“Sure,” said Tom. “An’ we thank ya, mister. We need work awful bad.”

“All right. Get along as soon as you can.” He walked back across the road, climbed into his open roadster, and drove away south.

Tom threw his weight on the pump. “Twenty apiece,” he called. “One— two— three— four—” At twenty Al took the pump, and then Pa and then Uncle John. The tire filled out and grew plump and smooth. Three times around, the pump went. “Let ’er down an’ le’s see,” said Tom.

Al released the jack and lowered the car. “Got plenty,” he said. “Maybe a little too much.” They threw the tools into the car. “Come on, le’s go,” Tom called.

“We’re gonna get some work at last.”

Ma got in the middle again. Al drove this time.

“Now take her easy. Don’t burn her up, Al.”

They drove on through the sunny morning fields. The mist lifted from the hilltops and they were clear and brown, with black-purple creases. The wild doves flew up from the fences as the truck passed. Al unconsciously increased his speed.

“Easy,” Tom warned him. “She’ll blow up if you crowd her. We got to get there. Might even get in some work today.”

Ma said excitedly, “With four men a-workin’ maybe I can get some credit right off. Fust thing I’ll get is coffee, ’cause you been wanting that, an’ then some flour an’ bakin’ powder an’ some meat. Better not get no side-meat right off. Save that for later. Maybe Sat’dy. An’ soap. Got to get soap. Wonder where we’ll stay.” She babbled on. “An’ milk. I’ll get some milk ’cause Rosasharn, she ought to have milk. The lady nurse says that.”

A snake wriggled across the warm highway. Al zipped over and ran it down and came back to his own lane. “Gopher snake,” said Tom. “You oughtn’t to done that.”

“I hate ’em,” said Al gaily. “Hate all kinds. Give me the stomach-quake.”

The forenoon traffic on the highway increased, salesmen in shiny coupes with the insignia of their companies painted on the doors, red and white gasoline trucks dragging clinking chains behind them, great square-doored vans from wholesale grocery houses, delivering produce. The country was rich along the roadside. There were orchards, heavy leafed in their prime, and vineyards with the long green crawlers carpeting the ground between the rows. There were melon patches and grain fields. White houses stood in the greenery, roses growing over them. And the sun was gold and warm.

In the front seat of the truck Ma and Tom and Al were overcome with happiness. “I ain’t really felt so good for a long time,” Ma said. “’F we pick plenty peaches we might get a house, pay rent even, for a couple months. We got to have a house.”

Al said, “I’m a-gonna save up. I’ll save up an’ then I’m a-goin’ in a town an’ get me a job in a garage. Live in a room an’ eat in restaurants. Go to the movin’ pitchers ever’ damn night. Don’ cost much. Cowboy pitchers.” His hands tightened on the wheel.

The radiator bubbled and hissed steam. “Did you fill her up?” Tom asked. “Yeah. Wind’s kinda behind us. That’s what makes her boil.”

“It’s a awful nice day,” Tom said. “Use’ ta work there in

McAlester an’ think all the things I’d do. I’d go in a straight line way to hell an’ gone an’ never stop nowheres. Seems like a long time ago. Seems like it’s years ago I was in. They was a guard made it tough. I was gonna lay for ’im. Guess that’s what makes me mad at cops. Seems like ever’ cop got his face. He use’ ta get red in the face. Looked like a pig. Had a brother out west, they said. Use’ ta get fellas paroled to his brother, an’ then they had to work for nothin’. If they raised a stink, they’d get sent back for breakin’ parole. That’s what the fellers said.”

“Don’ think about it,” Ma begged him. “I’m a-gonna lay in a lot a stuff to eat. Lot a flour an’ lard.”

“Might’s well think about it,” said Tom. “Try to shut it out, an’ it’ll whang back at me. They was a screwball. Never tol’ you ’bout him. Looked like Happy Hooligan. Harmless kinda fella. Always was gonna make a break. Fellas all called him Hooligan.” Tom laughed to himself.

“Don’ think about it,” Ma begged. “Go on,” said Al. “Tell about the fella.”