The Grapes of Wrath

“Joad,” Tom said impatiently. “Say, what is this here?” One of the deputies took out a long list. “Not here. Ever see these here? Look at the license. Nope. Ain’t got it. Guess they’re O.K.”

“Now you look here. We don’t want no trouble with you. Jes’ do your work and mind your own business and you’ll be all right.” The two turned abruptly and walked away. At the end of the dusty street they sat down on two boxes and their position commanded the length of the street.

Tom stared after them. “They sure do wanta make us feel at home.”

Ma opened the door of the house and stepped inside. The floor was splashed with grease. In the one room stood a rusty tin stove and nothing more. The tin stove rested on four bricks and its rusty stovepipe went up through the roof. The room smelled of sweat and grease. Rose of Sharon stood beside Ma. “We gonna live here?”

Ma was silent for a moment. “Why sure,” she said at last. “It ain’t so bad once we wash it out. Get her mopped.”

“I like the tent better,” the girl said. “This got a floor,” Ma suggested. “This here wouldn’ leak when it rains.” She turned to the door. “Might as well unload,” she said.

The men unloaded the truck silently. A fear had fallen on them. The great square of boxes was silent. A woman went by in the street, but she did not look at them. Her head was sunk and her dirty gingham dress was frayed at the bottom in little flags.

The pall had fallen on Ruthie and Winfield. They did not dash away to inspect the place. They stayed close to the truck, close to the family. They looked forlornly up and down the dusty street. Winfield found a piece of baling wire and he bent it back and forth until it broke. He made a little crank of the shortest piece and turned it around and around in his hands.

Tom and Pa were carrying the mattresses into the house when a clerk appeared. He wore khaki trousers and a blue shirt and a black necktie. He wore silver-bound eyeglasses, and his eyes, through the thick lenses, were weak and red, and the pupils were staring little bull’s eyes. He leaned forward to look at Tom.

“I want to get you checked down,” he said. “How many of you going to work?” Tom said, “They’s four men. Is this here hard work?”

“Picking peaches,” the clerk said. “Piece work. Give five cents a box.”

“Ain’t no reason why the little fellas can’t help?”

“Sure not, if they’re careful.” Ma stood in the doorway. “Soon’s I get settled down I’ll come out an’ help. We got nothin’ to eat, mister. Do we get paid right off?”

“Well, no, not money right off. But you can get credit at the store for what you got coming.”

“Come on, let’s hurry,” Tom said. “I want ta get some meat an’ bread in me tonight. Where do we go, mister?”

“I’m going out there now. Come with me.” Tom and Pa and Al and Uncle John walked with him down the dusty street and into the orchard, in among the peach trees. The narrow leaves were beginning to turn a pale yellow. The peaches were little globes of gold and red on the branches. Among the trees were piles of empty boxes. The pickers scurried about, filling their buckets from the branches, putting the peaches in the boxes, carrying the boxes to the checking station; and at the stations, where the piles of filled boxes waited for the trucks, clerks waited to check against the names of the pickers.

“Here’s four more,” the guide said to a clerk. “O.K. Ever picked before?”

“Never did,” said Tom. “Well, pick careful. No bruised fruit, no windfalls. Bruise your fruit an’ we won’t check ’em. There’s some buckets.” Tom picked up a three-gallon bucket and looked at it. “Full a holes on the bottom.”

“Sure,” said the near-sighted clerk. “That keeps people from stealing them. All right— down in that section. Get going.” The four Joads took their buckets and went into the orchard. “They don’t waste no time,” Tom said. “Christ Awmighty,” Al said. “I ruther work in a garage.” Pa had followed docilely into the field. He turned suddenly on Al.

“Now you jus’ quit it,” he said. “You been a-hankerin’ an’ a-complainin’ an’ a-bullblowin’. You get to work. You ain’t so big I can’t lick you yet.”

Al’s face turned red with anger. He started to bluster. Tom moved near to him. “Come on, Al,” he said quietly. “Bread an’ meat. We got to get ’em.”

They reached for the fruit and dropped them in the buckets. Tom ran at his work. One bucket full, two buckets. He dumped them in a box. Three buckets. The box was full. “I jus’ made a nickel,” he called. He picked up the box and walked hurriedly to the station. “Here’s a nickel’s worth,” he said to the checker.

The man looked into the box, turned over a peach or two. “Put it over there. That’s out,” he said. “I told you not to bruise them. Dumped ’em outa the bucket, didn’t you? Well, every damn peach is bruised. Can’t check that one. Put ’em in easy or you’re working for nothing.”

“Why— goddamn it—”

“Now go easy. I warned you before you started.”