The Grapes of Wrath

IN THE TOWNS, ON the edges of the towns, in fields, in vacant lots, the used-car yards, the wreckers’ yards, the garages with blazoned signs— Used Cars, Good Used Cars. Cheap transportation, three trailers. ’27 Ford, clean. Checked cars, guaranteed cars. Free radio. Car with 100 gallons of gas free. Come in and look. Used Cars. No overhead.

A lot and a house large enough for a desk and chair and a blue book. Sheaf of contracts, dog-eared, held with paper clips, and a neat pile of unused contracts. Pen— keep it full, keep it working. A sale’s been lost ’cause a pen didn’t work.

Those sons-of-bitches over there ain’t buying. Every yard gets ’em. They’re lookers. Spend all their time looking. Don’t want to buy no cars; take up your time. Don’t give a damn for your time. Over there, them two people— no, with the kids. Get ’em in a car. Start ’em at two hundred and work down. They look good for one and a quarter. Get ’em rolling. Get ’em out in a jalopy. Sock it to ’em! They took our time.

Owners with rolled-up sleeves. Salesmen, neat, deadly, small intent eyes watching for weaknesses.

Watch the woman’s face. If the woman likes it we can screw the old man. Start ’em on that Cad’. Then you can work ’em down to that ’26 Buick. ’F you start on the Buick, they’ll go for a Ford. Roll up your sleeves an’ get to work. This ain’t gonna last forever. Show ’em that Nash while I get the slow leak pumped up on that ’25 Dodge. I’ll give you a Hymie when I’m ready.

What you want is transportation, ain’t it? No baloney for you. Sure the upholstery is shot. Seat cushions ain’t turning no wheels over.

Cars lined up, noses forward, rusty noses, flat tires. Parked close together. Like to get in to see that one? Sure, no trouble. I’ll pull her out of the line.

Get ’em under obligation. Make ’em take up your time. Don’t let ’em forget they’re takin’ your time. People are nice, mostly. They hate to put you out. Make ’em put you out, an’ then sock it to ’em.

Cars lined up, Model T’s, high and snotty, creaking wheel, worn bands. Buicks, Nashes, De Sotos.

Yes, sir, ’22 Dodge. Best goddamn car Dodge ever made. Never wear out. Low compression. High compression got lots a sap for a while, but the metal ain’t made that’ll hold it for long. Plymouths, Rocknes, Stars.

Jesus, where’d that Apperson come from, the Ark? And a Chalmers and a Chandler— ain’t made ’em for years. We ain’t sellin’ carsrolling junk. Goddamn it, I got to get jalopies. I don’t want nothing for more’n twenty-five, thirty bucks. Sell ’em for fifty, seventy-five. That’s a good profit. Christ, what cut do you make on a new car? Get jalopies. I can sell ’em fast as I get ’em. Nothing over two hundred fifty. Jim, corral that old bastard on the sidewalk. Don’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. Try him on that Apperson. Say, where is that Apperson? Sold? If we don’t get some jalopies we got nothing to sell.

Flags, red and white, white and blue— all along the curb. Used Cars. Good Used Cars.

Today’s bargain— up on the platform. Never sell it. Makes folks come in, though. If we sold that bargain at that price we’d hardly make a dime. Tell ’em it’s jus’ sold. Take out that yard battery before you make delivery. Put in that dumb cell. Christ, what they want for six bits? Roll up your sleeves— pitch in. This ain’t gonna last. If I had enough jalopies I’d retire in six months.

Listen, Jim, I heard that Chevvy’s rear end. Sounds like bustin’ bottles. Squirt in a couple quarts of sawdust. Put some in the gears, too. We got to move that lemon for thirty-five dollars. Bastard cheated me on that one. I offer ten an’ he jerks me to fifteen, an’ then the son-of-a-bitch took the tools out. God Almighty! I wisht I had five hundred jalopies. This ain’t gonna last. He don’t like the tires? Tell ’im they got ten thousand in ’em, knock off a buck an’ a half.

Piles of rusty ruins against the fence, rows of wrecks in back, fenders, grease-black wrecks, blocks lying on the ground and a pig weed growing up through the cylinders. Brake rods, exhausts, piled like snakes. Grease, gasoline.

See if you can find a spark plug that ain’t cracked. Christ, if I had fifty trailers at under a hundred I’d clean up. What the hell is he kickin’ about? We sell ’em, but we don’t push ’em home for him. That’s good. Don’t push ’em home. Get that one in the Monthly, I bet. You don’t think he’s a prospect? Well, kick ’im out. We got too much to do to bother with a guy that can’t make up his mind. Take the right front tire off the Graham. Turn that mended side down. The rest looks swell. Got tread an’ everything.

Sure! There’s fifty thousan’ in that ol’ heap yet. Keep plenty oil in. So long. Good luck.

Lookin’ for a car? What did you have in mind? See anything attracts you? I’m dry. How about a little snort a good stuff? Come on, while your wife’s lookin’ at that La Salle. You don’t want no La Salle. Bearings shot. Uses too much oil. Got a Lincoln ’24. There’s a car. Run forever. Make her into a truck.