The Grapes of Wrath

And these two, going to California; going to sit in the lobby of the Beverly-Wilshire Hotel and watch people they envy go by, to look at mountains— mountains, mind you, and great trees— he with his worried eyes and she thinking how the sun will dry her skin. Going to look at the Pacific Ocean, and I’ll bet a hundred thousand dollars to nothing at all, he will say, “It isn’t as big as I thought it would be.” And she will envy plump young bodies on the beach. Going to California really to go home again. To say, “So-and-So was at the table next to us at the Trocadero. She’s really a mess, but she does wear nice clothes.” And he, “I talked to good sound businessmen out there. They don’t see a chance till we get rid of that fellow in the White House.” And, “I got it from a man in the know— she has syphilis, you know. She was in that Warner picture. Man said she’s slept her way into pictures. Well, she got what she was looking for.” But the worried eyes are never calm, and the pouting mouth is never glad. The big car cruising along at sixty.

I want a cold drink.

Well, there’s something up ahead. Want to stop?

Do you think it would be clean?

Clean as you’re going to find in this God-forsaken country.

Well, maybe the bottled soda will be all right.

The great car squeals and pulls to a stop. The fat worried man helps his wife out.

Mae looks at and past them as they enter. Al looks up from his griddle, and down again. Mae knows. They’ll drink a five-cent soda and crab that it ain’t cold enough. The woman will use six paper napkins and drop them on the floor. The man will choke and try to put the blame on Mae. The woman will sniff as though she smelled rotting meat and they will go out again and tell forever afterward that the people in the West are sullen. And Mae, when she is alone with Al, has a name for them. She calls them shitheels.

Truck drivers. That’s the stuff.

Here’s a big transport comin’. Hope they stop; take away the taste of them shitheels. When I worked in that hotel in Albuquerque, Al, the way they steal— ever’ darn thing. An’ the bigger the car they got, the more they steal— towels, silver, soap dishes. I can’t figger it.

And Al, morosely, Where ya think they get them big cars and stuff? Born with ’em? You won’t never have nothin’.

The transport truck, a driver and relief. How ’bout stoppin’ for a cup a Java? I know this dump.

How’s the schedule?

Oh, we’re ahead.

Pull up, then. They’s a ol’ war horse in here that’s a kick. Good

Java, too.

The truck pulls up. Two men in khaki riding trousers, boots, short jackets, and shiny-visored military caps. Screen door— slam.

H’ya, Mae?

Well, if it ain’t Big Bill the Rat! When’d you get back on this run?

Week ago.

The other man puts a nickel in the phonograph, watches the disk slip free and the turntable rise up under it. Bing Crosby’s voicegolden. “Thanks for the memory, of sunburn at the shore— You might have been a headache, but you never were a bore—” And the truck driver sings for Mae’s ears, you might have been a haddock but you never was a whore

Mae laughs. Who’s ya frien’, Bill? New on this run, ain’t he?

The other puts a nickel in the slot machine, wins four slugs, and puts them back. Walks to the counter.

Well, what’s it gonna be?

Oh, cup a Java. Kinda pie ya got?

Banana cream, pineapple cream, chocolate cream— an’ apple.

Make it apple. Wait— Kind is that big thick one?

Mae lifts it out and sniffs it. Banana cream.

Cut off a hunk; make it a big hunk.

Man at the slot machine says, Two all around.

Two it is. Seen any new etchin’s lately, Bill?

Well, here’s one.

Now, you be careful front of a lady.

Oh, this ain’t bad. Little kid comes in late ta school. Teacher says, “Why ya late?” Kid says, “Had a take a heifer down— get ’er bred.” Teacher says, “Couldn’t your ol’ man do it?” Kid says, “Sure he could, but not as good as the bull.”

Mae squeaks with laughter, harsh screeching laughter. Al, slicing onions carefully on a board, looks up and smiles, and then looks down again. Truck drivers, that’s the stuff. Gonna leave a quarter each for Mae. Fifteen cents for pie an’ coffee an’ a dime for Mae. An’ they ain’t tryin’ to make her, neither.

Sitting together on the stools, spoons sticking up out of the coffee mugs. Passing the time of day. And Al, rubbing down his griddle, listening but making no comment. Bing Crosby’s voice stops. The turntable drops down and the record swings into its place in the pile. The purple light goes off. The nickel, which has caused all this mechanism to work, has caused Crosby to sing and an orchestra to playthis nickel drops from between the contact points into the box where the profits go. The nickel, unlike most money, has actually done a job of work, has been physically responsible for a reaction.

Steam spurts from the valve of the coffee urn. The compressor of the ice machine chugs softly for a time and then stops. The electric fan in the corner waves its head slowly back and forth, sweeping the room with a warm breeze. On the highway, on 66, the cars whiz by.