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The Wayward Bus, for no good reason, is the most underrated of the major novels of John Steinbeck (1902-1968), the recipient of the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1962.
“The Bus” is a major novel by a major American author and it deserves to attract a new generation of readers.
“The more I think of it the better I like it and the better I like it the longer its plan and the wider its scope until it seems to contain the whole world. From the funny little story it is growing to the most ambitious thing I have ever attempted. Not that it still won’t be funny but funny as Tom Jones and Tristram Shandy and Don Quixote are funny. And it isn’t going to take a little time to write but a long time and I don’t care, for my bus is something large in my mind. It is a cosmic bus holding sparks and back firing into the Milky Way and turning the corner of Betelgeuse without a hand
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His wayward bus “Sweetheart” is the lineal ancestor of Ken Kesey’s psychedelic bus “Further,” another conveyance that would backfire into the Milky Way a generation later.
“What a whaling ship and a man of war were for Herman Melville and Jack London, what a stagecoach was for John Ford, a bus was for John Steinbeck. His wayward bus “Sweetheart” is the lineal ancestor of Ken Kesey’s psychedelic bus “Further,” another conveyance that would backfire into the Milky Way a generation later.”
Reference
Steinbeck, John & Scharnhorst, Gary, Introduction (2006, Mar. 26). “The Wayward Bus.” (Penguin Classics) Kindle Edition. Introduction, Loc. 64 of 4807, 1%.
the people in it are alive, so much so that sometimes they take a tack I didn’t suspect they were going to.”
This book depends on mood, on detail and on all the little factors of writing for its effectiveness. It has practically no story.”
The “lead” to which Steinbeck referred, of course, was the epigram to the fable from the late-fifteenth-century English morality play Everyman.
Like a medieval morality play or any drama constructed according to the classical “unities” (including Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey into Night), Steinbeck’s story transpires in the course of a single day, opening before dawn in the lunchroom at Rebel Corners and ending after dusk as the bus nears its destination of San Juan de la Cruz (Saint John of the Cross).
As Steinbeck notes, the “greatest and best and most beautiful part of Norma lay behind her eyes, sealed and protected.”
Steinbeck once told an interviewer that The Wayward Bus contained “an indefinite number of echoes” of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, the Heptameron, and Giovanni Boccaccio’s Decameron.
Some critics have tried to read the allegory by identifying individual characters with particular characters in the original Everyman (for example, Camille with Beauty) or with each of the seven deadly sins (for example, Pimples with gluttony).
Neither a natural blonde nor the stereotyped dumb blonde, Camille is worldly wise. She has learned to blend into her environment, a strategy that enables her to survive. As she tells Norma, “everybody’s a tramp some time or other. Everybody. And the worst tramps of all are the ones that call it something else.”
The Pritchards’ daughter, Mildred or “mild red,” (“She was playing around with dangerous companions in her college, professors and certain people considered Red”) is a spoiled rich girl like Mary Dalton in Richard Wright’s Native Son (1940).
After the war the Blankens became lazy and quarrelsome and full of hatreds and complaints, as every defeated nation does, so that, pride in them having evaporated with the war, people stopped bringing their horses to be shoed and their plows for retipping. Finally, what the Union Armies could not do by force of arms the First National Bank of San Ysidro did by foreclosure.
The rebel Blankens have, through pride and a low threshold of insult which is the test of ignorance and laziness, disappeared from the face of the earth, and no one remembers what they looked like.
She was not in the least jealous of the calendar girls and the Coca-Cola girls.3 She had never seen anyone like them and she didn’t think anyone else ever had.
The walls, where there was room, were well decorated with calendars and posters showing bright, improbable girls with pumped-up breasts and no hips—blondes, brunettes and redheads, but always with this bust development, so that a visitor of another species might judge from the preoccupation of artist and audience that the seat of procreation lay in the mammaries.
Alice Chicoy, Mrs. Juan Chicoy, that is, who worked among the shining girls, was wide-hipped and sag-chested and she walked well back on her heels. She was not in the least jealous of the calendar girls and the Coca-Cola girls.3 She had never seen anyone like them and she didn’t think anyone else ever had.
Mrs. Chicoy was insanely in love with him and a little afraid of him too, because he was a man, and there aren’t very many of them, as Alice Chicoy had found out. There aren’t very many of them in the world, as everyone finds out sooner or later.
That was the time he drove the bus, carrying passengers who had been deposited at Rebel Corners by the big Greyhound busses4 to San Juan de la Cruz and bringing passengers back from San Juan de la Cruz to Rebel Corners, where they were picked up either by the Greyhound bus going north at four-fifty-six or by the Greyhound going south at five-seventeen.
To these young men opportunity beckoned constantly, drawing them ever southward toward Los Angeles and, of course, Hollywood, where, eventually, all the adolescents in the world will be congregated.
With the first daylight or, in the winter, even before, the lights came on in the lunchroom, and Alice steamed up the coffee urn (a great godlike silver effigy which may, in some future archaeological period, be displayed as an object of worship of the race of Amudkins, who preceded the Atomites, who, for some unknown reason, disappeared from the face of the earth).6
With the first daylight or, in the winter, even before, the lights came on in the lunchroom, and Alice steamed up the coffee urn (a great godlike silver effigy which may, in some future archaeological period, be displayed as an object of worship of the race of Amudkins, who preceded the Atomites, who, for some unknown reason, disappeared from the face of the earth). 6
Footnote
6 the race of Amudkins, who preceded the Atomites: Steinbeck coins names for two races—Amudkins or “kin to mud,” a term that evokes the Genesis creation myth of Adam and Eve, and Atomites, or the race of people who live in an atomic age.
The tourists from the north did not interest Norma much, but those from the south or those who came over the cutoff from San Juan de la Cruz and who might have been to Hollywood fascinated her.
The tourists from the north did not interest Norma much, but those from the south or those who came over the cutoff from San Juan de la Cruz and who might have been to Hollywood fascinated her. In four months Norma personally met fifteen people who had been to Hollywood, five who had been on a picture lot, and two who had seen Clark Gable face to face. Inspired by these last two, who came in very close together, she wrote a twelve-page letter which began, “Dear Mr. Gable,” and ended, “Lovingly, A Friend.” She often shuddered to think that Mr. Gable might find out that she had written it.
Norma was a faithful girl. Let others, featherbrains, run after the upstarts—the Sinatras, the Van Johnsons, the Sonny Tufts.7 Even during the war, when there had been no Gable pictures, Norma had remained faithful, keeping her dream warm with a colored picture of Mr. Gable in a flying suit with two belts of 50-caliber ammunition on his shoulders.
This island covered by the huge trees could be seen for miles. No one ever had to look for road signs to find Rebel Corners and the road to San Juan de la Cruz.
This island covered by the huge trees could be seen for miles. No one ever had to look for road signs to find Rebel Corners and the road to San Juan de la Cruz. In the great valley the grain fields flattened away toward the east, to the foothills and to the high mountains, and toward the west they ended nearer in the rounded hills where the live oaks sat in black splotches. In the summer the yellow heat shimmered and burned and glared on the baking hills, and the shade of the great trees over the Corners was a thing to look forward to and to remember. In the winter when the heavy rains fell, the restaurant was a warm place of coffee and chili beans and pie.
It was no beauty you could ignore by being used to it. It caught you in the throat in the morning and made a pain of pleasure in the pit of your stomach when the sun went down over it. The sweet smell of the lupines and of the grass set you breathing nervously, set you panting almost sexually.
In the deep spring when the grass was green on fields and foothills, when the lupines and poppies made a splendid blue and gold earth, when the great trees awakened in yellow-green young leaves, then there was no more lovely place in the world.
It was no beauty you could ignore by being used to it. It caught you in the throat in the morning and made a pain of pleasure in the pit of your stomach when the sun went down over it. The sweet smell of the lupines and of the grass set you breathing nervously, set you panting almost sexually. And it was in this season of flowering and growth, though it was still before daylight, that Juan Chicoy came out to the bus carrying an electric lantern. Pimples Carson, his apprentice-mechanic, stumbled sleepily behind him.
His whole system and his soul were a particularly violent battleground of adolescence. His concupiscence was constant, and when it was not directly and openly sexual it would take to channels of melancholy, of deep and tearful sentiment, or of a strong and musky religiosity. His mind and his emotions were like his face, constantly erupting, constantly raw and irritated.
Juan said, “I’m not complaining about the season, but with this ring gear out and the passengers waiting, and the ground is pulpy with rain—”
Out had gone St. Patrick and St. Bridget3 and the ten thousand pale virgins of the North, and into her had entered this dark one who had blood in her veins and a close connection with people.
Where the windshield angled in the middle and the center of support went up, sitting on top of the dashboard was a small metal Virgin of Guadalupe2 painted in brilliant colors. Her rays were gold and her robe was blue and she stood on the new moon, which was supported by cherubs. This was Juan Chicoy’s connection with eternity. It had little to do with religion as connected with the church and dogma, and much to do with religion as memory and feeling. This dark Virgin was his mother and the dim house where she, speaking Spanish with a little brogue, had nursed him. For his mother had made the Virgin of Guadalupe her own personal goddess. Out had gone St. Patrick and St. Bridget3 and the ten thousand pale virgins of the North, and into her had entered this dark one who had blood in her veins and a close connection with people.
The sun flashed on the windows of the lunchroom and lay warm on the green grass that edged the garage. It blazed on the poppies in the flat fields and on the great islands of blue lupines.
Unblessed with beauty as he was, he thought that youth was the only thing in the world worth having and that one who had lost youth was already dead.
The gray wall of water obscured the hills and there was a dark, metallic light with it. The heads of the lupines bent down, heavy with water. The petals of the poppies were beaten off and lay on the ground like gold coins. The already wet ground could absorb no more water, and little rivulets started immediately for the low places. The cloudburst roared on the roof of the lunchroom at Rebel Corners.
Juan could enjoy people. Alice could only love, like, dislike, and hate. She saw and felt no shading whatever.
I’ll have Grape-Nuts and cream, eggs turned over and well done—don’t let the yolk be running—dry toast and Boston coffee—that’s half milk.
Wherever he went he was not one man but a unit in a corporation, a unit in a club, in a lodge, in a church, in a political party.
he was definitely worried about the activities of his daughter Mildred. She was playing around with dangerous companions in her college, professors and certain people considered Red.
Russia, to Mr. Pritchard, took the place of the medieval devil as the source of all cunning and evil and terror.
Norma was even more submerged than an iceberg. Only the tiniest part of Norma showed above the surface. For the greatest and best and most beautiful part of Norma lay behind her eyes, sealed and protected.
She met the ideas of other people with a quiet smile, almost as though she forgave them for having ideas. The truth was that she didn’t listen.
Both of these conditions she considered normal, and any variation of them abnormal and in bad taste.
Her married life was fairly pleasant and she was fond of her husband. She thought she knew his weaknesses and his devices and his desires. She herself was handicapped by what is known as a nun’s hood, which prevented her experiencing any sexual elation from her marriage; and she suffered from an acid condition which kept her from conceiving children without first artificially neutralizing her body acids. Both of these conditions she considered normal, and any variation of them abnormal and in bad taste. Women of lusty appetites she spoke of as “that kind of woman,” and she was a little sorry for them as she was for dope fiends and alcoholics.
The sky was beginning to clear. The clouds were tattering, and there were splashes of lovely clear sky with silks of cloud skittering across them. Up high a fierce wind blew, spreading and mixing and matting the clouds, but on the ground the air was perfectly still, and there was a smell of worms and wet grass and exposed roots.
The rain had stopped and only the drips from the white oaks fell on the roof. The land was soggy, water-beaten, sodden. The grain, fat and heavy with the damp, rich springtime, had lain heavily down under the last downpour, so that it stretched away in tired waves. The water trickled and ran and gurgled and rushed to find low places in the fields. The ditches beside the state highway were full, and in some places the water even invaded the raised road. Everywhere there was a whisper of water and a rush of water. The golden poppies were all stripped of their petals now, and the lupines lay down like the grain, too fat, too heavy, to hold up their heads.
The sky was beginning to clear. The clouds were tattering, and there were splashes of lovely clear sky with silks of cloud skittering across them. Up high a fierce wind blew, spreading and mixing and matting the clouds, but on the ground the air was perfectly still, and there was a smell of worms and wet grass and exposed roots.
“Well, the Greyhound gets in around ten. They bring regular freight and some passengers. We should get started at ten-thirty. That’s the schedule. Can I get you folks anything else? Some more coffee?”
Suddenly Juan laughed. “Fine,” he said. “The old bridge isn’t washed out yet and already you’re having trouble with the new one that isn’t built.”
Suddenly Juan laughed. “Fine,” he said. “The old bridge isn’t washed out yet and already you’re having trouble with the new one that isn’t built.”
The man turned his aching neck sideways. “Are you getting lippy?” he demanded.
For a moment a dark red light seemed to glow in Juan’s black eyes. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll get you on the Greyhound, don’t you worry. I wouldn’t want you on this run.”
“Well, you can’t kick me off, you’re a common carrier.”
“O.K.,” said Juan wearily. “Sometimes I wonder why I keep the bus. Maybe I won’t much longer. Just a headache. You’ve got a feeling! Nuts!”
Louie knew the wallet’s owner was right beside him so he said to the cashier, “If it was me that lost this, I’d give George a nice little present. Nothing don’t turn a guy bad like no appreciation. I remember a guy found a grand and he turned it in and he didn’t even get a thank-you. The next thing you know he robbed a bank and killed a coupla guards.” Louie lied easily and without strain.
The owner paid a five-dollar reward. Louie figured to give George a buck sometime. He knew George wouldn’t believe him, but what the hell. It was a stinker’s game and a muddy track. Everybody had to take his chance.
Her eyes were wide set, almost abnormally wide-set, and they were blue with little brown specks in them and with strongly marked dark lines from the pupil to the outer edge of the iris.
Louie studied her face as he walked. He had a feeling that he had seen her someplace before. But then, she might look like someone he knew, or he might have seen her in a movie. That had happened. Her eyes were wide set, almost abnormally wide-set, and they were blue with little brown specks in them and with strongly marked dark lines from the pupil to the outer edge of the iris. Her eyebrows were plucked and penciled in a high arch so that she looked a little surprised. Louie noticed that her gloved hands were not restless. She was not impatient nor nervous, and this bothered him. He was afraid of self-possession, and he did feel that he had seen her somewhere. Her knees were well-covered with flesh, not bony, and she kept her skirt down without pulling at it.
He hated old women. They frightened him. There was a smell about them that gave him the willies. They were fierce and they had no pride. They never gave a damn about making a scene. They got what they wanted. Louie’s grandmother had been a tyrant. She had got whatever she wanted by being fierce.
What she really wanted was a nice house in a nice town, two children, and a stairway to stand on.
And then Norma went to her bureau. She drew her suitcase from underneath. She unpinned the key from the inside of her dress and unlocked the suitcase. Heavily she began to pack.
Norma edged down the counter and opened the bedroom door softly. The door to her own room was open just a crack. She closed the door into the lunchroom and moved silently toward her own door. She was cold now and shivering. Cold as ice. Noiselessly she pushed her door open. And there it was—Alice, by the window, holding the letter to Clark Gable up to her eyes and blowing her hair sideways.
Alice blew her hair and looked up and saw Norma standing in the doorway. Her mouth was open, her face avid. She couldn’t change her expression. Norma took a step into the room. Her chin was set so hard that the lines receded from her mouth. Alice stupidly held the letter out to her. Norma took it, folded it carefully, and tucked it in her bodice. And then Norma went to her bureau. She drew her suitcase from underneath. She unpinned the key from the inside of her dress and unlocked the suitcase. Heavily she began to pack. She emptied the bureau drawers into the suitcase and pressed the mound of clothes down with her fist. From the closet she dragged out her three dresses and her coat with the rabbit collar and she laid the coat on the bed and rolled the dresses up around the hangers and poked them in the suitcase too.
Alice couldn’t move. She watched Norma, her head swinging as the girl passed back and forth. In Norma’s brain there was a silent scream of triumph. She was on top. After a life of being pushed around, she was on top and she was silent. She felt good about that. Not one word did she say and not one word would she say. She threw two pairs of shoes into the suitcase and put the lid firmly down and locked it.
“You going right now?” Alice asked.
Norma didn’t answer. She wouldn’t break her triumph. Nothing could force her.
“I didn’t mean to do anything wrong,” Alice said.
Norma didn’t look up.
Mr. Pritchard seemed to shake himself into reality. “Oh, yes—sure,” he said, and his voice returned to normal. But he was irritated again.
The San Juan road ran straight for a long way through level fields, and the fields were not fenced because cattle didn’t wander any more. The land was too valuable for grazing.
The San Juan road ran straight for a long way through level fields, and the fields were not fenced because cattle didn’t wander any more. The land was too valuable for grazing. The fields were open to the highway. They terminated in ditches beside the road. And in the ditches the wild mustard grew rankly and the wild turnip with its little purple flowers. The ditches were lined with blue lupines. The poppies were tightly rolled, for the open flowers had been beaten off by the rain.
“You get a job wait ressing first,” she said. “Pictures are a very tough racket.”
It would be fun and company to make this girl over and to give her some confidence.
Norma leaned close. “I know your hair’s natural,” she said. “But maybe you could show me how to kind of touch mine up. My hair’s mousy. Just mousy.”
Camille laughed. “You’d be surprised if you knew what color my hair is,” she said. “Hold still a minute.” She studied Norma’s face, trying to visualize what cold cream and powder and mascara could do for her, and she thought of the hair shining and waved, and the eyes made a little larger with eyeshadow, and the mouth reshaped with lipstick. Camille hadn’t any illusions about beauty. Loraine was a washed-out little rat without make-up but Loraine did all right. It would be fun and company to make this girl over and to give her some confidence. It might even be better than Loraine.
