Of Mice and Men

by John Steinbeck

“What you want of a dead mouse, anyways?” “I could pet it with my thumb while we walked along,” said Lennie.

Lennie said, “I like beans with ketchup.”

“If it was here, you could have some.” “But I wouldn’t eat none, George. I’d leave it all for you. You could cover your beans with it and I wouldn’t touch none of it.”

I don’t need no nice food with ketchup. I’d lay out in the sun and nobody’d hurt me. An’ if I foun’ a mouse, I could keep it. Nobody’d take it away from me.”

“Guys like us, that work on ranches, are the loneliest guys in the world. They got no fambly. They don’t belong no place. They come to a ranch an’ work up a stake and then they go into town and blow their stake, and the first thing you know they’re poundin’ their tail on some other ranch. They ain’t got nothing to look ahead to.”

“But not us! An’ why? Because . . . . because I got you to look after me, and you got me to look after you, and that’s why.”

“Let’s have different color rabbits, George.” “Sure we will,” George said sleepily.

“Well, I never seen one guy take so much trouble for another guy. I just like to know what your interest is.”

“Well . . . . tell you what. Curley’s like alot of little guys. He hates big guys. He’s alla time picking scraps with big guys. Kind of like he’s mad at ‘em because he ain’t a big guy. You seen little guys like that, ain’t you? Always scrappy?”

“Well, Curley’s pretty handy,” the swamper said skeptically. “Never did seem right to me. S’pose Curley jumps a big guy an’ licks him. Ever’body says what a game guy Curley is. And s’pose he does the same thing and gets licked. Then ever’body says the big guy oughtta pick somebody his own size, and maybe they gang up on the big guy. Never did seem right to me. Seems like Curley ain’t givin’ nobody a chance.”

“Don’t let him pull you in—but—if the son-of-a-bitch socks you—let ‘im have it.”

“Le’s go, George. Le’s get outa here. It’s mean here.”

“Ain’t many guys travel around together,” he mused. “I don’t know why. Maybe ever’body in the whole damn world is scared of each other.”

“He ain’t no cuckoo,” said George.

“Guy don’t need no sense to be a nice fella. Seems to me sometimes it jus’ works the other way around. Take a real smart guy and he ain’t hardly ever a nice fella.”

“An’ it’d be our own, an’ nobody could can us. If we don’t like a guy we can say, ‘Get the hell out,’ and by God he’s got to do it. An’ if a fren’ come along, why we’d have an extra bunk, an’ we’d say, ‘Why don’t you spen’ the night?’ an’ by God he would.

“George?” “What you want?” “I can still tend the rabbits, George?” “Sure. You ain’t done nothing wrong.” “I di’n’t mean no harm, George.”

Cause I’m black. They play cards in there, but I can’t play because I’m black. They say I stink. Well, I tell you, you all of you stink to me.”

As happens sometimes, a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement stopped for much, much more than a moment.

“I ain’t gonna let ‘em hurt Lennie.

“—an’ never have no ketchup—but I won’t care. If George don’t want me . . . . I’ll go away. I’ll go away.”

“No,” said George. “No, Lennie. I ain’t mad. I never been mad, an’ I ain’t now. That’s a thing I want ya to know.”