The Grapes of Wrath

by John Steinbeck

One of them deputies give me the lowdown. We was settin’ aroun’, an’ he says, ‘Them goddamn gov’ment camps,’ he says. ‘Give people hot water, an’ they gonna want hot water. Give ’em flush toilets, an’ they gonna want ’em.’ He says, ‘You give them goddamn Okies stuff like that an’ they’ll want ’em.’ An’ he says, ‘They hol’ red meetin’s in them gov’ment camps. All figgerin’ how to git on relief,’ he says.’’

“No. They was a little fella, an’ he says, ‘What you mean, relief?’ “ ‘I mean relief—what us taxpayers put in an’ you goddamn Okies takes out.’ “ ‘We pay sales tax an’ gas tax an’ tobacco tax,’ this little guy says. An’ he says, ‘Farmers get four cents a cotton poun’ from the gov’ment—ain’t that relief?’ An’ he says, ‘Railroads an’ shippin’ companies draws subsidies—ain’t that relief?’ “ ‘They’re doin’ stuff got to be done,’ this deputy says. “ ‘Well,’ the little guy says, ‘how’d your goddamn crops get picked if it wasn’t for us?’ ’’ The tubby man looked around. “What’d the deputy say?’’ Huston asked. “Well, the deputy got mad. An’ he says, ‘You goddamn reds is all the time stirrin’ up trouble,’ he says. ‘You better come along with me.’ So he takes this little guy in, an’ they give him sixty days in jail for vagrancy.’’

“You know a vagrant is anybody a cop don’t like. An’ that’s why they hate this here camp. No cops can get in. This here’s United States, not California. ’’

The decay spreads over the State, and the sweet smell is a great sorrow on the land. Men who can graft the trees and make the seed fertile and big can find no way to let the hungry people eat their produce. Men who have created new fruits in the world cannot create a system whereby their fruits may be eaten. And the failure hangs over the State like a great sorrow. The works of the roots of the vines, of the trees, must be destroyed to keep up the price, and this is the saddest, bitterest thing of all. Carloads of oranges dumped on the ground. The people came for miles to take the fruit, but this could not be. How would they buy oranges at twenty cents a dozen if they could drive out and pick them up? And men with hoses squirt kerosene on the oranges, and they are angry at the crime, angry at the people who have come to take the fruit. A million people hungry, needing the fruit—and kerosene sprayed over the golden mountains. And the smell of rot fills the country. Burn coffee for fuel in the ships. Burn corn to keep warm, it makes a hot fire. Dump potatoes in the rivers and place guards along the banks to keep the hungry people from fishing them out. Slaughter the pigs1 and bury them, and let the putrescence drip down into the earth. There is a crime here that goes beyond denunciation. There is a sorrow here that weeping cannot symbolize. There is a failure here that topples all our success. The fertile earth, the straight tree rows, the sturdy trunks, and the ripe fruit. ...

Tom sighed. “I’m a-gettin’ tired, Ma. How ’bout makin’ me mad?’’ “You got more sense, Tom. I don’ need to make you mad. I got to lean on you. Them others—they’re kinda strangers, all but you. You won’t give up, Tom.’’ The job fell on him. “I don’ like it,’’ he said. “I wanta go out like Al. An’ I wanta get mad like Pa, an’ I wanta get drunk like Uncle John.’’ Ma shook her head. “You can’t, Tom. I know. I knowed from the time you was a little fella. You can’t. They’s some folks that’s just theirself an’ nothin’ more.

She was lying on her back. Al bent over her. And he saw the bright evening star reflected in her eyes, and he saw the black cloud reflected in her eyes.

“I’m learnin’ one thing good,’’ she said. “Learnin’ it all a time, ever’ day. If you’re in trouble or hurt or need—go to poor people. They’re the only ones that’ll help—the only ones.’’

Some a them fellas in the tank was drunks, but mostly they was there ’cause they stole stuff; an’ mostly it was stuff they needed an’ couldn’ get no other way. Ya see?’’ he asked. “No,’’ said Tom. “Well, they was nice fellas, ya see. What made ’em bad was they needed stuff. An’ I begin to see, then. It’s need that makes all the trouble.

Casy’s eyes shone with excitement. He turned to the other men. “Ya see?’’ he cried. “I tol’ you. Cops cause more trouble than they stop.

Says one time he went out in the wilderness to find his own soul, an’ he foun’ he didn’ have no soul that was his’n. Says he foun’ he jus’ got a little piece of a great big soul. Says a wilderness ain’t no good, ’cause his little piece of a soul wasn’t no good ’less it was with the rest, an’ was whole.

“How’s it go, Tom?’’ “Goes, ‘Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their labor. For if they fall, the one will lif’ up his fellow, but woe to him that is alone when he falleth, for he hath not another to help him up.’1 That’s part of her.’’ “Go on,’’ Ma said. “Go on, Tom.’’ “Jus’ a little bit more. ‘Again, if two lie together, then they have heat: but how can one be warm alone? And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him, and a three-fold cord is not quickly broken.’ ”2

“I been thinkin’ how it was in that gov’ment camp, how our folks took care a theirselves, an’ if they was a fight they fixed it theirself; an’ they wasn’t no cops wagglin’ their guns, but they was better order than them cops ever give. I been a-wonderin’ why we can’t do that all over. Throw out the cops that ain’t our people. All work together for our own thing—all farm our own lan’.’’

I been thinkin’ a hell of a lot, thinkin’ about our people livin’ like pigs, an’ the good rich lan’ layin’ fallow, or maybe one fella with a million acres, while a hunderd thousan’ good farmers is starvin’. An’ I been wonderin’ if all our folks got together an’ yelled, like them fellas yelled, only a few of ’em at the Hooper ranch——’’ Ma said, “Tom, they’ll drive you, an’ cut you down like they done to young Floyd.’’ “They gonna drive me anyways. They drivin’ all our people.’’ “You don’t aim to kill nobody, Tom?’’ “No. I been thinkin’, long as I’m a outlaw anyways, maybe I could— Hell, I ain’t thought it out clear, Ma. Don’ worry me now. Don’ worry me.’’

“Well, maybe like Casy says, a fella ain’t got a soul of his own, but on’y a piece of a big one—an’ then——’’ “Then what, Tom?’’ “Then it don’ matter. Then I’ll be all aroun’ in the dark. I’ll be ever’where—wherever you look. Wherever they’s a fight so hungry people can eat, I’ll be there. Wherever they’s a cop beatin’ up a guy, I’ll be there. If Casy knowed, why, I’ll be in the way guys yell when they’re mad an’—I’ll be in the way kids laugh when they’re hungry an’ they know supper’s ready. An’ when our folks eat the stuff they raise an’ live in the houses they build—why, I’ll be there. See?

“Woman can change better’n a man,’’ Ma said soothingly. “Woman got all her life in her arms. Man got it all in his head.

And then they bent lower to their work, and their hands flew to the cotton. They raced at the picking, raced against time and cotton weight, raced against the rain and against each other—only so much cotton to pick, only so much money to be made. They came to the other side of the field and ran to get a new row. And now they faced into the wind, and they could see the high gray clouds moving over the sky toward the rising sun. And more cars parked along the roadside, and new pickers came to be checked in. The line of people moved frantically across the field, weighed at the end, marked their cotton, checked the weights into their own books, and ran for new rows.

Then from the tents, from the crowded barns, groups of sodden men went out, their clothes slopping rags, their shoes muddy pulp. They splashed out through the water, to the towns, to the country stores, to the relief offices, to beg for food, to cringe and beg for food, to beg for relief, to try to steal, to lie. And under the begging, and under the cringing, a hopeless anger began to smolder. And in the little towns pity for the sodden men changed to anger, and anger at the hungry people changed to fear of them. Then sheriffs swore in deputies in droves, and orders were rushed for rifles, for tear gas, for ammunition. Then the hungry men crowded the alleys behind the stores to beg for bread, to beg for rotting vegetables, to steal when they could. Frantic men pounded on the doors of the doctors; and the doctors were busy. And sad men left word at country stores for the coroner to send a car. The coroners were not too busy. The coroners’ wagons backed up through the mud and took out the dead.

No work till spring. No work. And if no work—no money, no food. Fella had a team of horses, had to use ’em to plow an’ cultivate an’ mow, wouldn’ think a turnin’ ’em out to starve when they wasn’t workin’. Them’s horses—we’re men.

The women watched the men, watched to see whether the break had come at last. The women stood silently and watched. And where a number of men gathered together, the fear went from their faces, and anger took its place. And the women sighed with relief, for they knew it was all right—the break had not come; and the break would never come as long as fear could turn to wrath.