The Grapes of Wrath

by John Steinbeck

“There, by God!’’ He squirmed free from under the car and pulled the pan out with him. He wiped his hand on a piece of gunny sacking and inspected the cut. “Bleedin’ like a son-of-a-bitch, ’’ he said. “Well, I can stop that.’’ He urinated on the ground, picked up a handful of the resulting mud, and plastered it over the wound. Only for a moment did the blood ooze out, and then it stopped. “Bes’ damn thing in the worl’ to stop bleedin’,’’ he said.

“Tom, I been watchin’ the cars on the road, them we passed an’ them that passed us. I been keepin’ track.’’ “Track a what?’’ “Tom, they’s hunderds a families like us all a-goin’ west. I watched. There ain’t none of ’em goin’ east—hunderds of ’em. Did you notice that?’’ “Yeah, I noticed.’’ “Why—it’s like—it’s like they was runnin’ away from soldiers. It’s like a whole country is movin’.’’

Tom lifted the mud pack from his hand and threw it on the ground. The edge of the wound was lined with dirt. He glanced over to the preacher. “You’re fixin’ to make a speech,’’ Tom said. “Well, go ahead. I like speeches. Warden used to make speeches all the time. Didn’t do us no harm an’ he got a hell of a bang out of it. What you tryin’ to roll out?’’

“They’s stuff goin’ on and they’s folks doin’ things. Them people layin’ one foot down in front of the other, like you says, they ain’t thinkin’ where they’re goin’, like you says—but they’re all layin’ ’em down the same direction, jus’ the same. An’ if ya listen, you’ll hear a movin’, an’ a sneakin’, an’ a rustlin’, an’—an’ a res’lessness. They’s stuff goin’ on that the folks doin’ it don’t know nothin’ about—yet. They’s gonna come somepin outa all these folks goin’ wes’—outa all their farms lef’ lonely. They’s comin’ a thing that’s gonna change the whole country.’’

“We had a mess,’’ Al said. “Granma got to bellerin’, an’ that set Rosasharn off an’ she bellered some. Got her head under a mattress an’ bellered. But Granma, she was just layin’ back her jaw an’ bayin’ like a moonlight houn’ dog. Seems like Granma ain’t got no sense no more. Like a little baby. Don’ speak to nobody, don’ seem to reco’nize nobody. Jus’ talks on like she’s talkin’ to Grampa.’’

“Look,’’ he said. “We’ll get back jus’ as soon’s we can. But we can’t tell how long.’’ “I’ll be here.’’ “Awright. Don’t make no speeches to yourself. Get goin’, Al.’’ The truck moved off in the late afternoon. “He’s a nice fella,’’ Tom said. “He thinks about stuff all the time.’’ “Well, hell—if you been a preacher, I guess you got to. Pa’s all mad about it costs fifty cents jus’ to camp under a tree. He can’t see that noways. Settin’ a-cussin’. Says nex’ thing they’ll sell ya a little tank a air. But Ma says they gotta be near shade an’ water ’cause a Granma.’’

“Not I remember. I sure did pick a nice time to get paroled. I figgered I was gonna lay aroun’ an’ get up late an’ eat a lot when I come home. I was goin’ out an’ dance, an’ I was gonna go tom-cattin’—an’ here I ain’t had time to do none of them things.’’ Al said, “I forgot. Ma give me a lot a stuff to tell you. She says don’t drink nothin’, an’ don’ get in no arguments, an’ don’t fight nobody. ’Cause she says she’s scairt you’ll get sent back.’’

“Well, hell, I don’t know nobody here. If I’m gonna ride aroun’ much, I’m gonna get married. I’m gonna have me a hell of a time when we get to California.’’ “Hope so,’’ said Tom. “You ain’t sure a nothin’ no more.’’ “No, I ain’t sure a nothin’.’’ “When ya killed that fella—did—did ya ever dream about it or anything? Did it worry ya?’’ “No.’’ “Well, didn’ ya never think about it?’’ “Sure. I was sorry ’cause he was dead.’’ “Ya didn’t take no blame to yourself?” “No. I done my time, an’ I done my own time.’’

“Looks like you don’t love your boss none.’’ The man shambled close, his one eye flaring. “I hate ’im,’’ he said softly. “I hate the son-of-a-bitch! Gone home now. Gone home to his house.’’ The words fell stumbling out. “He got a way—he got a way a-pickin’ a fella an’ a-tearin’ a fella. He—the son-of-a-bitch. Got a girl nineteen, purty. Says to me, ‘How’d ya like ta marry her?’ Says that right to me. An’ tonight—says, ‘They’s a dance; how’d ya like to go?’ Me, he says it to me!’’ Tears formed in his eye and tears dripped from the corner of the red eye socket. “Some day, by God—some day I’m gonna have a pipe wrench in my pocket. When he says them things he looks at my eye. An’ I’m gonna, I’m gonna jus’ take his head right down off his neck with that wrench, little piece at a time.’’ He panted with his fury. “Little piece at a time, right down off’n his neck.’’

Tom kneeled down and looked under the car. “Pan’s off awready. One rod’s been took. Looks like one gone.’’ He wriggled under the car. “Get a crank an’ turn her over, Al.’’ He worked the rod against the shaft. “Purty much froze with grease.’’ Al turned the crank slowly. “Easy,’’ Tom called. He picked a splinter of wood from the ground and scraped the cake of grease from the bearing and the bearing bolts. “How is she for tight?’’ Al asked. “Well, she’s a little loose, but not bad.’’ “Well, how is she for wore?’’ “Got plenty shim. Ain’t been all took up. Yeah, she’s O.K. Turn her over easy now. Get her down, easy—there! Run over the truck an’ get some tools.’’

“Know what that son-of-a-bitch done? He come by an’ he got on white pants. An’ he says, ’Come on, le’s go out to my yacht.’ By God, I’ll whang him some day!’’ He breathed heavily. “I ain’t been out with a woman sence I los’ my eye. An’ he says stuff like that.’’

Tom turned on him. “Now look-a-here, fella. You got that eye wide open. An’ ya dirty, ya stink. Ya jus’ askin’ for it. Ya like it. Lets ya feel sorry for yaself. ’Course ya can’t get no woman with that empty eye flap-pin’ aroun’. Put somepin over it an’ wash ya face. You ain’t hittin’ nobody with no pipe wrench.’’

“Cover it up then, goddamn it. Ya stickin’ it out like a cow’s ass. Ya like to feel sorry for yaself. There ain’t nothin’ the matter with you. Buy yaself some white pants. Ya gettin’ drunk an’ cryin’ in ya bed, I bet. Need any help, Al?’’ “No,’’ said Al. “I got this here bearin’ loose. Jus’ tryin’ to work the piston down.’’

“Where at you fellas goin’?’’ “California. Whole family. Gonna get work out there.’’ “Well, ya think a fella like me could get work? Black patch on my eye?’’ “Why not? You ain’t no cripple.’’ “Well—could I catch a ride with you fellas?’’

“I got her,’’ Al called. “Well, bring her out, let’s look at her.’’ Al handed him the piston and connecting-rod and the lower half of the bearing.

“O.K. An’ what we owe ya for this here con-rod an’ piston?’’ The one-eyed man rubbed his forehead with a knuckle, and a line of dirt peeled off. “Well, sir, I jus’ dunno. If the boss was here, he’d go to a parts book an’ he’d find out how much is a new one, an’ while you was workin’, he’d be findin’ out how bad you’re hung up, an’ how much jack ya got, an’ then he’d—well, say it’s eight bucks in the part book—he’d make a price a five bucks. An’ if you put up a squawk, you’d get it for three. You say it’s all me, but, by God, he’s a son-of-a-bitch. Figgers how bad ya need it. I seen him git more for a ring gear than he give for the whole car.’’ “Yeah! But how much am I gonna give you for this here?’’ “ ’Bout a buck, I guess.’’ “Awright, an’ I’ll give ya a quarter for this here socket wrench. Make it twice as easy.’’ He handed over the silver. “Thank ya. An’ cover up that goddamn eye.’’

The one-eyed man watched them go, and then he went through the iron shed to his shack behind. It was dark inside. He felt his way to the mattress on the floor, and he stretched out and cried in his bed, and the cars whizzing by on the highway only strengthened the walls of his loneliness.

“You sure give that fella hell,’’ Al said. “Sure did tell him where to lay down his dogs.’’ “Well, goddamn it, he was askin’ for it! Jus’ a pattin’ hisself ’cause he got one eye, puttin’ all the blame on his eye. He’s a lazy, dirty son-of-a-bitch. Maybe he can snap out of it if he knowed people was wise to him.’’ Al said, “Tom, it wasn’t nothin’ I done burned out that bearin’.’’ Tom was silent for a moment, then, “I’m gonna take a fall outa you, Al. You jus’ scrabblin’ ass over tit, fear somebody gonna pin some blame on you. I know what’s a matter. Young fella, all full a piss an’ vinegar. Wanta be a hell of a guy all the time. But, goddamn it, Al, don’ keep ya guard up when nobody ain’t sparrin’ with ya. You gonna be all right.’’

He gonna be alright

“I’ll get it when I finish. Here, Al, pull off the road a little more an’ come hol’ the light for me.’’ He went directly to the Dodge and crawled under on his back. Al crawled under on his belly and directed the beam of the flashlight. “Not in my eyes. There, put her up.’’ Tom worked the piston up into the cylinder, twisting and turning. The brass wire caught a little on the cylinder wall. With a quick push he forced it past the rings. “Lucky she’s loose or the compression’d stop her. I think she’s gonna work all right.’’

Al said, “Boss a that yard gonna be purty mad when he looks for that size socket an’ she ain’t there.’’ “That’s his screwin’,’’ said Tom. “We didn’ steal her.’’ He tapped the cotter-pins in and bent the ends out. “I think that’s good. Look, Casy, you hold the light while me an’ Al get this here pan up.’’

“O.K., Al. Turn her over,’’ he said. Al got into the car and stepped on the starter. The motor caught with a roar. Blue smoke poured from the exhaust pipe. “Throttle down!’’ Tom shouted. “She’ll burn oil till that wire goes. Gettin’ thinner now.’’ And as the motor turned over, he listened carefully. “Put up the spark an’ let her idle.’’ He listened again. “O.K., Al. Turn her off. I think we done her. Where’s that meat now?’’ “You make a darn good mechanic,’’ Al said.

“These here Dodges can pull a house in low gear. She’s sure ratio’d down. Good thing for us—I wanta break that bearin’ in easy.’’ On the highway the Dodge moved along slowly. The 12-volt headlights threw a short blob of yellowish light on the pavement. Casy turned to Tom. “Funny how you fellas can fix a car. Jus’ light right in an’ fix her. I couldn’t fix no car, not even now when I seen you do it.’’ “Got to grow into her when you’re a little kid,’’ Tom said. “It ain’t jus’ knowin’. It’s more’n that. Kids now can tear down a car ’thout even thinkin’ about it.’’

A group of men had gathered to the porch where the lantern burned, and their faces were strong and muscled under the harsh white light, light that threw black shadows of their hats over their foreheads and eyes and made their chins seem to jut out. They sat on the steps, and some stood on the ground, resting their elbows on the porch floor.

The proprietor said, “If you wanta pull in here an’ camp it’ll cost you four bits. Get a place to camp an’ water an’ wood. An’ nobody won’t bother you.’’ “What the hell,’’ said Tom. “We can sleep in the ditch right beside the road, an’ it won’t cost nothin’.’’ The owner drummed his knee with his fingers. “Deputy sheriff comes on by in the night. Might make it tough for ya. Got a law against sleepin’ out in this State. Got a law about vagrants.’’ “If I pay you a half a dollar I ain’t a vagrant, huh?’’ “That’s right.’’

“It don’t trouble you none to take our four bits. An’ when’d we get to be bums? We ain’t asked ya for nothin’. All of us bums, huh? Well, we ain’t askin’ no nickels from you for the chance to lay down an’ rest.’’

Their faces were hard in the hard light, and they were very still. Only their eyes moved from speaker to speaker, and their faces were expressionless and quiet. A lamp bug slammed into the lantern and broke itself, and fell into the darkness. In one of the tents a child wailed in complaint, and a woman’s soft voice soothed it and then broke into a low song, “Jesus loves you in the night. Sleep good, sleep good. Jesus watches in the night. Sleep, oh, sleep, oh.’’ The lantern hissed on the porch. The owner scratched in the V of his open shirt, where a tangle of white chest hair showed. He was watchful and ringed with trouble. He watched the men in the circle, watched for some expression. And they made no move.

The men stirred, changed positions, and their glittering eyes moved slowly upward to the mouth of the proprietor, and their eyes watched for his lips to move. He was reassured. He felt that he had won, but not decisively enough to charge in. “Ain’t you got half a buck?’’ he asked. “Yeah, I got it. But I’m gonna need it. I can’t set it out jus’ for sleepin’.’’ “Well, we all got to make a livin’.’’ “Yeah,’’ Tom said. “On’y I wisht they was some way to make her ’thout takin’ her away from somebody else.’’

The ragged man stared while Pa spoke, and then he laughed, and his laughter turned to a high whinnying giggle. The circle of faces turned to him. The giggling got out of control and turned into coughing. His eyes were red and watering when he finally controlled the spasms. “You goin’ out there—oh, Christ!’’ The giggling started again. “You goin’ out an’ get—good wages—oh, Christ!’’ He stopped and said slyly, “Pickin’ oranges maybe? Gonna pick peaches?’’

Pa said, “What the hell you talkin’ about? I got a han’bill says they got good wages, an’ little while ago I seen a thing in the paper says they need folks to pick fruit.’’ The ragged man turned to Pa. “You got any place to go, back home?’’ “No,’’ said Pa. “We’re out. They put a tractor past the house.’’ “You wouldn’ go back then?’’ “ ’Course not.’’ “Then I ain’t gonna fret you,’’ said the ragged man.

“I don’ wanna fret you.’’ Pa said angrily, “You done some jackassin’. You ain’t gonna shut up now. My han’bill says they need men. You laugh an’ say they don’t. Now, which one’s a liar?’’

“Look,’’ said the man. “It don’t make no sense. This fella wants eight hundred men. So he prints up five thousand of them things an’ maybe twenty thousan’ people sees ’em. An’ maybe two-three thousan’ folks gets movin’ account a this here han’bill. Folks that’s crazy with worry.’’ “But it don’t make no sense!’’ Pa cried.

The silence hung on the porch. And the light hissed, and a halo of moths swung around and around the lantern. The ragged man went on nervously, “Lemme tell ya what to do when ya meet that fella says he got work. Lemme tell ya. Ast him what he’s gonna pay. Ast him to write down what he’s gonna pay. Ast him that. I tell you men you’re gonna get fooled if you don’t.’’

“You sure you ain’t one of these here troublemakers? You sure you ain’t a labor faker?’’ And the ragged man cried, “I swear to God I ain’t!’’ “They’s plenty of ’em,’’ the proprietor said. “Goin’ aroun’ stirrin’ up trouble. Gettin’ folks mad. Chiselin’ in. They’s plenty of ’em. Time’s gonna come when we string ’em all up, all them troublemakers. We gonna run ’em outa the country. Man wants to work, O.K. If he don’t— the hell with him. We ain’t gonna let him stir up trouble.’’

“I tried to tell you fellas,’’ he said. “Somepin it took me a year to find out. Took two kids dead, took my wife dead to show me. But I can’t tell you. I should of knew that. Nobody couldn’t tell me, neither. I can’t tell ya about them little fellas layin’ in the tent with their bellies puffed out an’ jus’ skin on their bones, an’ shiverin’ an’ whinin’ like pups, an’ me runnin’ aroun’ tryin’ to get work—not for money, not for wages!’’ he shouted. “Jesus Christ, jus’ for a cup a flour an’ a spoon a lard. An’ then the coroner come. ‘Them children died a heart failure,’ he said. Put it on his paper. Shiverin’, they was, an’ their bellies stuck out like a pig bladder.’’ The circle was quiet, and mouths were open a little. The men breathed shallowly, and watched.

The men were uneasy. One said, “Well—gettin’ late. Got to get to sleep.’’ The proprietor said, “Prob’ly shif’less. They’s so goddamn many shif’less fellas on the road now.’’ And then he was quiet. And he tipped his chair back against the wall again and fingered his throat.

“He’s tellin’ the truth, awright. The truth for him. He wasn’t makin’ nothin’ up.’’ “How about us?’’ Tom demanded. “Is that the truth for us?’’ “I don’ know,’’ said Casy. “I don’ know,’’ said Pa.

“Thank the dear God for that,’’ Ma said. “I’m just a-twitterin’ to go on. Wanta get where it’s rich an’ green. Wanta get there quick.’’ Pa cleared his throat. “Fella was jus’ sayin’——’’ Tom grabbed his arm and yanked it. “Funny what he says,’’ Tom said. “Says they’s lots a folks on the way.’’

“I washed ’em up,’’ Ma said. “Fust water we got enough of to give ’em a goin’-over. Lef’ the buckets out for you fellas to wash too. Can’t keep nothin’ clean on the road.’’

In the evening a strange thing happened: the twenty families became one family, the children were the children of all. The loss of home became one loss, and the golden time in the West was one dream. And it might be that a sick child threw despair into the hearts of twenty families, of a hundred people; that a birth there in a tent kept a hundred people quiet and awestruck through the night and filled a hundred people with the birth-joy in the morning. A family which the night before had been lost and fearful might search its goods to find a present for a new baby. In the evening, sitting about the fires, the twenty were one. They grew to be units of the camps, units of the evenings and the nights. A guitar unwrapped from a blanket and tuned—and the songs, which were all of the people, were sung in the nights. Men sang the words, and women hummed the tunes.

At first the families were timid in the building and tumbling worlds, but gradually the technique of building worlds became their technique. Then leaders emerged, then laws were made, then codes came into being. And as the worlds moved westward they were more complete and better furnished, for their builders were more experienced in building them.

And the families learned, although no one told them, what rights are monstrous and must be destroyed: the right to intrude upon privacy, the right to be noisy while the camp slept, the right of seduction or rape, the right of adultery and theft and murder. These rights were crushed, because the little worlds could not exist for even a night with such rights alive.

And with the laws, the punishments—and there were only two—a quick and murderous fight or ostracism; and ostracism was the worst. For if one broke the laws his name and face went with him, and he had no place in any world, no matter where created. In the worlds, social conduct became fixed and rigid, so that a man must say “Good morning’’ when asked for it, so that a man might have a willing girl if he stayed with her, if he fathered her children and protected them. But a man might not have one girl one night and another the next, for this would endanger the worlds. The families moved westward, and the technique of building the worlds improved so that the people could be safe in their worlds; and the form was so fixed that a family acting in the rules knew it was safe in the rules.

A certain physical pattern is needed for the building of a world—water, a river bank, a stream, a spring, or even a faucet unguarded. And there is needed enough flat land to pitch the tents, a little brush or wood to build the fires. If there is a garbage dump not too far off, all the better; for there can be found equipment—stove tops, a curved fender to shelter the fire, and cans to cook in and to eat from. And the worlds were built in the evening. The people, moving in from the highways, made them with their tents and their hearts and their brains.

Thus they changed their social life—changed as in the whole universe only man can change. They were not farm men any more, but migrant men. And the thought, the planning, the long staring silence that had gone out to the fields, went now to the roads, to the distance, to the West.

The camps became fixed—each a short day’s journey from the last. And on the road the panic overcame some of the families, so that they drove night and day, stopped to sleep in the cars, and drove on to the West, flying from the road, flying from movement. And these lusted so greatly to be settled that they set their faces into the West and drove toward it, forcing the clashing engines over the roads.

But the courtesies had to be. The car lumbered over the ground to the end tent, and stopped. Then down from the car the weary people climbed, and stretched stiff bodies. Then the new tent sprang up; the children went for water and the older boys cut brush or wood. The fires started and supper was put on to boil or to fry. Early comers moved over, and States were exchanged, and friends and sometimes relatives discovered. Oklahoma, huh? What county? Cherokee. Why, I got folks there. Know the Allens? They’s Allens all over Cherokee. Know the Willises? Why, sure.

A boy stopped near another boy and studied a stone, picked it up, examined it closely, spat on it, and rubbed it clean and inspected it until he forced the other to demand, What you got there? And casually, Nothin’. Jus’ a rock. Well, what you lookin’ at it like that for? Thought I seen gold in it. How’d you know? Gold ain’t gold, it’s black in a rock. Sure, ever’body knows that. I bet it’s fool’s gold, an’ you figgered it was gold. That ain’t so, ’cause Pa, he’s foun’ lots a gold an’ he tol’ me how to look. How’d you like to pick up a big ol’ piece a gold? Sa-a-ay! I’d git the bigges’ old son-a-bitchin’ piece a candy you ever seen. I ain’t let to swear, but I do, anyways.

And young girls found each other and boasted shyly of their popularity and their prospects. The women worked over the fire, hurrying to get food to the stomachs of the family—pork if there was money in plenty, pork and potatoes and onions. Dutch-oven biscuits or cornbread, and plenty of gravy to go over it. Side-meat or chops and a can of boiled tea, black and bitter. Fried dough in drippings if money was slim, dough fried crisp and brown and the drippings poured over it.

They spoke of their tragedies: Had a brother Charley, hair as yella as corn, an’ him a growed man. Played the ’cordeen nice too. He was harrowin’ one day an’ he went up to clear his lines. Well, a rattlesnake buzzed an’ them horses bolted an’ the harrow went over Charley, an’ the points dug into his guts an’ his stomach, an’ they pulled his face off an’— God Almighty!

And perhaps a man brought out his guitar to the front of his tent. And he sat on a box to play, and everyone in the camp moved slowly in toward him, drawn in toward him. Many men can chord a guitar, but perhaps this man was a picker. There you have something—the deep chords beating, beating, while the melody runs on the strings like little footsteps. Heavy hard fingers marching on the frets. The man played and the people moved slowly in on him until the circle was closed and tight, and then he sang “Ten-Cent Cotton and Forty-Cent Meat.’’ And the circle sang softly with him. And he sang “Why Do You Cut Your Hair, Girls?’’ And the circle sang. He wailed the song, “I’m Leaving Old Texas,’’ that eerie song that was sung before the Spaniards came, only the words were Indian then. And now the group was welded to one thing, one unit, so that in the dark the eyes of the people were inward, and their minds played in other times, and their sadness was like rest, like sleep.