John Steinbeck - The Grapes of Wrath

Al released the jack and lowered the car. “Got plenty,” he said. “Maybe a little too much.” They threw the tools into the car. “Come on, le’s go,” Tom called.

“We’re gonna get some work at last.”

Ma got in the middle again. Al drove this time.

“Now take her easy. Don’t burn her up, Al.”

They drove on through the sunny morning fields. The mist lifted from the hilltops and they were clear and brown, with black-purple creases. The wild doves flew up from the fences as the truck passed. Al unconsciously increased his speed.

“Easy,” Tom warned him. “She’ll blow up if you crowd her. We got to get there. Might even get in some work today.”

Ma said excitedly, “With four men a-workin’ maybe I can get some credit right off. Fust thing I’ll get is coffee, ’cause you been wanting that, an’ then some flour an’ bakin’ powder an’ some meat. Better not get no side-meat right off. Save that for later. Maybe Sat’dy. An’ soap. Got to get soap. Wonder where we’ll stay.” She babbled on. “An’ milk. I’ll get some milk ’cause Rosasharn, she ought to have milk. The lady nurse says that.”

A snake wriggled across the warm highway. Al zipped over and ran it down and came back to his own lane. “Gopher snake,” said Tom. “You oughtn’t to done that.”

“I hate ’em,” said Al gaily. “Hate all kinds. Give me the stomach-quake.”

The forenoon traffic on the highway increased, salesmen in shiny coupes with the insignia of their companies painted on the doors, red and white gasoline trucks dragging clinking chains behind them, great square-doored vans from wholesale grocery houses, delivering produce. The country was rich along the roadside. There were orchards, heavy leafed in their prime, and vineyards with the long green crawlers carpeting the ground between the rows. There were melon patches and grain fields. White houses stood in the greenery, roses growing over them. And the sun was gold and warm.

In the front seat of the truck Ma and Tom and Al were overcome with happiness. “I ain’t really felt so good for a long time,” Ma said. “’F we pick plenty peaches we might get a house, pay rent even, for a couple months. We got to have a house.”

Al said, “I’m a-gonna save up. I’ll save up an’ then I’m a-goin’ in a town an’ get me a job in a garage. Live in a room an’ eat in restaurants. Go to the movin’ pitchers ever’ damn night. Don’ cost much. Cowboy pitchers.” His hands tightened on the wheel.

The radiator bubbled and hissed steam. “Did you fill her up?” Tom asked. “Yeah. Wind’s kinda behind us. That’s what makes her boil.”

“It’s a awful nice day,” Tom said. “Use’ ta work there in

McAlester an’ think all the things I’d do. I’d go in a straight line way to hell an’ gone an’ never stop nowheres. Seems like a long time ago. Seems like it’s years ago I was in. They was a guard made it tough. I was gonna lay for ’im. Guess that’s what makes me mad at cops. Seems like ever’ cop got his face. He use’ ta get red in the face. Looked like a pig. Had a brother out west, they said. Use’ ta get fellas paroled to his brother, an’ then they had to work for nothin’. If they raised a stink, they’d get sent back for breakin’ parole. That’s what the fellers said.”

“Don’ think about it,” Ma begged him. “I’m a-gonna lay in a lot a stuff to eat. Lot a flour an’ lard.”

“Might’s well think about it,” said Tom. “Try to shut it out, an’ it’ll whang back at me. They was a screwball. Never tol’ you ’bout him. Looked like Happy Hooligan. Harmless kinda fella. Always was gonna make a break. Fellas all called him Hooligan.” Tom laughed to himself.

“Don’ think about it,” Ma begged. “Go on,” said Al. “Tell about the fella.”

“It don’t hurt nothin’, Ma,” Tom said. “This fella was always gonna break out. Make a plan, he would; but he couldn’ keep it to hisself an’ purty soon ever’body knowed it, even the warden. He’d make his break an’ they’d take ’im by the han’ an’ lead ’im back. Well, one time he drawed a plan where he’s goin’ over. ’Course he showed it aroun’, an’ ever’body kep’ still. An’ he hid out, an’ ever’body kep’ still. So he’s got himself a rope somewheres, an’ he goes over the wall. They’s six guards outside with a great big sack, an’ Hooligan comes quiet down the rope an’ they jus’ hol’ the sack out an’ he goes right inside. They tie up the mouth an’ take ’im back inside. Fellas laughed so hard they like to died. But it busted Hooligan’s spirit. He jus’ cried an’ cried, an’ moped aroun’ an’ got sick. Hurt his feelin’s so bad. Cut his wrists with a pin an’ bled to death ’cause his feelin’s was hurt. No harm in ’im at all. They’s all kinds a screwballs in stir.”

“Don’ talk about it,” Ma said. “I knowed Purty Boy Floyd’s ma. He wan’t a bad boy. Jus’ got drove in a corner.” The sun moved up toward noon and the shadow of the truck grew lean and moved in under the wheels.

“Mus’ be Pixley up the road,” Al said. “Seen a sign a little back.” They drove into the little town and turned eastward on a narrower road. And the orchards lined the way and made an aisle.

“Hope we can find her easy,” Tom said.

Ma said, “That fella said the Hooper ranch. Said anybody’d tell us. Hope they’s a store near by. Might get some credit, with four men workin’. I could get a real nice supper if they’d gimme some credit. Make up a big stew maybe.”

“An’ coffee,” said Tom. “Might even get me a sack a Durham. I ain’t had no tobacca of my own for a long time.”

Far ahead the road was blocked with cars, and a line of white motorcycles was drawn up along the roadside. “Mus’ be a wreck,” Tom said.

As they drew near, a State policeman, in boots and Sam Browne belt, stepped around the last parked car. He held up his hand and Al pulled to a stop. The policeman leaned confidentially on the side of the car. “Where you going?”

Al said, “Fella said they was work pickin’ peaches up this way.”

“Want to work, do you?”

“Damn right,” said Tom. “O.K. Wait here a minute.” He moved to the side of the road and called ahead. “One more. That’s six cars ready. Better take this batch through.” Tom called, “Hey! What’s the matter?” The patrol man lounged back. “Got a little trouble up ahead. Don’t you worry. You’ll get through. Just follow the line.”

There came the splattering blast of motorcycles starting. The line of cars moved on, with the Joad truck last. Two motorcycles led the way, and two followed.

Tom said uneasily, “I wonder what’s a matter.”

“Maybe the road’s out,” Al suggested. “Don’ need four cops to lead us. I don’ like it.” The motorcycles ahead speeded up. The line of old cars speeded up.

Al hurried to keep in back of the last car. “These here is our own people, all of ’em,” Tom said. “I don’ like this.”

Suddenly the leading policemen turned off the road into a wide graveled entrance. The old cars whipped after them. The motorcycles roared their motors. Tom saw a line of men standing in the ditch beside the road, saw their mouths open as though they were yelling, saw their shaking fists and their furious faces. A stout woman ran toward the cars, but a roaring motorcycle stood in her way. A high wire gate swung open. The six old cars moved through and the gate closed behind them. The four motorcycles turned and sped back in the direction from which they had come. And now that the motors were gone, the distant yelling of the men in the ditch could be heard. Two men stood beside the graveled road. Each one carried a shotgun.