The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck [154]
Tom laughed. “He got it.’’
Pa gathered his temper. “I jus’ wanted to know does anybody own it? Do we got to pay?’’
The bearded man thrust out his jaw. “Who owns it?’’ he demanded.
Pa turned away. “The hell with it,’’ he said. The woman’s head popped back in the tent.
The bearded man stepped forward menacingly. “Who owns it?’’ he demanded. “Who’s gonna kick us outa here? You tell me.’’
Tom stepped in front of Pa. “You better go take a good long sleep,’’ he said. The bearded man dropped his mouth open and put a dirty finger against his lower gums. For a moment he continued to look wisely, speculatively at Tom, and then he turned on his heel and popped into the shack after the gray woman.
Tom turned on Pa. “What the hell was that?’’ he asked.
Pa shrugged his shoulders. He was looking across the camp. In front of a tent stood an old Buick, and the head was off. A young man was grinding the valves, and as he twisted back and forth, back and forth, on the tool, he looked up at the Joad truck. They could see that he was laughing to himself. When the bearded man had gone, the young man left his work and sauntered over.
“H’are ya?’’ he said, and his blue eyes were shiny with amusement. “I seen you just met the Mayor.’’
“What the hell’s the matter with ’im?’’ Tom demanded.
The young man chuckled. “He’s jus’ nuts like you an’ me. Maybe he’s a little nutser’n me, I don’ know.’’
Pa said, “I jus’ ast him if we could camp here.’’
The young man wiped his greasy hands on his trousers. “Sure. Why not? You folks jus’ come acrost?’’
“Yeah,’’ said Tom. “Jus’ got in this mornin’.’’
“Never been in Hooverville before?’’
“Where’s Hooverville?’’
“This here’s her.’’
“Oh!’’ said Tom. “We jus’ got in.’’
Winfield and Ruthie came back, carrying a bucket of water between them.
Ma said, “Le’s get the camp up. I’m tuckered out. Maybe we can all rest.’’ Pa and Uncle John climbed up on the truck to unload the canvas and the beds.
Tom sauntered to the young man, and walked beside him back to the car he had been working on. The valve-grinding brace lay on the exposed block, and a little yellow can of valve-grinding compound was wedged on top of the vacuum tank. Tom asked, “What the hell was the matter’th that ol’ fella with the beard?’’
The young man picked up his brace and went to work, twisting back and forth, grinding valve against valve seat. “The Mayor? Chris’ knows. I guess maybe he’s bull-simple.’’
“What’s ‘bull-simple’?’’
“I guess cops push ’im aroun’ so much he’s still spinning.’’
Tom asked, “Why would they push a fella like that aroun’?’’
The young man stopped his work and looked in Tom’s eyes. “Chris’ knows,’’ he said. “You jus’ come. Maybe you can figger her out. Some fellas says one thing, an’ some says another thing. But you jus’ camp in one place a little while, an’ you see how quick a deputy sheriff shoves you along.’’ He lifted a valve and smeared compound on the seat.
“But what the hell for?’’
“I tell ya I don’ know. Some says they don’ want us to vote; keep us movin’ so we can’t vote. An’ some says so we can’t get on relief. An’ some says if we set in one place we’d get organized. I don’ know why. I on’y know we get rode all the time. You wait, you’ll see.’’
“We ain’t no bums,’’ Tom insisted. “We’re lookin’ for work. We’ll take any kind a work.’’
The young man paused in fitting the brace to the valve slot. He looked in amazement at Tom. “Lookin’ for work?’’ he said. “So you’re lookin’ for work. What ya think ever’body else is lookin’ for? Di’monds? What you think I wore my ass down to a nub lookin’ for?’’ He twisted the brace back and forth.
Tom looked about at the grimy tents, the junk equipment, at the old cars, the lumpy mattresses out in the sun, at the blackened cans on fire-blackened holes where the people cooked. He asked quietly, “Ain’t they no work?’’
“I don’ know. Mus’ be. Ain’t no crop right here now. Grapes to pick later, an’ cotton to pick later. We’re a-movin’ on, soon’s I get these here valves groun’. Me an’ my wife an’ my kid. We heard they was work up north. We’re shovin’ north, up aroun