The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck [60]
“By God, I bet I know,’’ cried Joad. “Is it a cave in the bank?’’
“That’s right. How’d you know?’’
“I dug her,’’ said Joad. “Me an’ my brother Noah dug her. Lookin’ for gold we says we was, but we was jus’ diggin’ caves like kids always does.’’ The walls of the water-cut were above their heads now. “Ought to be pretty close,’’ said Joad. “Seems to me I remember her pretty close.’’
Muley said, “I’ve covered her with bresh. Nobody couldn’t find her.’’ The bottom of the gulch leveled off, and the footing was sand.
Joad settled himself on the clean sand. “I ain’t gonna sleep in no cave,’’ he said. “I’m gonna sleep right here.’’ He rolled his coat and put it under his head.
Muley pulled at the covering brush and crawled into his cave. “I like it in here,’’ he called. “I feel like nobody can come at me.’’
Jim Casy sat down on the sand beside Joad.
“Get some sleep,’’ said Joad. “We’ll start for Uncle John’s at day-break. ’’
“I ain’t sleepin’,’’ said Casy. “I got too much to puzzle with.’’ He drew up his feet and clasped his legs. He threw back his head and looked at the sharp stars. Joad yawned and brought one hand back under his head. They were silent, and gradually the skittering life of the ground, of holes and burrows, of the brush, began again; the gophers moved, and the rabbits crept to green things, the mice scampered over clods, and the winged hunters moved soundlessly overhead.
Chapter 7
IN THE TOWNS, on the edges of the towns, in fields, in vacant lots, the used-car yards, the wreckers’ yards, the garages with blazoned signs—Used Cars, Good Used Cars. Cheap transportation, three trailers. ’27 Ford, clean. Checked cars, guaranteed cars. Free radio. Car with 100 gallons of gas free. Come in and look. Used Cars. No overhead.
A lot and a house large enough for a desk and chair and a blue book. Sheaf of contracts, dog-eared, held with paper clips, and a neat pile of unused contracts. Pen—keep it full, keep it working. A sale’s been lost ’cause a pen didn’t work.
Those sons-of-bitches over there ain’t buying. Every yard gets ’em. They’re lookers. Spend all their time looking. Don’t want to buy no cars; take up your time. Don’t give a damn for your time. Over there, them two people—no, with the kids. Get ’em in a car. Start ’em at two hundred and work down. They look good for one and a quarter. Get ’em rolling. Get ’em out in a jalopy. Sock it to ’em! They took our time.
Owners with rolled-up sleeves. Salesmen, neat, deadly, small intent eyes watching for weaknesses.
Watch the woman’s face. If the woman likes it we can screw the old man. Start ’em on that Cad’. Then you can work ’em down to that ’26 Buick. ’F you start on the Buick, they’ll go for a Ford. Roll up your sleeves an’ get to work. This ain’t gonna last forever. Show ’em that Nash while I get the slow leak pumped up on that ’25 Dodge. I’ll give you a Hymie1 when I’m ready.
What you want is transportation, ain’t it? No baloney for you. Sure the upholstery is shot. Seat cushions ain’t turning no wheels over.
Cars lined up, noses forward, rusty noses, flat tires. Parked close together.
Like to get in to see that one? Sure, no trouble. I’ll pull her out of the line.
Get ’em under obligation. Make ’em take up your time. Don’t let ’em forget they’re takin’ your time. People are nice, mostly. They hate to put you out. Make ’em put you out, an’ then sock it to ’em.
Cars lined up, Model T’s, high and snotty, creaking wheel, worn bands. Buicks, Nashes, De Sotos.
Yes, sir. ’22 Dodge. Best goddamn car Dodge ever made. Never wear out. Low compression. High compression got lots a sap for a while, but the metal ain’t made that’ll hold it for long. Plymouths, Rocknes, Stars.
Jesus, where’d that Apperson come from, the Ark? And a Chalmers and a Chandler—ain’t made ’em for years. We ain’t sellin’ cars—rolling junk. Goddamn it, I got to get jalopies. I don’t want nothing for more’n twenty-five, thirty bucks. Sell ’em for fifty, seventy-five. That’s a good profit. Christ, what cut do you make on a new car? Get jalopies. I can sell ’em fast as I get ’em. Nothing over two hundred fifty. Jim, corral that old bastard on the sidewalk. Don