The Grapes of Wrath Page #2

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DRIVER:

I never asked you!

TOM:

(as the truck moves

away)

Sure, but you'd a throwed a fit if I

hadn't tol' you.

He looks indifferently after the truck and then starts on

foot down the dirt crossroad. A wind has begun to blow.

The scene dissolves to the roadside under a WILLOW TREE in

daylight. The wind is still blowing. Sitting on the ground,

his back against the tree, Casy, a long, lean man in overalls,

blue shirt, and one sneaker, is fixing something on the other

dirty sneaker. To the tune of "Yes, Sir, That's My Baby" he

is absent-mindedly singing.

CASY:

Mmmmm he's my saviour. Mmmmm my

saviour, Mmmmmmmmmm my saviour now.

(Looking up as Tom

comes down the road)

Howdy, friend.

Carrying his coat under his arm, TOM wipes his face with his

cap as he cuts off the road to acknowledge the greeting.

TOM:

Howdy.

He stops, grateful for the momentary relief of the shade.

CASY:

Say, ain't you young Tom Joad--ol'

Tom's boy?

TOM:

(surprised)

Yeah. On my way home now.

CASY:

Well, I do declare!

(Grinning)

I baptized you, son.

TOM:

(staring)

Why, you're the preacher!

CASY:

*Used* to be. Not no more. I lost

the call.

(Reminiscently)

But boy, I sure *used* to have it!

I'd get an irrigation ditch so

squirmin' full of repented sinners I

pretty near *drowned* half of 'em!

(Sighing)

But not no more. I lost the sperit.

TOM:

(with a grin)

Pa always said you was never cut out

to be a preacher.

CASY:

I got nothin' to preach about no

more--that's all. I ain't so sure o'

things.

TOM:

Maybe you should a got yourself a

wife.

CASY:

(shakes his head sadly)

At my meetin's I used to get the

girls glory-shoutin' till they about

passed out. Then, I'd go to comfort

'em--and always end up by lovin'

'em. I'd feel bad, an' pray, an'

pray, but it didn't do no good. Next

time, do it again. I figgered there

just wasn't no hope for me.

TOM:

I never let one go by me when I could

catch her.

CASY:

But you wasn't a preacher. A girl

was just a girl to you. But to me

they was holy vessels. I was savin'

their souls.

(Fervently)

I ast myself--what *is* this call,

the Holy Sperit? Maybe *that's* love.

Why, I love everybody so much I'm

fit to bust sometimes! So maybe

there ain't no sin an' there ain't

no virtue. There's just what people

do. Some things folks do is nice,

and some ain't so nice. But that's

as far as any man's got a right to

say.

TOM:

(after a moment,

figuring there is no

percentage in

continuing this

philosophical

discussion, pulls

out a flask, which

he extends)

Have a little snort?

CASY:

(holding the flask)

Course I'll say grace if somebody

sets out the food--

(shaking his head)

--but my heart ain't in it.

(He takes a long pull)

Nice drinkin' liquor.

TOM:

Ought to be. That's fact'ry liquor.

Cost me a buck.

CASY:

(handing back the

flask)

Been out travelin' around?

TOM:

Didn't you hear? It was in the papers.

CASY:

No, I never. What?

TOM:

I been in the penitentiary for four

years.

(He drinks)

CASY:

Excuse me for asking.

TOM:

I don't mind any more. I'd do what I

done again. I killed a guy at a dance.

We was drunk. He got a knife in me

and I laid him out with a shovel.

Knocked his head plumb to squash.

CASY:

And you ain't ashamed?

TOM:

(shaking his head)

He had a knife in me. That's why

they only gave me seven years. Got

out in four--parole.

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