The Grapes of Wrath Page #60

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POLICEMAN:

(stopping her wearily)

Okay, ma'am, let's don't go into it.

I already met about a hundred firs'

cousins an' it mus' be five hundred

secon'. But this is what I got to

tell you, don't try to park in town

tonight. Keep on out to that camp.

If we catch you in town after dark

we got to lock you up. Don't forget.

PA:

(worriedly)

But what we gonna *do*?

POLICEMAN:

(about to leave)

Pop, that just ain't up to me.

(Grimly he points to

the handbill)

But I don't min' tellin' you, the

guy they *ought* to lock up is the

guy that sent out *them* things.

He strolls away, the Joads looking concernedly after him,

just as the gas station attendant comes briskly to them after

disposing of the other car.

ATTENDANT:

(brightly)

How many, folks?

AL:

(after a pause)

One.

The attendant regards him in disgust.

The scene dissolves to HOOVERVILLE, by day. A large migrant

camp, a typical shanty town of ragged tents and tarpaper

shacks, jalopies and dirty children. A dozen or more children

pause to watch as the Joad truck lumbers down a dirt incline

from the road and stops at the edge of the camp in front of

one of the most miserable of the shacks. The Joads regard

the camp with dismay.

TOM:

(shaking his head)

She shore don't look prosperous.

Want to go somewheres else?

MA:

On a gallon a gas?

(As Tom grins at her)

Let's set up the tent. Maybe I can

fix us up some stew.

The truck moves into the camp through a lane of children.

The scene dissolves to the JOAD TENT. In front of it, Ma is

on her knees feeding a small fire with broken sticks. On the

fire is a pot of stew. Ruthie and Winfield stand watching

the pot. About fifteen ragged, barefooted children in a half-

circle are now around the fire, their solemn eyes on the pot

of stew. Occasionally they look at Ma, then back at the stew.

Presently one of the older girls speaks.

GIRL:

(shyly)

I could break up some bresh if you

want me, ma'am.

MA:

(gently)

You want to get ast to eat, hunh?

GIRL:

(simply)

Yes, ma'am.

MA:

Didn' you have no breakfast?

GIRL:

No, ma'am. They ain't no work

hereabouts. Pa's in tryin' to sell

some stuff to get gas so's we can

get along.

MA:

Didn' none of these have no breakfast?

There is a long silence. Then:

BOY:

(boastfully)

I did. Me an' my brother did. We et

good.

MA:

Then you ain't hungry, are you?

The boy chokes, his lip sticks out.

BOY:

(doggedly)

We et good.

(Then he breaks and

runs)

MA:

Well, it's a good thing *some* a you

ain't hungry, because they ain't

enough to go all the way roun'.

GIRL:

Aw, he was braggin'. Know what he

done? Las' night, come out an' say

they got chicken to eat. Well, sir,

I looked in whilst they was a-eatin'

an' it was fried dough jus' like

ever'body else.

Pa and John enter.

PA:

How 'bout it?

MA:

(to Ruthie)

Go get Tom an' Al.

(looking helplessly

at the children)

I dunno what to do. I got to feed

the fambly. What'm I gonna do with

these here?

She is dishing the stew into tin plates. The children's eyes

follow the spoon, and then the first plate, to John. He is

raising the first spoonful to his mouth when he notices them

apparently for the first time. He is chewing slowly, his

eyes on the children, their eyes on his face, when Tom and

Al enter.

JOHN:

(standing up)

You take this.

(Handing plate to Tom)

I ain't hungry.

TOM:

Whatta ya mean? You ain't et today.

JOHN:

I know, but I got a stomickache. I

ain't hungry.

TOM:

(after a glance at

the children)

You take that plate inside the tent

an' you eat it.

JOHN:

Wouldn't be no use. I'd still see

'em inside the tent.

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