The Grapes of Wrath Page #74

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TOM:

(sick of the expression)

Listen. What *is* these reds?

Ever'time you turn aroun' somebody

sayin' somebody else's a red. What

is these reds, anyway?

WILKIE:

(chuckling)

Well, I tell you. They was a fella

up the country named King--got about

30,000 acres an' a cannery an' a

winery--an' he's all a time talkin'

about reds. Drivin' the country to

ruin, he says. Got to git rid of

'em, he says. Well, they was a young

fella jus' come out an' he was

listenin one day. He kinda scratched

his head an' he says, "Mr. King,

what *is* these reds you all a time

talkin' about?" Well, sir, Mr. King

says, "Young man, a red is any fella

that wants thirty cents a hour when

I'm payin' twenty-five."

THOMAS:

(fretfully)

I ain't talkin' about that one way

or the other. All I'm saying is that

there's going to be a fight in the

camp Saturday night. And there's

going to be deputies ready to go in.

TOM:

But why? Those fellas ain't botherin'

nobody.

THOMAS:

I'll tell you why. Those folks in to

being treated like humans. Suppose

the Government closes its camps.

Suppose too many people pass through

'em. Well, when those people go back

to the squatters' camps they'll be

hard to handle.

(Wiping his brow)

Go on back to work now. Maybe I've

talked myself into trouble, but you're

folks like us, and I like you.

TIM:

(extending his hand)

Nobody won't know who tol'. We thank

you.

(Grimly)

An' they ain't gonna be no fight,

either.

They shake hands.

The scene dissolves to the GATE TO THE CAMP, at night. It is

Saturday evening, the night of the dance. Glaring electric

lights hang over the open gate. Parked jalopies line the

highway as the invited guests, small farmers and migrants

from other camps and their families, arrive to be greeted

and checked by a committee of three men.

COMMITTEE MAN:

Ev'nin', ma'am. Who'd you say invited

you?

GUESTS:

Mister an' Mizz Clark, they ast us.

COMMITTEE MAN:

Yes, ma'am. Come right in, ma'am.

There is an air of eager anticipation, of gay celebration,

and everyone is in his or her best--the men in clean washed

overalls, clean shirts, some with ties, their hair damp and

slicked down, the women in their nicest. Through the gate,

inside the camp, can be seen the outdoor dance floor, brightly

lighted, with the camp musicians already tuning up, and around

the dance floor scores of wide-eyed children.

INSIDE THE GATE TO THE CAMP, we see Wilkie and a dark-

complexioned man named Jule standing among a group inside

watching the arrivals. They watch sharply, eyeing everyone,

listening to every credential. As his employer, Thomas, comes

through the gate with his wife, Wilkie grins and greets him

with a handshake.

WILKIE:

Hidy, Mr. Thomas. Hidy, Mizz Thomas.

THOMAS:

(sotto voce)

You watching out, ain't you?

WILKIE:

(grinning)

Don't you worry. Ain't gonna be no

trouble.

THOMAS:

I hope you know what you're talking

about.

(He moves away, Wilkie

grinning after him)

We see the DANCE FLOOR, and after three pats of the foot, to

get the tempo, the home talent dance orchestra swings into

music.

INSIDE THE JOAD TENT, Rosasharn dressed in her nicest, sits

gripping her hands together, the music seeming to bring her

to the verge of tears.

ROSASHARN:

Ma...

(Ma turns from drying

dishes)

Ma, I--I can't go to the dance. I

jus' can't Ma. I can't hardly stan'

it, with Connie not here--an' me

this way.

MA:

(trying to cheer her)

Why, honey, it makes folks happy to

see a girl that way--makes folks

sort of giggly an' happy.

ROSASHARN:

(miserably)

I can't he'p it, Ma. It don't make

*me* giggly an' happy.

Drying her hands, Ma sits beside Rosasharn and takes her in

her arms.

MA:

(tenderly)

You an' me's goin' together--jus'

you an' me. We're a-goin' to that

dance an' we're a-goin' to jus' set

an' watch. If anybody says to come

dance--why I'll say you're poorly.

But you an' me, we're gonna hear the

music an' see the fun.

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