Tom said, "Back home some fellas come through with han'bills — orange ones. Says they need lots a people out here to work the crops."
The young man laughed. "They say they's three hunderd thousan' folks here, an' I bet ever' dam' fam'ly seen them han'bills."
"Yeah, but if they don' need folks, what'd they go to the trouble puttin' them things out for?"
"Use your head, why don'cha?"
"Yeah, but I wanta know."
"Look," the young man said. "S'pose you got a job a work, an' there's jus' one fella wants the job. You got to pay 'im what he asts. But s'pose they's a hunderd men." He put down his tool. His eyes hardened and his voice sharpened. "S'pose they's a hunderd men wants that job. S'pose them men got kids, an' them kids is hungry. S'pose a lousy dime'll buy a box a mush for them kids. S'pose a nickel'll buy at leas' somepin for them kids. An' you got a huderd men. Jus' offer 'em a nickel — why, they'll kill each other fightin' for that nickel. …" He was panting with anger, and his eyes blazed with hate. "That's why them han'bills was out. You can print a hell of a lot of han'bills with what ya save payin' fifteen cents an hour for fiel' work."
…
"But they is work," Tom insisted. "Christ Almighty, with all this stuff a-growin': orchards, grapes, vegetables — I seen it. They got to have men. I seen all that stuff." …
The young man squatted on his heels. "I'll tell ya," he said quietly. "They's a big son-of-a-bitch of a peach orchard I worked in. Takes nine men all year roun'." He paused impressively. "Takes three thousan' men for two weeks when them peaches is ripe. Got to have 'em or them peaches'll rot. So what do they do? They send out han'bills all over hell. They need three thousan', an' they get six thousan'. They get them men for what they wanta pay. If ya don' wanta take what they pay, goddam it, they's a thousan' men waitin' for your job. So ya pick, an' ya pick, an' then she's done. Whole part a the country's peaches. All ripe together. When ya get 'em picked, ever' goddamn one is picked. There ain't another damn thing in that part a the country to do. An' then them owners don' want you there no more. Three thousan' of you. The work's done. You might steal, you might get drunk, you might jus' raise hell. An' besides, you don' look nice, livin' in ol' tents; an' it's a pretty country, but you stink it up. They don' want you around. So they kick you out, they move you along. That's how it is."
— John Steinbeck, Grapes of Wrath, Chap. 20
Ad-Free & Subscriber Log-In