“Well, you jus’ open your trap about us folks gettin’ together, an’ you’ll see. They take your pitcher an’ send it all over. Then you can’t get work nowhere. An’ if you got kids—”
Tom took off his cap, and twisted it in his hands. “So we take what we can get, huh, or we starve; an’ if we yelp we starve.”
The young man made a sweeping circle with his hand, and his hand took in the ragged tents and the rusty cars.
Tom looked down at his mother again, where she sat scraping potatoes. And the children had drawn closer. He said, “I ain’t gonna take it. Goddamn it, I an’ my folks ain’t no sheep. I’ll kick the hell outa somebody.”
“Like a cop?”
“Like anybody.”
“You’re nuts,” said the young man. “They’ll pick you right off. You got no name, no property. They’ll find you in a ditch, with the blood dried on your mouth an’ your nose. Be one little line in the paper—know what it’ll say? ’Vagrant foun’ dead.’ An’ that’s all. You’ll see a lot of them little lines, ’Vagrant foun’ dead.’”
Tom said, “They’ll be somebody else foun’ dead right ’longside of this here vagrant.”
“You’re nuts,” said the young man. “Won’t be no good in that.”
“Well, what you doin’ about it?” He looked into the grease-streaked face. And a veil drew down over the eyes of the young man.