“You and Uncle John climb up back,” he said to Rose of Sharon. “I’ll sleep in the seat here.”
Uncle John helped the heavy girl to climb up over the tail board. Ma piled the pots in a small space. The family lay wedged close together in the back of the truck.
A baby cried, in long jerking cackles, in one of the boxcars. A dog trotted out, sniffing and snorting, and moved slowly around the Joad truck. The tinkle of moving water came from the streambed.
CHAPTER 27
COTTON PICKERS WANTED—placards on the road, handbills out, orange-colored handbills— Cotton Pickers Wanted. Here, up this road, it says. The dark green plants stringy now, and the heavy bolls clutched in the pod. White cotton spilling out like popcorn. Like to get our hands on the bolls. Tenderly, with the fingertips. I’m a good picker. Here’s the man, right here. I aim to pick some cotton. Got a bag? Well, no, I ain’t. Cost ya a dollar, the bag. Take it out o’ your first hunderd and fifty. Eighty cents a hunderd first time over the field. Ninety cents second time over. Get your bag there. One dollar. ’F you ain’t got the buck, we’ll take it out of your first hunderd and fifty. That’s fair, and you know it.
Sure it’s fair. Good cotton bag, last all season. An’ when she’s wore out, draggin’, turn ’er aroun’, use the other end. Sew up the open end. Open up the wore end. And when both ends is gone, why, that’s nice cloth! Makes a nice pair a summer drawers. Makes nightshirts. And well, hell—a cotton bag’s a nice thing.
Hang it around your waist. Straddle it, drag it between your legs. She drags light at first. And your fingertips pick out the fluff, and the hands go twisting into the sack between your legs. Kids come along behind; got no bags for the kids—use a gunny sack or put it in your ol’ man’s bag. She hangs heavy, some, now. Lean forward, hoist ’er along. I’m a good hand with cotton. Finger-wise, boll-wise. Jes’ move along talkin’, an’ maybe singin’ till the bag gets heavy. Fingers go right to it. Fingers know. Eyes see the work—and don’t see it.
Talkin’ across the rows
They was a lady back home, won’t mention no names—had a nigger kid all of a sudden. Nobody knowed before. Never did hunt out the nigger. Couldn’ never hold up her head no more. But I started to tellshe was a good picker.
Now the bag is heavy, boost it along. Set your hips and tow it along, like a work horse. And the kids pickin’ into the old man’s sack. Good crop here. Gets thin in the low places, thin and stringy. Never seen no cotton like this here California cotton. Long fiber, bes’ damn cotton I ever seen. Spoil the lan’ pretty soon. Like a fella wants to buy some cotton lan’—Don’ buy her, rent her. Then when she’s cottoned on down, move someplace new.