short theater essay.

A new Chevrolet coupe turned off the highway and headed down into the camp. It pulled to the center of the camp. Tom said, “Who’s this? They don’t belong here.” Floyd said, “I dunno—cops, maybe.” The car door opened and a man got out and stood beside the car. His companion remained seated. Now all the squatting men looked at the newcomers and the conversation was still. And the women building their fires looked secretly at the shiny car. The children moved closer with elaborate circuitousness, edging inward in long curves. Floyd put down his wrench. Tom stood up. Al wiped his hands on his trousers. The three strolled toward the Chevrolet. The man who had got out of the car was dressed in khaki trousers and a flannel shirt. He wore a flat-brimmed Stetson hat. A sheaf of papers was held in his shirt pocket by a little fence of fountain pens and yellow pencils; and from his hip pocket protruded a notebook with metal covers. He moved to one o the groups of squatting men, and they looked up at him, suspicious and quiet. They watched him and did not move; the whites of their eyes showed beneath the irises, for they did not raise their heads to look. Tom and Al and Floyd strolled casually near. The man said, “You men want to work?” Still they looked quietly, suspiciously. And men from all over the camp moved near. One of the squatting men spoke at last. “Sure we wanta work. Where’s at’s work?” “Tulare County. Fruit’s opening up. Need a lot of pickers.” Floyd spoke up. “You doin’ the hiring?” “Well, I’m contracting the land.” The men were in a compact group now. An overalled man took off his black hat and combed back his long black hair with his fingers “What you payin’?” he asked. “Well, can’t tell exactly, yet. ‘Bout thirty cents, I guess.” “Why can’t you tell? You took the contract, didn’ you?” “That’s true,” the khaki man said. “But it’s keyed to the price. Might be a little more, might be a little less.” Floyd stepped out ahead. He said quietly, “I’ll go, mister. You’re a contractor, an’ you got a license. You jus’ show your license, an’ then you give us an order to go to work, an’ where, an’ when, an’ how much we’ll get, an’ you sign that, an’ we’ll all go.” The contractor turned, scowling. “You telling me how to run my own business?” Floyd said, “’F we’re workin’ for you, it’s our business too.” “Well, you ain’t telling me what to do. I told you I need men.” Floyd said angrily, “You didn’ say how many men, an’ you didn’ say what you’d pay.” “Goddamn it, I don’t know yet.” “If you don’ know, you got no right to hire men.” “I got a right to run my business my own way. If you men want to sit here on your ass, OK. I’m getting men for Tulare County. Going to need a lot of men.” Floyd turned to the crowd of men. They were standing up now, looking quietly from one speaker to the other. Floyd said, “Twicet now I’ve fell for that. Maybe he needs a thousan’ men. He’ll get five thousan’ there, an’ he’ll pay fifteen cents an hour. An’ you poor bastards’ll have to take it ‘cause you’ll be hungry. ‘F he wants to hire men, let him hire ‘em an’ write it out an’ say what he’s gonna pay. Ast ta see his license. He ain’t allowed to contract men without a license.” The contractor turned to the Chevrolet and called, “Joe!” His companion looked out and then swung the car door open and stepped out. He wore riding breeches and laced boots. A heavy pistol hung on a cartridge belt around his waist. On his brown shirt a deputy sheriff’s star was pinned. He walked heavily over. His face was set to a thin smile. “What you want?” The holster slid back and forth on his hip. “Ever see this guy before, Joe?” The deputy asked, “Which one?” “This fella.” The contractor pointed at Floyd. “What’d he do?” The deputy smiled at Floyd. “He’s talkin’ red, agitating trouble.” “Hm-m-m.” The deputy moved slowly around to see Floyd’s profile, and the color slowly flowed up Floyd’s face. “You see?” Floyd cried. “If this guy’s on the level, would he bring a cop along?”

The Grapes of Wrath (A man dressed in khaki trousers, a jacket and a flannel shirt appears. He moves through the camp passing out handbills.) AL. Maybe. But I ain’t never changed that notion yet. FLOYD. Fella I talked to while ago, he’s with you, ain’t he? AL. Yeah! My brother Tom. Better not fool with him. He killed a fella. FLOYD. Did? What for? AL. Fight. Fella got a knife in Tom, Tom busted ‘im with a shovel. FLOYD. Did, huh? What’d the law do? AL. Let ‘im off ‘cause it was a fight. FLOYD. He don’t look much like a quarreler. AL. Oh, he ain’t. But Tom don’t take nothin’ from nobody. Tom, he’s quiet. But—look out! FLOYD. Well—I talked to ‘im. He didn’ soun’ mean. AL. Like me to he’p you get them valves set and the head on? FLOYD. Well, I’d admire to git a hand. My name’s Floyd Knowles. AL. I’m Al Joad. FLOYD. Proud to meet ya. AL. Jesus! They ain’t nothing’ I love like the guts of a engine. FLOYD. How ‘bout girls? AL. Yeah, girls too! (He wipes his hands in his trousers. Floyd moves over to meet the contractor. Other men emerge and gather. Tom and Casy move up to join the Joad family.) CONTRACTOR. You men want to work? MAN IN CROWD. Sure we wanta work. (Floyd steps out ahead of the others) FLOYD. (Quietly) I’ll go mister. You’re a contractor, an’ you got a license. You jus’ show your license, an’ then you gives us an order to go work, an’ where, an’ when, an’ how much we’ll get, an’ you sign that, an’ we’ll all go. (The contractor turns) CONTRACTOR. You telling me how to run my own business? FLOYD. ‘F we’re workin’ for you, it’s our business too. CONTRACTOR. Well, you ain’t telling me what to do. Fruits opening up. I need men. FLOYD. But you ain’t sayin’ how many men, an’ you ain’t sayin’ what you’ll pay. CONTRACTOR. Goddamn it, I don’t know yet. FLOYD. If you don’ know, you got no right to hire men. CONTRACTOR. I got a right to run my business my own way. If you men want to sit here on your ass, OK. I’m getting men for Tulare County. Going to need a lot of men. (Floyd turns to the crowd of men.) FLOYD. Twice now I’ve fell for that. Maybe he needs a thousan’ men. He’ll get five thousan’ there, an’ he’ll pay fifteen cents an hour. An’ you poor bastards’ll have to take it ‘cause you’ll be hungry. ‘F he wants to hire men, let him hire ‘em an’ write it out an’ say what he’s gonna pay. Ast ta see his license. He ain’t allowed to contract without a license. (A man appears, on his leather jacket is pinned the star of the deputy sheriff. A heavy pistol holster hangs on his belt. He moves through the crowd.) CONTRACTOR. Ever see this guy before, Joe? DEPUTY SHERIFF. Which one? CONTRACTOR. (Indicating Floyd) This fella. DEPUTY SHERIFF. What’s he do? CONTRACTOR. He’s talking red, agitating trouble. DEPUTY SHERIFF. Hm-m-m. (He moves slowly around Floyd.) FLOYD. You see? If this guy’s on the level, would he bring a cop along?