Гроздья гнева

           Twomeninkhakiridingtrousers,boots,shortjackets,andshiny-visoredmilitarycaps.Screendoor—slam.

           H’ya,Mae?

           Well,ifitain’tBigBilltheRat!When’dyougetbackonthisrun?

           Weekago.

           Theothermanputsanickelinthephonograph,watchesthediskslipfreeandtheturntableriseupunderit.BingCrosby’svoicegolden."Thanksforthememory,ofsunburnattheshore—Youmighthavebeenaheadache,butyouneverwereabore—"AndthetruckdriversingsforMae’sears,youmighthavebeenahaddockbutyouneverwasawhore

           Maelaughs.Who’syafrien’,Bill?Newonthisrun,ain’the?

           Theotherputsanickelintheslotmachine,winsfourslugs,andputsthemback.Walkstothecounter.

           Well,what’sitgonnabe?

           Oh,cupaJava.Kindapieyagot?

           Bananacream,pineapplecream,chocolatecream—an’apple.

           Makeitapple.Wait—Kindisthatbigthickone?

           Maeliftsitoutandsniffsit.Bananacream.

           Cutoffahunk;makeitabighunk.

           Manattheslotmachinesays,Twoallaround.

           Twoitis.Seenanynewetchin’slately,Bill?

           Well,here’sone.

           Now,youbecarefulfrontofalady.

           Oh,thisain’tbad.Littlekidcomesinlatetaschool.Teachersays,"Whyyalate?"Kidsays,"Hadatakeaheiferdown—get’erbred."Teachersays,"Couldn’tyourol’mandoit?"Kidsays,"Surehecould,butnotasgoodasthebull."

           Maesqueakswithlaughter,harshscreechinglaughter.Al,slicingonionscarefullyonaboard,looksupandsmiles,andthenlooksdownagain.Truckdrivers,that’sthestuff.