Jim Casy had wet his head, and the drops still coursed down his high forehead, and his muscled neck was wet, and his shirt was wet.
He moved over beside Tom.
“It ain’t the people’s fault,” he said. “How’d you like to sell the bed you sleep on for a tankful a gas?”
“I know it ain’t their fault.
Ever’ person I talked to is on the move for a damn good reason.
But what’s the country comin’ to?
That’s what I wanta know.
What’s it comin’ to?
Fella can’t make a livin’ no more.
Folks can’t make a livin’ farmin’.
I ask you, what’s it comin’ to?
I can’t figure her out.
Ever’body I ask, they can’t figure her out.
Fella wants to trade his shoes so he can git a hunderd miles on.
I can’t figure her out.” He took off his silver hat and wiped his forehead with his palm.
And Tom took off his cap and wiped his forehead with it. He went to the hose and wet the cap through and squeezed it and put it on again.
Ma worked a tin cup out through the side bars of the truck, and she took water to Granma and to Grampa on top of the load.
She stood on the bars and handed the cup to Grampa, and he wet his lips, and then shook his head and refused more.
The old eyes looked up at Ma in pain and bewilderment for a moment before the awareness receded again.
Al started the motor and backed the truck to the gas pump.
“Fill her up.
She’ll take about seven,” said Al. “We’ll give her six so she don’t spill none.”
The fat man put the hose in the tank.
“No, sir,” he said. “I jus’ don’t know what the country’s comin’ to.
Relief an’ all.”
Casy said,
“I been walkin’ aroun’ in the country.
Ever’body’s askin’ that.
What we comin’ to?
Seems to me we don’t never come to nothin’.
Always on the way.
Always goin’ and goin’.
Why don’t folks think about that?
They’s movement now.
People moving.
We know why, an’ we know how.
Movin’ ’cause they got to.
That’s why folks always move.
Movin’ ’cause they want somepin better’n what they got.
An’ that’s the on’y way they’ll ever git it.
Wantin’ it an’ needin’ it, they’ll go out an’ git it. It’s bein’ hurt that makes folks mad to fightin’.
I been walkin’ aroun’ the country, an’ hearin’ folks talk like you.”
The fat man pumped the gasoline and the needle turned on the pump dial, recording the amount.
“Yeah, but what’s it comin’ to?
That’s what I want ta know.”
Tom broke in irritably,
“Well, you ain’t never gonna know.
Casy tries to tell ya an’ you jest ast the same thing over.
I seen fellas like you before.
You ain’t askin’ nothin’; you’re jus’ singin’ a kinda song.