The Curse of the Great Depression, a grapes of wrath fanfic

A/N: So, this was part of an English project I did. It is only really over Noah Joad from Grapes of Wrath. I do not own the copywrites of Grapes of Wrath. I still hope that you enjoy!

Section 1

Greedy eyes stared at the press, watching the inscripted platen luxuriously move up and down, pressing the thin and soggy papers with ink. Greedy noses found the familiar scent of money and tracked it to the machine: an old, black Platen Printing Press. Greedy ears heard the inhumane screaming of the machine's rusted screws and bolts, which creaked and scratched with every solid movement. Greedy bodies bathed in new perfumes, separating themselves from the insignificant commoners. Greedy fingers were clasped together, rubbing against each other, in apprehension of their newly found wealth. Greedy thoughts were dominated by seas of crisp, firm, green Alexander Hamiltons. Greedy hearts were laughing, tickled by the strange idea that this machine would dictate not only the rest of their selfish lives, but the lives of the worthless, easily manipulated individuals below them. Greedy people were satisfied.

Section 2

The flier was crushed. It had been stuffed together in a stack, held together by a straining rubber band, which was just about to burst. It was heaved upward and thrown into a truck with thousands of other handbills containing the same grim message. The truck engine sputtered to life and slowly made its way to the destitute destinations and the places in life that needed it. The process was completed when the jostled papers were handed to a young boy and his bicycle. He lifted the papers onto a little tray that he'd attached to the back of his bicycle years ago. He then lifted himself onto his bicycle, and began to peddle, wheezing and gasping for air. As the young boy rode his bicycle, his voice sputtered, "Fliers! Fliers! Get 'em 'fere they're all out." As each flier was handed out, the weight pressing onto the flier from above lessened and lessened until it was on the top of the stack. Faced with the world, it was given to a stern-looking gentlemen who adjusted his glasses, and examined the document title more closely.

500 Families Wanted

240,000 Acres of Cotton

The man grunted and dropped the flier. It danced in the air, twirling, before finally hitting the ground. The dust around it rose in a small cloud, hovering, forming a dust bowl, before falling back to Earth, pieces of grit and grime landing on the paper. The man walked away, his footsteps pounding away at the Earth, lifting some of the eerie dust that seemed to be covering the surface of the whole country.

The wind curled its fingers around the flimsy flier, grasping it tightly, before throwing it into the air. It drifted, floating from one red part of the country to the other.

"Lookee here…Jobs in California, Ma…we need to go," the man said unenthusiastically.

"What's the point of agoin' all the way out 'ere? Ya 'mem'er young Dave? He, tha fool, went and we ain't 'eard of 'im since. Ya 'mem'er?"

"Yes, but Ma we gots to feed the fambly…oops."

A small tear ripped the paper at its rightmost corner. The man fumbled for words, looking at the torn piece of paper in his hand. The wind attacked the small flap he had created and pushed it, forcing it to flip back and forward in the face of nature. "Maybe it's just bad luck."

He passed the paper into the wind's hand, which grabbed it and flung it out into the wilderness. The man and his ma's eyes trailed the paper, hoping.

A man who may have been a Sam or a Joe or a Ben looked at the paper. He was dressed in a dusty pair of overalls and his eyes were hard and set. As he struggled to read the flier, his face slowly contorted with anger and he punched the paper, throwing it onto the ground, shouting at it and cursing those rich California businessmen. The paper crinkled, forming small wrinkles. In the center, the flier crumpled inward, making an indentation of the man's punch on the paper. Veins of small imperfections, small tears, ran down the paper.

"Goddamn it, its another of those fuckin' 'ite pamphlets…you know what I say to them rich douche-bags up at Cali?" The man, broke down, sobbing.

The paper continued on its path of torture, passing from hand to hand, earning the curses of men who knew that this wrinkled thing was probably their only hope to get food on the table, knowing that their existence depended on it, knowing that their life depended on it, knowing that their wives' and their childrens' lives depended on it, knowing that everyone else knew it too and that the only way to survive was to reach the farm first. The crumpled flier easily held the hopes and dreams, as well as the curses and hate, of the entire Okie population in the country.

Section 3

Noah Joad walked on, following the gushing river to the right of him. It flowed downhill, much like the path his heart was on. His eyes trailed the path of the water, skipping up and down in sync with the smooth rise and fall of the rubble and stones on the earth beneath it. As the water traveled over each smooth bump of the debris under it, the liquid gleamed in the light, catching the sunlight and reflecting it. The smell of nature slowly wandered into his nose in its usual teasing, relaxed manner. He could hear the small, insignificant birds chirping alongside him, trying to imitate the same tune life was playing, but miserably failing as they were in no condition to represent all of life and its mysteries. Nature showed off its many different beauties, tunes, loves, and hates to Noah. Noah didn't notice.

Noah stared at the rhythm of life in the face, staring without seeing, listening without hearing, and understanding without comprehending. He had been walking for nearly 12 days and had lived and had died and was just plain tired. The faint lines of fatigue that had appeared on his face six days ago had blossomed into angry sags of skin swelling around his cheekbones. His face, which had once been proud and handsome, had transformed into something of that of a monster.

The problem wasn't the water. He'd been walking beside the fucking river for more than a week. The problem was the food. He had planned to survive on fish. But he couldn't see them in the light of the river. He could see the fish as clearly as he could see his non-existent family. And when he did see one, the water, the river, the nature lied to him, showing him a proud fish under the water's surface at one point when it was a fuckin' seven meters above that point. And then when he'd learned the trick, to grab above the fish's image in the water, they were so slimy, and slippery that they would flap and flutter, and slowly wriggle out of his hands. The movement of the rough scales against his hand left vivid red trails of pain crisscrossing his entire arm. He hated it. He hated the fish. He hated the river. He hated nature. He hated the welts across his hand. He hated himself for being so weak that a simple fish could overpower him.

"What the hell was I thinkin'? This was always gonna be a mistake. I grew up on a farm. I don't even know how to fuckin' fish." His shout echoed throughout the forest, causing the birds to take flight from their perched tree. All echoes of their half finished song died out. Noah Joad sat down, watching their flight with sad eyes. "I didn' mean… I didn'... aw the 'ell with 'em." His eyes lowered his gaze to their perched tree, then to the tree's trunk, then to the bushes, then to the ground, then to himself. The loneliness was even worse than the hunger he felt. He had forsaken his family at the Colorado River. At least that's what Tom thought. But that just wasn't true. They had forsaken him. They weren't there when he had needed them the most. He'd stood by and let them move though he didn't want to. But he just couldn't stand it anymore. And now he was here, in this God-forsaken part of the world.

The wind rustled, swaying the ever-powerful tree branches, whipping leaves out of their trees and flinging them across the earth. Noah Joad looked up once again. But this time his eyes snagged onto something. Not the tree. Or the branches. Or the trunk. Or the bushes. But a dampened, ripped yellow paper. It had hit the back face of a rock. The wind was pushing on it and struggling to lift it above the rock. Noah Joad ran and picked up the paper. He read the familiar paper that had plagued him and his family all the way from Oklahoma. Only this one was different. It didn't call for workers to go to North California, but a small town called Blythe near the Colorado River. Realization dawned on him. He lept up and did the only thing he could: walk.

Section 4

The town was small. But it was his only hope. People, dressed in suits and finer clothing dominated the streets of the village while on the outskirts of Blythe, hundreds of tiny, ragged moving figures worked in the cotton fields. Blythe and the cotton fields of Blythe were very dissimilar. They were like two completely different individuals forced to be neighbors. Blythe had streets while the cotton fields had roads. Blythe had clothes while the workers in the cotton fields had rags. Blythe had houses while the outskirts had slums. Blythe had "garbage" while the cotton fields had "trash." Noah followed the ragged crowd of people and headed towards a police officer.
"Name?" The officer sounded bored, leaning on his arm.

"Noah Joad."

"Don' cause no trouble. Folks don' like peeple like ya. Go work in that cotton field to'th right. Three cents fer ever' cotton bag. Bags are by th' cotton field." He waved his hand dismissively.

Noah walked towards the cotton. By the time an hour had passed, he'd picked about a quarter of a bag. His hands ached, but he kept on going. He couldn't afford to stop. The welts on his arms and hands were more than happy to turn a darker shade of red. The tattered clothes that he owned stuck to him, full of sweat. Just as he was about to pick another cotton plant, he heard a shoe crunch down on the earth. Noah looked up and saw another man, just as poor as Noah, approached him. His clothes were in tatters, his brow covered with sweat, and a stench followed him wherever he went. In fact, the only decent part of the man were the brown, crisp shoes he was wearing. But Noah didn't mind. Life didn't matter anymore.

"Hi ma name's Gila. W-werd ya give ma some a yar cotton? P-please." Slow, silent tears trickled down the man's face. "I gotta fambly to feed. Please. I canta survive. The chil'ren. They're dying. I-I don't knows w-what ta d-do. Please h-help," Gila sputtered out, staring up at Noah, desperate.

"I-I'm sorry, Gila. Shit. Fuckin' shit. I'ma sorry. But I just can't. I gotta feed myself. And three cents per bag jus' ain't 'nough," Noah said.

"B-but please. I need it. It's far the children. The children. S-Sam hasn't h-had food in days. Neither has R-Rosie. I reckon they dying. I need it," Gila blubbered. The formalities had stopped.

Noah Joad stared deep into the eyes of Gila, sympathetic. He couldn't give the cotton to Gila. He needed it. Gila raised his voice, still crying. "They goddamn pay us only three fuckin' cents. How's a man supposed to live? How's a man serpposed to care fer 'is fambly? How?" Gila stood up straight. "Sir, just this one time. I know there be good in ya. I know it. Lower than minimum wage. Just three fuckin' cents." His voice increased once again, and he was soon shouting. "Three fuckin' cents! Three. Cents. Fuck!"

A voice behind them shouted. "Ya there! The tall one! What's yar name?" Noah turned and was met with a man in a suit. His brow creased and he looked downward on Noah with vast disapproval. "Shut up. There ar' 1000 families 'ere. What, am I serpposed to pay ya shites? Who fuckin' cares about minimum wage? I don't look like no government, do I?"

"But, sir. I didn' say 'at. He 'id, " Noah protested, turning and pointing behind him. But Gila had disappeared. Noah stood, gaping at the empty spot before him.

The man kept talking. "Ya little shite. How stupid do ya think I am? I 'eard ya. I 'eard ya. Three fuckin' cents. Three fuckin' cents. I should 'ave tha officers beat ya up."

Noah turned, facing the man once again, trying to explain. "B-b-but...he was ….r-right 'ere...behind ma… Gila."

"Shut up! I don't care who ya is or who that Gila is. Fuckin' idiot. Gila ain't a person. It be a monster that poisons ya. Those Devil Spawns don't come near here 'more. We ain't heard that blowin' sound 'ere in five years. They stay in the fuckin' desert, ya retard. They killed Bobby, ol' Jimmy, Cae, Sammy, and aroun' ten years back, ma best friend Gaer. An' once they clamp on ya, there ain't no way on God's green earth to get 'em off." The man's eyes wandered and looked distant, as if he was in some other place, in another time, in another world. They refocused and snapped back to Noah.

"Now, lookee here, yar'a nobody. 'ere, I'm tha big man. And no matter 'at tiny fuckin' town in the 'iddle of no'ere that ya came from, it don' matter no more. I'm tha man. And ya nor nobody else can do a fuck 'bout it." The man's face suddenly became calmer. The pulsating veins on his forehead slowly faded away. The beet red face slowly transformed into the original color it was supposed to be. The man clasped his hands together and started rubbing them against each other. There was a twinkle in his eyes.

"So ya fuckin' want more money. Huh? Well, I gotta job fer ya. And if ya do it, I'll pay ya a 'ole three dollars." The corner of the man's mouth quirked upward. "Go out into the desert, Joad, and tell the peple of Yucca Valley that we ain't got no more jobs. I'm tired a them comin' in and takin' good, hard workin' mens jobs. If ya come back successful, ya'll get yar three dollars. Ya best bring something that shows ya went there. 'F ya don't...I'll kill ya. And ya better fuckin' believe it." Smirking, the man left Noah alone with his thoughts and the world and a desert to cross.

Section 5

Noah dragged himself slowly through the desert, speculating on how he had dug himself into a deep mineshaft. He looked down at his legs covered with nauseating orange and black beaded succubuses clamped to his legs like leeches to fresh meat. Blacking out…

Walking out of the town, Noah felt like he was going to his death. The foreman had as good as said so. "Go out into the desert, Joad, and tell the people of Yucca Valley that we ain't got no more jobs. I'm tired of them comin' in and takin' good, hard workin' mens jobs."

So Noah trudged through the sparkling dunes of fine yellowish sand towards the slight hills in the distance. He had walked and walked and walked and walked and panted and walked and wheezed and walked for days on end, getting extremely weak after losing more and more water. The body stopped listening to reason and sweated even though it needed the precious water it was spewing away. On the fourth day, Noah Joad collapsed, rolling down the sand dune he was on till he landed at the bottom, a hazy cloud of sand forming a sort of dust bowl around him. Noah forced himself to open his eyes. The sun glared back, blinding him. He moaned, shaking in the sand. It was all Gila's fault. Now, he was going to die.

Noah moved his hand against the gritty pieces of sand, trying to slowly hoist himself back up, trying to go back to the search of water, trying to survive, trying to be a part of life once again, struggling to continue. But his hand slipped and he collapsed once again on the sand, breathing heavily. His hand was flung back onto the ground where it hit something smooth and hard. The sound of the ping echoed in Noah's mind, urging the rational part of him to wake up and see what he'd found. Slowly, his hand grasped whatever he had hit and lifted it to his face. It was an egg. No. His hand went back to the sand. It was a whole nest of eggs. They were sort-of oblong and a smooth, pearly white against the buff-colored crystalline sand. It had little black flecks along the surface. He shrugged, then held the egg up to his mouth and cracked it. The slightly-warm yolk slipped along his face. Noah tried to catch it with his hands, but it slipped down his chin too quickly. His tongue licked the corners of his mouth, desperately trying to taste the slimy trail of yolk that the egg had left. "Whhhhy!?" Noah yelled out into the nothingness surrounding him, his voice cracking from lack of speech and moisture, "You alr'ady made me 'eave my fambly, leave a taown 'ere I ac'uly felt I could belong, but now yous just wants me to die!?" Noah felt as if he was drunk. His mind was spinning uncontrollably even though he wasn't moving it. He was getting dizzy and dizzier and dizzier until he blacked out and lay on the sand, his hand outstretched touching the egg nest.

The fuzziness faded slightly as Noah became aware that he was sprawled across the blistering sand. He felt stronger than before. He slowly grabbed another egg from the nest and in a second attempt cracked it. He slowly lowered the half broken shell towards his mouth and poured the yolk in. He felt stronger. His arm reached for another one. And another one. And another one. And they helped; he only got stronger. And stronger. And stronger.

He couldn't stop eating the eggs. He had found at least thirty so far. The liquid was strange tasting, but it was better than the small piece of bread he had brought with him and eaten too quickly to fully enjoy. Out of the loneliness of the desert and the unending horizon, a sound almost like the blowing of wind sounded. Noah looked behind him and saw the orange and black body of the horrendous Gila monster. Noah had heard of the Gila monster before. The people of Blythe had called them Devil's Spawn. They had killed at least five men in the past ten years. He started to back up, but stopped when he heard that tell-tale blowing sound. He looked around him and perceived about ten gila monsters on all sides. He dropped the egg he was eating and almost peed his pants. "Nawce gillies, nawce lil' gillies. I am nawt tasty...very dry and emp'y," he said in a panicked tone. All ten gila monsters move closer. "I-I re-really ain't that tasty," he stuttered nervously. They moved closer yet. Then one reached him, and bit him. He screamed from the pure agony of the bite and started shaking his leg to remove it, but the fiend would not let go. "Gaaaaah!" he yelled as he repeatedly tried to smash the Gila monster with a rock. It still refused to budge. Then the other gila monsters clambered up his legs and bit down. Gradually, he tried to sit up, but found he couldn't. His arms couldn't move. His legs couldn't move. He looked down his body and still saw ten orange and black lizard-like animals biting him. Their mouths were clamped on tightly onto his arms and legs. He put his head back down and tried to cry promptly, but there weren't any tears to shed.

What a horrible choice that had been. And it was all Gila's fault. No. It was all the minimum wage's fault. And e was stuck in the desert with gila monsters all hanging on to him, waiting for him to die. So that's what he did. He died. There in that desert with ten gila monsters clamped to his body. Thin and sandy and tired and not in that much pain, strangely. Blackness came swiftly. Noah welcomed it into his mind as he preferred it over the sunlight. As the serotonin, phospholipase, and hyaluronidase and neurotoxins entered Noah's body, he looked up at the sun. His eyes slowly dimmed until they became a blank stare. Once he was dead, the gila monsters took as much of his flesh as they could to eat, then left. And no one saw or heard of this man-killing herd of gila monsters again.

Section 6