Homeward Bound: Chapter Seventy-Five

Homeward Bound: Chapter Seventy-Five

At Omar’s house, we pile out of the car and help him unload. “You know, old buddy,” Vance says as he puts his arm around Omar’s shoulder. “You been so good to us and all. I’m gonna make you a deal. If we weren’t so tight for bread, I’d give it to you. But, I’m gonna let you have that extra spare tire for just twelve bucks. Christ, it’s a dammed good tire.”

“What do you mean twelve bucks? It’s my tire.”

“No, man, that was part of the deal. If we’d a had a blow out, it would be on the car right now.”

“I don’t remember no deal like that.”

“Tell you what. We’ll let you have it for ten.”

“I’ll give you five.”

“You know, it’s almost brand new,” I say as I hoist the tire down from the carrier.

“We could easy get fifteen,” Vance says as he points out the thickness of the thread.

“Why don’t you just let him have it,” Anne whispers.

“Shhhhh…” I tell her.

“Ten’s too much. I only paid seven.”

“Well I’d hate to see anyone else get it. Tell you what, we’ll let it go for seven, but you’re breaking my back, man.” Vance tells Omar.

“Yea, for my own dammed tire,” Omar says as he takes out his wallet. I roll the tire against the side of his garage. We shake hands all around and say our good byes. “Check out the canneries in East Oakland. You’re sure to get on. They even hire wetbacks… I don’t know what else to tell you,” Omar says.

We tell him we’ll stop back later to let him know how we made out. He explains he probably won’t be home and waves good-bye.

“You know, I was thinking. Maybe we could sell him the shotgun,” I say as Vance backs out of the driveway.

“You might be right, man. We damn sure ain’t gonna use it in the city. Let’s stop back later though. He might be in a more generous mood after he’s blown some Z’s in a nice soft bed,” Vance tells me.

“I can’t believe you guys. Selling him his own tire,” Anne says shaking her head.

Merle directs us around Lake Merritt to East Fourteenth Street. “I know the canneries are out this way, but I’m not sure where,” she tells us.

A little passed Fruitvale Avenue, we spot a block long brick building with a large Stokleys’ sign. Inside, they tell us they’ve already done all the hiring for the season. Vance gets the addresses of a couple more canneries. The guy at Delmonte has us fill out applications telling us that when the college kids go back to school in a couple weeks they’ll have some openings. At the third cannery, there’s a sign on the door that says, “Accepting applications only for experienced mechanics.”

“Guess the canneries are out,” Vance says as he steers toward downtown.

“At least for two or three weeks. You know, Omar says they’re always hiring field workers…”

“Well, there ain’t no fields here in Oakland,” Vance tells me.

“We’ll have to go to San Jose or Salinas. I can show you,” Merle says from the back seat.

“You wouldn’t want to work in the fields would you?” I ask Anne.

“Oh, maybe, for a little while…”

“One advantage is we got the camping gear. We won’t have to worry about migrant camps and all that shit. Might be able to save up some bread with all three of us working.”

When we reach the Lake, Merle directs us to the post office. At the window, Anne and I find that there is no check.

“I told ya. The dirty bastard,” Vance says when we return to the car.

“Today’s only Tuesday,” I argue.

Merle explains that the employment office is two blocks up the street. Inside, a sign on the blackboard announces immediate openings for bean pickers. At the farm labor window, the lady explains it would hardly pay to drive our own car. She tells us the bus leaves at six A.M. and directs us to male and female windows for non-farm employment. A good-looking older blonde has Vance and me fill out applications and tells us to come back first thing tomorrow morning. “Shave off your beards,” she says.

Since Anne and Merle are directed to come back tomorrow morning also, we decide to spend an hour or so relaxing at Lake Merritt. “Oh, this sun feels so good,” Merle tells us as she stretches out in the grass.

“Not quite hot enough for me. In the summer, I like to feel a little sweat,” Vance tells us.

Merle explains that this is a typical summer day in Oakland. That often the temperature doesn’t rise above seventy. “We do get hot spells, but they never last more’n a week or so.”

“I don’t know, this is pretty nice. A lake right in the middle of the city. All these trees. I’m beginning to like California already,” I say.

“Me too,” Anne tells us.

“Well, it ain’t South America,” Vance notes.

When we find our way back to Omar’s, he’s not too happy to see us. He talks to us in the driveway without any move to invite us inside. “What the hell would I do with a shot gun? Probably I’d shoot myself or something,” he tells Vance when Vance mentions that we might as a special favor part with the weapon.

“You could probably start picking beans first thing in the morning if you head on out to Salinas,” he tells us and gives directions to Highway 17.

“Screw the bastard. I don’t care if I never see him again,” Vance tells us as he backs out the driveway.

“Yea, he doesn’t deserve the gun anyway,” I answer and wonder how long it would take us to drive to Salinas. Doesn’t Steinbeck live there? I ask myself.

Merle directs us toward West Oakland after we decide to take our chance at the employment office. A couple blocks off Telegraph, she points out the diner where she use to work. “You think you could talk them into letting us work off a meal? You know, we could wash windows or something,” Vance tells her.

“Oh, I think they changed owners. My girl friend wrote me,” she tells Vance.

“You’re not gonna see if you can get hired back?” Vance asks.

“No, I let my union book run out. Mostly it’s union cooks out here,” she tells us.