By Walter Moore,

Katherine hands me the walkie-talkie and asks me if I know how to use it. "With these," she says, "We can call each other from the greenhouse or inside the store without having to run all over."

I key the mike: "{sheee} Earth Pig to Mama Bear, Earth Pig to Mama Bear."

"There you go! They're easy to use!"

I walk around carrying wine cases with the walkie-talkie clipped to my belt and decide that they'll be even easier to use if we have code-names, especially code-names with 1960's revolutionary themes. I am, of course, "Che". Clarke goes for "Ho Chi Minh", which fits well with his shorts and golf shirt and generally preppy-casual look, because we are in Mountain Brook, and a True Revolutionary should move among the people as a fish swims in water.

Katherine seems a bit wary of the idea until I christen her "Patti Hearst", then she is completely captivated with the concept.

"{sheee} Che to Patti, Che to Patti, come in..."

"{shee} Ho Chi, Ho Chi, this is Che, come in..."

These things have no range. I am only a mile up Country Club Road swinging the produce truck around the curves, and already I've lost them.

At the Farmer's Market, they are out of Plumbego and Mandevilla, but the Jamaican and I load some Kimberly Queen ferns and shake hands. Then I go around the corner and get tomatoes. None of them are completely ripe, but there are three cases that will do in a day or so. I wait for Terry to fill out the invoice.

"Nice day finally," I say.

"Yep."

"Can't wait to load this truck and go over there and eat."

"Eat where?" he says.

"The Taqueria."

"You been *in* there?"

"Yeah, couple of times."

"And you *like* it?"

I blink, "Well, yeah..."

"Then you ain't human."

The tamales they have today in the Taqueria are good with green sauce, this is where I get to practice my Spanish on level 10 of the video game. The guy doesn't slow down, ever. They've got Mexicans cooking Mexican food speaking Mexican while the Mexican TV plays Mexican MTV. It's all rather Mexican.

"Remember, amigo, we have pozole this end of week!"

"What kind?" I ask.

"Red pozole."

"Awww, that's the kind I *like*. Hey, gotta go get fruit now, but maybe we'll see each other this end of week."

The loading docks at Kontos Fruit, aka The Banana House, are cool and shadowy echoing with yells as men haul out loads for different trucks. It could be the docks of Santo Domingo. They load me up crates as I mope about, pretending that I am wearing a fedora and smuggling arms into Guaymas on a refitted Liberty Ship.

Bananas, peas, peppers, oranges, eggplants, they all go onto the truck, as well as a last minute crate of avocados that Katherine phoned in after I left to come here.

I mean, that Patti Hearst phoned in.

At least, the box says "avocados"...

Viva la revolucion.