By: Kenneth M. Kapp

It should have been no surprise with all the hype about how much better things were in the United States, never mind all the illegal immigrants working poorly paying shit jobs under horrible conditions, for other creatures to decide that they too wanted to sneak across the border.

Eventually the Agave moth learned about the promised land north of the border.  And to top it all, it was a country where few people ate larvae whether roasted, toasted, or baked. Red One – they were all from the Comadia redtenbacheri family, so it was only natural to be called Red – talked it up with his fellow moths. “The hell with next April, I say we get out of here now. No more burrowing at the base of Agave leaves. We’ll be free at last.”

Red Three was a smart ass. “So what do you have in mind? Succulent cacti aren’t that bad. I heard it can get cold north of the border. Even heard that the gringos want to put a bounty on our heads. And you think they’re going to let our maggots alone?”

Red Two, who wasn’t too bright, interrupted. “No problema with us being magots. I heard there’re lots of people who are magots, even elected one as El Presidente.”

Red Four rolled his eyes. “That’s MAGAs, you dummy.”

“Oh. But maybe it’s close enough?”

Red One brought them back on track. “I just have to know if you’re with me or not, OK?”

He looked around and they all wagged their claspers.

“Good. Two weeks. I’ll make the arrangements. We’ll fly across the border and then it gets tricky. But we’ll be good. I’ve a distant cousin already working there. Nice avocado farm around Fallbrook, east of Camp Pendleton. Bonus: Marines drink enough mezcal so we may get to see some of the family on the bottom of a bottle.”

Things went smoothly. By June the Five Reds were settled in. A couple of them complained. It was hard work and the chemicals were rather caustic. Red Four bitched, “Next time find us an organic farm. This stuff can kill you.”

“Yeh, but you have to take what they give you. And the workers have it bad too.”

Red Two pointed out that they’re always drinking tequila. “Plenty of empty bottles we can crawl into at night.”

Red Five warned him, “You better be careful.”

As it was, on the night when they hauled away the week’s pickings to the processing plant, Red Two went missing. They looked all over the farm without any luck. Red Five said he last saw Two hanging around the shipping dock. “I bet he got curious and went along for the ride. He’s too dumb to find his way back. Next week we have to get to that plant. We’ll just ‘hitchhike’ a ride on the truck.”

When it was time for the next pickup, that’s what they did. It was a huge plant. Some avocados were stored and slowly ripened; others were processed within a week. As plastic pints of guacamole rolled off the conveyor belt they were visually inspected by a red-haired young man with blue-green eyes. Red Three said he was Irish since his eyes were laughing. “You know: ‘When Irish eyes are laughing.’”

Red Four muttered, “It’s smiling. Don’t you know anything!”

Irish obviously had a liquid lunch and was singing to himself. Suddenly he snatched a pint off the line and held it up to the light. “I’ll be damned.” And laughing he burst into song: “There are things in guacamole, there are things in there I see.”

Red One was the first to react. “Follow me guys. Buzz his head. I bet that’s Red Two in there.”

They buzzed and the line worker dropped the container. The lid went flying and Red Two crawled out and shook his wings dry. “Thanks guys. A little too much lime and not enough cilantro, but what do these gringos know?”

That was their moment of truth.

The Red Five decided they’d be better off as musicians and to hell with farm work.

Red Three had an idea. “They already have enough mariachi bands – Irish music. We’ll cut a single first as a demo. I’ve a tune in mind already.” And he hummed a melody from Finian’s Rainbow.

So they cut a record and within two weeks it climbed to the top of the charts.

“There’s something in the guacamole, there’s something there I see.”

Sorry, but you’ll have to pay on Spitafly to hear the rest of the song as sung by the Red Five. There are several free recordings about Glocca Morra on You Tube but none can compare to that of the Red Five in spite of detractors claiming they put too much emphasis on guacamole.

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Kenneth M. Kapp was a Professor of Mathematics, a ceramicist, a welder, an IBMer, and yoga teacher. He lives with his wife in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, writing late at night in his man-cave. He enjoys chamber music and mysteries.

Please visit www.kmkbooks.com

His stories have appeared in more than eighty publications world-wide including The Saturday Evening Post and October Hill Magazine.