He takes me on an ATV down a hill to the grove covering a larger hill. Accordion-heavy music blasts through the air as weapproach, and Hayes parks at the bottom of a row, where we climb off and walk the last few feet.
The branches are so thick with big, waxy leaves that I almost miss the pickers at the tops of ladders, clipping avocados and sticking them in large canvas bags hung over their shoulders like one of those baby carrier things, only bigger. Workers with long poles are under the trees, clipping the lower hanging fruit which drops into bags at the end of the pole.
They work so fast, I only catch glimpses of the avocados before their stems are snapped off and they’re dropped in the bags. I’m mesmerized by the quick, sure, motions of the workers on the ground and by the workers high on the ladders nearly parallel to the steep hill, staying balanced while they pick, clip, and drop in the bags.
“All right, yeah. I’ll pass on the ladder bit,” I tell Hayes. “And the long pole bit, too. Both look like they’re above my pay grade.”
“Good choice.” Hayes laughs. “These guys are experts, so we leave most of the hard work to them, but crews have been short on manpower the last year or two. Workers we’ve known for years haven’t been showing up.”
“Why not?”
Hayes gives me a questioning look like I’ve missed something obvious before he answers. “Fear. Or they’ve been deported. Or they’ve self-deported.”
“Oh. Yeah. I didn’t think about that.” I leave it there, a bit embarrassed, and suddenly very aware that my reasons for coming to America were very different than most immigrants. Plus, Malcolm had lawyers to do all the paperwork required for me to get dual citizenship, and the process still took years.
“Anyway, we’ve tried to fill in the gap, but it takes skill and experience to work as fast as these crews do and none of us cankeep up. Not even me.” He winks and, like that, he’s back to his playful self.
We walk down the row lightly shaded by the canopy of leaves. “What happens if you don’t get all the avos picked?” I ask.
“That’s the beauty of avocados, they won’t go bad if they’re not picked. We’re picking any that are the size of your fist or bigger because of the order from Sanctuary, so. Otherwise, we’d let them keep growing. They can stay on these trees for up to a year.
“That right?” I’ve lived in Serenity Cove for three years, surrounded by ranches, vineyards, and avocado groves, and I’m a bit embarrassed this is the first time I’ve learned anything about them.
Hayes stops under a tree and faces me. “Stick with me, Hollywood, and I’ll teach you everything you wanna know about avocados.” He slides closer in a way that feels like more than innocent flirting. Up close, I realize how alike he and Cal look, only Hayes is a good five years younger.
I put up a hand to stop him getting closer. “Think I’ve learned as much as I need. Cheers. Now what’s my job?”
Hayes doesn’t even blush, just laughs, then plucks an avo from the tree. “You can pick low-hanging fruit. We want them this size or bigger.” He hands me the avo, and I roll it in my hand, not mentioning that I didn’t realize avocados were fruit. “Pick up any you find on the ground, too. If they look good, add them to your bag.”
“I don’t have a bag.”
“We’re getting there.” He nods toward the end of the row where an old tractor is parked. Hitched behind it is a long trailer lined with giant white bins. Workers with full bags walk to the bin, unhook the bottoms of their bags and let the avocados roll into the bin.
“How heavy are those things full?” I might have bitten off more than I can chew volunteering to help today.
“Forty-five pounds. But dump ‘em before the bag’s full if they're too heavy.” Hayes pats my head like I’m Junie or something.
“I’ll be alright, Cowboy. I’ve had harder jobs than this.”
I haven’t, but his doubts have lit a fire. Hayes doesn’t think I can handle hard, manual labor? My only option is to prove him wrong.
I heft the bag over my shoulders, allowing Hayes to adjust the straps in the back so it fits right. The bag itself might weigh a couple kilos.
Once it’s on, I take off. Within minutes of reaching to pick avocados and scooping them from the ground, I’ve worked up a sweat. The canopy of leaves keeps things shady, but heat creeps in through the gaps. Today’s going to be hot.
Hayes works the row parallel to mine, which puts only a couple meters between us. He moves slow at first, but when I pull ahead, he speeds up. So, I speed up. I may not surf competitively anymore, but I’m still a competitor. Doesn’t matter what the challenge is. And one thing about being on my feet all day at Flamingo’s is I’ve still got endurance.
But Hayes has more experience and is just as much of a competitor. He catches up, then passes me. “This ain’t no red carpet. Keep up, Hollywood!” He says over his shoulder, expertly snapping an avo from its branch without looking.
“It’s easier,” I shoot back. “I’m not wearing heels or a dress so tight I need mouth-to-mouth at the end of the night.”
His lip slides into a grin, and I realize my mistake saying anything about mouths on mouths.
“Whatever you’re thinking, keep it to yourself.” I turn my back to him and pick two avocados in quick succession. I’m getting the hang of this.
“Wasn’t thinking anything…except I didn’t see you in a tight dress yesterday, but I did see you getting some mouth-to-mouth.”
I whip around, dropping both avocados while my face catches fire. He bursts out laughing, a barking noise that clashes with the Spanish convo and music that play in the background and have become my motivational soundtrack this morning. Now all I can hear is his laughing, and the only thing it’s motivating me to do is punch him.
