I live in a small town in central Colorado. It is the sort of town where everybody knows everyone else, and where everybody knows where everyone lives, too.
A small mountain stream runs through the town, which causes confusion whenever run-down rental properties of the worst kind are advertised as, “WATERFRONT PROPERTY.” There are no sandy beaches or penguins, either.
There is a llama, though.
One afternoon, I was hanging out at the local dog park at the north end of town, minding my dog’s business, when I saw a white, shaggy, giant walking towards us. At first, I thought I was looking at a real-life version of a Yeti, and then I thought it was a camel, and then a horse/camel hybrid, and then a very hairy horse, and then finally, I realized what it really was: a massively hairy animal.
An older and bearded man walked ahead of the llama, holding a leash tethered to the llama, whose course, woolly hair seemed to be itching to pry itself off the llama’s body as the afternoon’s hot sun bore down. And it was HUGE, too!
Massive and twin black eyes peered around endlessly; a large set of hairy nostrils sat at the front of the llama’s face, and a row of wooden-looking, squared, yellow teeth was exposed whenever the llama’s gummy and flappy lips would roll to and fro. I mean, if you’ve ever seen a llama up close and personal, then you’d know that the creature is ungodly ugly.
Aesthetics aside, though .. I’d never seen a llama before, and when I saw it, I was like, “WTF?!”
And then I was like, “Wow! Was that a llama I just saw?!”
And then I was like, “Copiously confounding creatures of Colorado!”
I digress!
Since that afternoon, I’ve seen the Larry the Llama around town a few times. Once, I saw him walk by my apartment and I ran out the door and down the street to see Larry. When I approached the human leading Larry, the human smiled and said, “Hello.”
I answered, “Haylo! Nice llama you got there!”
The human laughed and we exchanged names, and I asked him what he called Larry. Of course, about the same time he told me Larry’s real name, a semi-truck, a jet-fighter plane, and an Abrams tank all rolled and thundered past us, so I did not hear what he called Larry.
Not that it mattered, anyway, because to me, Larry the Llama will always be Larry the Llama.
And whenever my family and friends come to town, I always make it a point to tell them that there are giant llamas that walk around town. And then I like to add that UFO’s recently plucked a few Republicans and waterboarded them – just for fun. And then I’ll again remind everyone that there are giant llamas in town, and the reaction is always the same.
“Uh-huh. Right.”
So .. we’ll go into town and I’ll play the role of Tour Guide, pointing out various artifacts, monuments and even spots where Larry and I had met, like near the stream, near the popular bar, and most notably, the dog park itself. And when we get to the dog park, I tell my friends and family, “Be on the watch out for Larry! Larry might be walking by anytime soon, so keep your eyes open!”
And then we’ll wait a few minutes. And then wait a few more minutes. And then a few more minutes. And sure enough, after about 15 minutes, nobody believes me and everybody wants to visit the nearby hemp store, instead.
We walk to the hemp store, and everybody’s eyes glaze over at the sight of all the green leaves, hemp shampoos and conditioners, and even the Jimi Hendrix posters that line the walls of the store. Someone cracks a joke about hemp wool and Larry the Llama, and I reply, “Just wait! You’ll see Larry soon enough.”
“Uh-huh. Right,” someone says.
I try to explain the fact that my town has a lot of strange, interesting and weird citizens – including Larry the Llama - and I suddenly become the butt of jokes. I laugh along, knowing that in the end, I will be vindicated because I know Larry would never disappoint me.
When I ask the clerk at the hemp store how much a (tobacco – what else?) pipe costs, eyebrows are raised everywhere. (I took my Mamma there once, and she refused to look at anything in the store that had a green leaf on it, lest we got waterboarded by overzealous DEA agents.) It’s like, suddenly, I am a bad boy.
I will have you know that I do not smoke. Tobacco is not something people should smoke, I s’pose. Then again, there are a lot of things we shouldn’t do, either – like listen to Republicans.
I digress!
As a Tour Guide, I lead my group of family and friends towards the local bar where I can often be found, either playing pool or just hanging out. When I mention Guinness-fried onion rings, throats gulp and eyes widen.
When we get to the entrance of the bar, I point out that the entrance was another Exact Spot that I had met Larry, and then add that Larry “Smells foul. Very foul.” Of course, nobody believes me (again), and everybody seems more content to focus on eating than meeting Larry the Llama.
We sit for a while, drinking beer and eating buffalo burgers, fries and those dreadfully delicious onion rings, and I am the butt of more jokes about Larry the Llama. The way I figure, so long as everyone is having a good time, laughing and enjoying themselves, then I’ve done my job as Tour Guide and done it damn well.
An hour or so later, and after a few beers, I painstakingly point out again that, “Larry is gonna come by soon. I swear! He’ll be walking by, plain as day, and you’re gonna regret giving me sheeeeeet about it!”
A chorus of laughs rain down on me, and so I sip my beer in anticipation of being vindicated. I knew it was only a matter of time before Larry would appear – it was just a matter of being in the right place at the right time.
We decide to play pool for a while, and I don’t bring up Larry again.
A few hours roll by quickly, and then we decide to walk back to my apartment, which sat at the opposite end of town – a good mile and a half to walk. I figured that would be a perfect time to slowly lead the group through town because if there was one place I always saw Larry, it was in town.
We leave the bar, walk past another bar, a clothing boutique, a mineral spring, a hot dog stand, another bar, an arcade, another bar, another clothing boutique and a novelty gift ship. Someone asks me about the clock that stands in the middle of town, and I make up a story about time travelers, Republicans and waterboarding.
“Uh-huh. Right.”
We walk to a spot in front of a restaurant and I state that I had once scrawled “Paotie” on the sidewalk with colored chalk, and a few “Ooh’s” and “Ahh’s” answer me. Then someone derisively asks me, “Did Larry mark the spot, too?” and another chorus of laughs rain at me.
I goad the group to continue walking in a general direction towards my apartment, and as we near the town’s sole intersection near the public library, I remember that the intersection had been another Exact Spot where I had almost bumped into Larry one morning not too long ago.
It was a foggy morning when I decided to jog to the post office and drop off a postcard, and I hadn’t been paying much attention to anything other than the fact it was raining and that my white Chucks were becoming dirtier the more I ran, when I had nearly collided first with Larry’s human handler, and then Larry himself.
I mean, when you are in the mountains, surrounded by fog, about the only thing you have to watch out for are bears, mountain lions, Republicans and UFOs – but never a llama.
You know?
And I didn’t exactly know what to do or think, either. All I did was nod, smile at the two, and continued running like Forrest Gump. I mean, I just felt like running so I ran, and I ran, and I ran and ran. And then ran s’more until I got to the post office.
But I decided not to mention my foggy encounter with Larry to my group, and so we continued walking towards my apartment. I inform the group that the stream that runs through town is real close by and ask if anyone wants to check it out. A few heads nod, and we walk down to the banks of the stream.
The stream is little more than a trickle of mountain snow melt, and for the most part, the water rarely rises a few inches above the stream’s bed. In some spots, the stream had visibly eroded away the land, leaving chasms as tall as man; in other places, the banks of the stream were only knee-deep for an adult, though all through town, tree roots gnarled their way in all directions around the banks.
Still, tourists seem to find the stream enchantingly charming, as if nature itself had magically created the Stream that Runs Through Town. And despite the clarity of the cold water, kids tended to develop spitting habits near the stream; dogs would run and splash in the water as their owners cheered them on; and somewhere high above the town, and deep into the mountains, a bear whizzed.
The people in my group pitter-patter around the muddy banks of the stream, acting like kids experiencing mountain water for the first time in their lives. Someone splashes someone else. An angry finger wags at me.
I shrug and smile innocently.
I bite my tongue, not because I really didn’t splash someone else, but because I had ran into Larry there once, too – in that Exact Spot. Though we didn’t really meet, he had walked by me on the sidewalk that lined the street above the stream, and it was more of a case of an Exact Spot that I had seen Larry rather than running into him or something.
Someone mentions, “Mosquitos?!” and then there’s a sudden need by everyone in my group to get back to my apartment. I guide the group up to street level and add bits of tourist information along the way, like the fact that deer can often be found drinking water from the stream at night when the tourists are sleeping in nearby hotels.
And then someone asks, “Did you have a drink with Larry there?”
Another round of laughs pelt me. I po-litely smile, nodding my head. I kept thinking that if only Larry would appear right about then, that I would have the last laugh, though I was beginning to wonder if it would ever happen.
We got back to my apartment, and it wasn’t long before everyone went to their hotel rooms. After everyone left, I went outside to the balcony of my apartment to watch the afternoon rain fall. The balcony overlooks the town’s main street and gives a view of the stream and adjoining park on most days, as well as tourists as they meander through town.
In fact, from my balcony, I had seen Larry walk by a few times, including the time I had ran out the apartment to meet him. As I sat in my usual spot on a well-used, folding lawn chair, I thought out loud, “Where was Larry today?”
I sighed and shrugged to nobody in particular, and as rain softly began falling, I wondered about my family and friends and what they thought of Larry. Or, I mean, if they thought I was just making stuffs up about Larry the Llama.
The next morning, I had breakfast with my group of family and friends, and for the most part, nobody mentioned anything about Larry the Llama. And good thing, too, because I’d had enough of the jokes.
We finished eating, bid our farewells, and then everybody left town towards their own homes. As I walked to my apartment from the restaurant, I again wondered where Larry had been, and if I would see him later that day. I smiled, remembering some of the jokes that had been passed around the day before, and thought that someday, somehow, I’d have the final laugh.
I got to my apartment and was about to unlock the door when I felt a familiar vibration in my pants. I took out and unfolded my cell phone and saw there was a message from one of my friends who had left town just a few minutes before.
I opened the text message: “Duuuude!! We R @ gas station & C llama!”
Included in the text message was a blurry picture of Larry and his human handler walking past the gas pumps at a nearby gas station not far from my apartment.
Somewhere in central Colorado, lies a small town that has a stream that runs through it. And if you’re lucky, you might see a hairy giant, white llama that runs through it, too.
Thanks, Larry – I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.
Be good .. or be good at it.
Paotie
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