Jake and I went to the Puyallup (pronounce that however you desire) Fair this past weekend. There, we petted goats, sheep, pigs, chickens, geese, rabbits, and, my personal favorite, llamas. I love llamas. I can't get enough of them. Llamas are one of the Creator's greatest achievements, in my humble opinion. Llamas and blackberries. When it occurs to me to be thankful for what I have and the world I'm in, I say prayers of gratitude for llamas and blackberries.
My fascination with llamas dates back to 1998. January, to be precise. I think it was the 20th. I was on a Greyhound bus, going from Binghamton, New York, to Santa Fe, New Mexico. Back to college after Christmas break.
So, on this trip, I was molested, mangled, mushed, poked, prodded, paddled, gabbed at, gaped at, growled at... A sixteen-year-old kid tried to grope my thigh in Oklahoma City. And this was no improvement over the man who, for approximately NINE hours, expounded on the insidious, seeping, horrendous attributes of Ms. Nancy Reagan.
By the time I changed busses in Amarillo, Texas, I was ready to kill people.
"Amarillo" means "yellow" in Spanish. Amarillo isn't really yellow. It's a shade of dead, ugly, dried-up tan. Amarillo is butt ugly. It is most well-known (at least by me), for being the bail-bonds-and-Jesus-freaks capital of the world. I mean, every single billboard in Amarillo is either for a church, or for a bail bondsman.
But that's not the worst of it... Beyond Amarillo, to the west, there's NOTHING.
Even the radio doesn't work.
Y'ever see "Wild at Heart"? The part where Lula is screaming at Sailor to find something on "this damn radio"? And then both of them go running out into the half-desert, half-prairie, and scream and jump up and down? Yeah. That was filmed somewhere just outside of Amarillo.
(...I swear, all of this is going somewhere... I'm going to get back to llamas in a second...)
So, riding this bus, having been groped, mushed, etc., and looking out my window at NOTHING, which was actually LESS pleasant than bail bondsmen, not being able to find anything on the radio, I was ready to kill somebody. Really, I was. All I needed was somebody to set me off, and a weapon.
The girl in the seat ahead of me set me off. She asked where I was from, and I said, "Binghamton, New York." She'd never heard of it, but after that, every time she spoke to me, it was in a heavy, badly-articulated, downstate New York accent. Like Fran fucken Drescher or something. The funny thing was, this girl had a SOUTHERN accent when she first spoke to me. What, like a Yankee can't understand a Georgian unless the Georgian starts talking like a jackass?
Oh, and did I mention I'd only had three hours of sleep in two days? One had to remain quite vigilant to keep the Oklahoma boys off one's thighs...
I needed a weapon. I was going to kill the girl in front of me.
I looked through my bookbag... Nothing but notebooks, a staticy Walkman, and a paperback or two. What, like I was going to give the girl a lethal papercut? I looked outside. There were the perfect weapons... Yucca plants... Yucca plants are basically these tall, green swords. My family used to have one in the yard when I was a kid, and I must have fallen into it a million times, and I always emerged all cut up and bloody. But alas, the yucca plants were OUTSIDE of the Greyhound bus, and I was INSIDE.
What to do?
I envisioned myself smashing the glass window of the bus, racing out to the yucca plants, grabbing a few stalks, and then racing back to the bus, jumping back IN through the window, and murdering the girl in front of me.
Naturally, that would never do.
And somehow, it occurred to me... yucca plants weren't the answer... The answer was simple... I had a weapon! It was, of course....
...a llama.
I didn't have a REAL llama. They don't allow them on Greyhounds. Or maybe they do, but I guess you'd have to have a special pass.
...but...
Suddenly, out of nowhere, I DID have a llama. It was an imaginary llama, but it was a llama! The llama's name was Yusef. In Spanish, LLusef. Llusef the llama. And suddenly, I loved my imaginary pet llama, because he was going to save my sanity.
You know those people who squeeze their forefinger and their thumb together in front of one eye, and say they're pinching people's heads? That never worked for me. However, I was very successful at aiming my imaginary pet llama at people I didn't like, and instructing him to spit on those people.
It was really quite relaxing. I didn't have to murder anybody after all. Yusef released all of my tension.
To this day, Yusef goes with me everywhere I go. And ever since, I've loved llamas.
And yes, this is a true story. I apologize.
So, this past weekend, Jake, Yusef, and I, went to the Puyallup Fair to pet some llamas. They're really very tranquil animals. A 4-H man told us that llamas are almost always quiet and serene, and they only spit if they're being threatened. To communicate with each other, they hum. I mean, how much more relaxed can you get? They're like big, hairy Buddhist monks. I petted every llama I could get my hands on. They felt warm and soft and cushy, like enormous sweaters.
It took Jake over an hour to pry me away from the llamas and over to the food building. Then, I had to go BACK to the llamas. I thought Jake was going to spit on me himself.
Well, we petted lots more animals, and we rode a couple of overpriced rides, and we ate a couple of ten-dollar burgers, and wandered around for awhile... A good time was had by all. Except my debit card. We spent way too much money at the fair... It was WORTH it, but now Jake and I, in order to replenish our stash (heh! like we really HAD one...), have taken a week-long job delivering phone books. Phone books will tell you to let your fingers do the walking, but the truth is, Jake and I have been doing the walking. I am way, way beyond pain. But phone books are a story for another entry.
Meanwhile...
The next time you feel homicidal, let Yusef be your weapon.
Love,
~Helena*