The Great Alpaca Incident

Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed judges and confused city folks and the guy standing in the back row with the parrot on his shoulder for some reason. I stand before you not as a man accused of releasing 47 alpacas into City Hall during the monthly budget meeting, but as a humble citizen with a story. A story of truth. A story of valor. A story of lactose entrance and revenge.

Now, I know what you are thinking. “Isn’t that Gary Paddleton, the assistant janitor with the outdated mullet hair and a suspicious knowledge of municipal building blueprints?” Yes, but I ask you to look past my glorious hair and my professional mop wielding skills and consider the real criminal here: FATE

It all began three Tuesday’s ago.

I was at Benita’s Bagels, Tax Prep and Food Mart, as one does when craving a sesame seed bagel with a W-2 and a large orange soda. It was just me, Benita (She does both taxes and bagels poorly) and a foot doctor named Rita who insisted that once she operated on a ghost, not any ghost, but George Washington, yes, the one and only President George Washington that one. But, I digress.

I bit into my bagel and immediately knew that something was off. Not because Benita used mustard and mayonnaise instead of cream cheese (again) in the bagel but because I saw them across the street. Not humans but alpacas. Some of them wore sunglasses, guess they were the cool ones and one of them had on a raspberry beret. All of them were staring at City Hall with the intensity of animals who know something. Something political.

Now, I am not a conspiracy theorist. Not since the whole fiasco about the pigeons hired accidentally by the DMV. But, I knew right then, as the mustard dropped on my tax return that I had to do something. So, I followed them.

I shadowed the alpacas, me wearing the flip-flops I forgot to change from last night’s pool party. I followed them in all their majestic silence until we reached their trailer.

And there, holding a clipboard and feeding them carrot and celery smoothies was none other than my childhood namethis, Trent Slabbergast. Yes, the same Trent who once framed me for stealing all the forks from the school cafeteria by putting them in my locker and then calling the principal pretending to be me to confess to my alleged crime. He even spelled my name wrong “Geri” in my so-called confession letter.

“What are you doing with all these alpacas?” I asked mostly because there are only a few good and normal answers to that question.

Trent laughed. The kind of laugh that a villain would have in a horror movie or in a shampoo commercial. “I’m staging a protest of silence and fur. City Hall won’t know what hit them.” He said.

I looked at him and told him he was totally insane.

He told me I was irrelevant.

I told him that he still had the brains of a ham sandwich.

It escalated quickly. Before I knew it Trent dared me, DARED ME, to sneak one alpaca into City Hall. He said I would never have the nerve to do it. That I was still the same “little Geri who was scared of glitter.”

So, I did what any rational adult would do with a mild competitive streak and an unpaid cable bill. I took an alpaca.

At first it went great. I led “Carl” (Yes I named him Carl) through the back door of city hall during the city council's budget meeting about fixing potholes. Carl was well behaved. He was quiet and noble. Everything you would want in an uninvited woolly companion. Then he sneezed.

The noise echoed through the room like the fog horn of doom. Councilwoman Tiffany, fainted into a ficus near her chair. Mayor Gunn screamed, “THE FRENCH HAVE RETURNED.” And dove under her chair. Carl panicked and ran. He ran right into the janitor's closet.

I chased him.

In the process I may have, just slightly, opened up the wrong closet door. The one with the emergency fire alarm which in our architecturally baffling city hall is directly connected to the back loading dock and to Trent's trailer.

Ladies and gentlemen, alpacas move fast especially when motivated. And apparently the sound of their brethren screaming in a broom closet is very motivating.

Forty-six alpacas stampeded into City Hall. One got stuck in the elevator. Carl, oh so brave Carl, stood on top of the mayor’s desk and made a loud sound which sounded like he was being strangled.

Chaos started.

And yet I swear to you. I never meant for this to happen. I only wanted to prove a point. That I Gary was not the kind of man to back down from a dare. That I could do more than mop floors. That I was somebody. So when the smoke cleared and the police arrived and Trent vanished disguised as a crossing guard I was left holding a leash with no alpaca on it and a pair of sunglasses which said, “Hashtag Alpaca Rebellion.”

Do I regret it?

Not exactly. Because at that moment amid the broken chairs, startled politicians and alpaca spit I felt alive. Like a man who faced the impossible and emerged, well…slightly confused but also slightly taller somehow, emotionally I mean.

So, yes, I brought the alpaca in.

Yes, I opened the wrong closet door.

Yes, I yelled, “FOR JUSTICE” before tripping over a filing cabinet and accidentally launching an alpaca into the break room table.

But I ask you, does this make me a criminal or a hero?

(Also technically the security footage was fuzzy and could have been anybody with a mustache and a jacket partially held together by duct tape)

And that dear crowd is the absolute, embellished truth. Except for the part about the raspberry beret. That alpaca was actually wearing a tiny sombrero. I didn't want to seem overly dramatic.

Now if you’ll excuse me, Carl and I have another protest to attend downtown against oat milk because it is suspicious.

Thank you.

Mic drop.

(Alpaca sneeze in the distance)