The Llama's Driver

There’s a llama in the back seat of my Kia. His name is Alexandre and he’s television’s most famous llama. Quite possibly the world’s most famous llama, which in my five years working for him, I have learned is actually quite a tough competition. Yes, that’s right. I work for this llama. I’m his driver. 

It all started when a friend of my mother’s, Rebecca Snow, heard of an open casting call for llamas in New Jersey and drove Alexandre from their farm in Connecticut all the way down. And, as Rebecca likes to say, the rest is history.

A very brief history, though: The casting directors absolutely adored Alexandre and booked him instantly. They hadn’t even seen all the other llamas yet! Yes, you heard me, Alexandre performed so well they sent certain llamas home without even seeing them. Llamas are, for the most part, quite indifferent to fame and didn’t seem to care. Their owners, however, revolted. 

Curse words were shouted at the directors. Explictives tossed about the room. All the owners, ranging from true, flannel-wearing, tobacco chewing farmers to women like Rebecca who knew their llamas through family connections, created quite a commotion. This uprising seemed to unsettle the llamas, who wreaked havoc in suit. 

However, despite the mayhem, a star was born that day. 

A star who now sits in the back of my Kia, staring blankly ahead. For the most part, I don’t think fame affects him that much.

He has three shoots today. One potato chip commercial, an online ad for vegan sweaters, and then a guest role on a network sitcom. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have any lines. 

You’re probably wondering how I got here. How, of all the things I could have done, I ended up driving a llama around for a living. 

First and foremost, this was never the plan. Not once in my life did I say When I grow up I want to be a llama’s chauffeur. No, I went to college. For economics. I was literally going to be an economist. Somewhere exciting like London or L.A. And now I drive a llama around New England, New York, and New Jersey. One time we went all the way to Pennsylvania, which was a pain when trying to find lodging that accepted pets. Let alone a llama.

Anyway, back to college. I was doing good. I had made my first three years on the Dean’s list, however, I found myself completely scarce on internships by the time my senior years rolled around. An opportunity for one presented itself for the fall after my graduation, however, I needed something to do between then and graduation. 

That’s when Rebecca came along. By this time, Alexandre’s star was on the rise and he had bookings, auditions, and calls all around the Northeast. Driving him around, in addition to managing her farm, was getting to be too much work and she couldn’t imagine doing it all any longer. My mom had, so kindly, told Rebecca of my situation and the rest is kind of history. 

Driving Alexandre paid better than this internship ever would and I found myself unable to part with this money coming in. And now it’s been three years of wasted potential. Down the toilet with the llama’s excretions. Yes— he uses the toilet. 

“He’s scintillating.”

These are the first words Tracy Peters, the director of the potato chip commercial, says when Alexandre and I walk in. She is so in awe of my companion she must put a hand to her bosom and catch her breath. By her reaction, you’d think it was Brad Pitt on all fours next to me. 

“His fur’s outstanding,” she continues, approaching us, “What do you feed him?”

“I’m actually not sure what he eats. I’m just his driver.”

“Oh, sure!”

This has become a very common response in these situations. Believe it or not, several animal celebrities now have their very own drivers. Alexandre is far from an exception. Being an animal driver now incites the same reaction as telling someone you’re an au pair or a babysitter. I’m sure this is not the case in the real world, but in the world of animal stardom, us drivers are rising in numbers, slowly but surely. 

Just last year, when Alexandre booked an episode of a barnyard episode of a crime show, I met seven other animal drivers. Graciously, the production crew had put together a little area for us all to relax in while our employers gave their performances. I ended up having a brief relationship with Greta the chicken’s driver, Lionel. However, we had to call it off fairly quickly. One night when we were fooling around I, somehow, had some llama fur on my thigh and he had an intense allergic reaction. I had to take a lint roller to the entire passenger side of my car before driving him to the hospital. 

I would love to say that was the first time that a man had an allergic reaction to llama fur on my body. I can’t.

Tracy is apparently some sort of llama guru and Alexandre takes to her instantly. The two human actors in the commercial, Oliver and Dave, hit it off with him as well. 

It was a cute premise, the commercial: Two young men are craving a snack, but everything in their cabinet is so boring. They need a snack to inspire them. Just when it appears all hope is lost, enter Alexandre! He bursts through the door, the bag of potato chips dangling in his mouth. A closing scene displays the two men eating the chips and petting the llama. How could anyone not buy the chips?

Because of Tracy’s magic touch with Alexandre, the filming finishes earlier than intended. I decide to make use of this newfound extra time and stop for a coffee on the way to the sweater ad. Driving around a celebrity is exhausting— I need the caffeine. 

I arrive at the window, my money in hand. Situations like these have a high potential for disaster. Although Alexandre is easily one of the world’s most famous llamas, not everyone recognizes him. This then creates a sense of tension and misunderstanding. I am often greeted with situations like:

“Ma’am,” the boy holding my coffee starts, “Should that llama be in your back seat?”

“Yes. I’m his driver.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m this llama’s driver.”

“Ma’am.”

“Can I have my coffee?”

“Is that llama in your car willingly?”

“Yes.”

“Well…” the boy trails off, looking unsurely back at Alexandre. In the rearview mirror, I watch as the llama returns this gaze. 

“Can I have my coffee, please?’

His eyes return to me, still uncertain. We exchange cash and coffee. I allow him to keep the change of ten dollar bill— like I said before, driving Alexandre pays well. 

We are maybe ten minutes gone from the coffee shop when the familiar siren sounds. Red and blue lights flash in my rearview and I pull over. I curse myself for chancing the coffee. Now we might be late to his second shoot. I also curse the drive-through punk for calling the cops.

I pull my license out of my wallet. From my glove box, I retrieve my registration and accreditation as Alexandre’s driver. At moments like this, I feel so official— having accreditation to show the cops.

“Hello, officer,” I greet the cop who approaches my car.

“Hi. We got a report of a suspicious woman with a llama in her car. I’m guessing that’s you,” the officer says, looking in the back.

Just as I’m about to hand him my stack of credentials, the cop lets out a girlish gasp and tosses his hand over his mouth in shock. His eyes widen to twice their size, and I see a small tear form in the corner of the right.

“Is that…” he begins, “Alexandre the llama?”

Instant relief washes over me. It’s one of his fans.

“Yes, it is. And I hate to say this, but we’re on our way to a shoot. Alexandre will need this wrapped up promptly.”

“Oh, of course…”

“Is there something you need, officer?”

“Well, I just have a small favor. If it’s not too much to ask…”

Two minutes later Alexandre and I are back on the road, right on schedule. And all it took? A selfie with the world’s most famous llama.

And ten dollars pocket money for his driver. This career definitely has its perks.