The Wagon Master was inspired by a small watercolor I saw for sale at the San Antonio State Hospital. There is a little monthly thrift shop on the premises, Trinkets and Treasures. My friend (and actress with whom I often collaborate) Pam has taken to cajoling me out there as often as we both have open schedules. I rather liked the naivete of the work, as well as the sense that there was something, well, off. Anyway, I took a quick photo of the painting with my cell phone and moved along.
Later, the painting inspired a short vignette which made its way into Invocation. And around this time, Pam inquired if I might write something for Jump-Start’s 8 x 8. She wanted an eight minute monologue, to be presented during the first weekend of April, 2016. I decided to expand the Wagon Master piece, and change the gender of the narrator to female. Pam, of course, did a wonderful job performing the piece. But, also, she took it upon herself to return to Trinkets and Treasures (on a day when I was unavailable) and purchase the painting of the Wagon Master.
Below is a photo of the painting. And below that, the monologue itself.
THE WAGON MASTER
[She sits on stage in front of an easel, painting on a small board which the audience can’t see.]
You really have a nice smile. I like painting men who smile. The mouth is easy, but I always have a hard time with the eyes. I’m getting better. Or so I like to think. The light’s nice in here. But I bet you wish we could be outside in the sunlight, right? I know I would. I think I can hear the birds singing right now.
[Pauses to listen.]
Who?
[Pauses.]
Oh. Yes, we still see each other. On occasion. But he never liked art. No passion for it. I remember this time we were at that little thrift shop over at the State Hospital. They open the gates, you know, once a month and sell donated items they didn’t need. Or, sometimes, the arts and craft items made by the patients. Little wooden backscratchers. Ceramic monkeys. Wallets. Fundraising I suppose. Everyone needs money these days.
I dragged him along, hinting that he might find some golf clubs or maybe a ratchet set. He didn’t seem too impressed with what was offered. But you never know what unexpected gems you might find at these places. I could wander all day, from room to room, table to table. There’s this subtle energy when you pick up a crocheted doily, and you can almost feel the pain of those aged and arthritic hands of someone’s grandmother working long into the night…and that great sense of pride she must have felt in the finished work. You should never dismiss commitment to craft.
I called his attention to a piece of art. He put down the salt and pepper shakers he’d been examining. I watched his eyes cross over the childish painting for maybe two seconds before he shook his head and turned away. I wondered if a patient had painted it. I enjoyed the naiveté of the little watercolor on pasteboard. So lively and vibrant! The image was of a crudely fashioned cowboy smoking a pipe. He was seated at a table playing poker, or whatever cowboys play. The piece was titled “The Wagon Master.” It was priced at three dollars. Not bad for original art. Right?
When we returned home, I hung it in the breakfast nook where we ate most of our meals. It wasn’t long before I noticed he had moved it to the opposite wall. I commended him on positioning it so that it got better light. He confessed that he moved the painting so he didn’t have to look at it. He explained that the cowboy looked like a serpent.
I laughed at that. “A serpent smoking a pipe? Playing cards? Really. Besides, he’s not a cowboy, he’s a wagon master.”
But now he had ruined it for me. No matter how the light hit it, I couldn’t help but see a snake, staring down at me. Every meal was fraught with a dull sense of dread. My morning coffee, which used to be the most comforting part of my day, was spent thinking: Is this what the artist saw? Every time he looked at a person? A snake glaring back at him? On the bus. At the bakery. Every smiling face on the television would stare back with those lifeless eyes of a cold-blooded predator.
“You’re coffee’s getting cold,” he said one day, walking in from the kitchen. When he kissed me on my neck, I turned up to him only to see slitted pupils and a forked tongue…well, for just a moment. I think I almost screamed. When he left for work, I hid the painting in the attic with the Christmas tree decorations. We never mentioned it again.
But it was too late. Those serpent eyes were well imprinted on my brain, and I was seeing them everywhere.
Please sit still. I’m working on detail. Well, not everywhere. If everyone suddenly had them I suppose I could just let snake eyes be the new normal. But, no. It seemed arbitrary. My hairdresser, the entire staff at the deli, and my niece’s Pekinese were so obviously reptilian. And I couldn’t well look at my husband anymore. And you, well, you know how that turned out. Then there were the normal ones. Looked the same as before. My neighbor Louise, and I know well what she does to pay the bills. No saint there. Maybe the snaky ones were the good guys. Like the noble wagon master. It all got very confusing.
In retrospect, my husband was rather remiss to take me to the gun range that day. It must have been obvious even to him that I had been quite agitated for some time. And in all candor, I had been self-medicating ever since the snakes showed up.
Really, you’re fidgeting again. I’m trying to get the outlines of your features. Funny how a painting got me into all this mess. And now making little portraits like this is helping me get back. Well, that’s my plan at least. It’s rewarding to see myself progress from those early canvases of square houses in two dimension. A stick figure family on the lawn, waving. Up in the corner the smiling sun with spiky sunbeams. And now, well, who would have thought. I mean, right here, I’m layering in shadow to give your nose depth. I’m wanting to start on your lips, but they took away my red. I know it wasn’t you, but, still…. How irksome. Just because of my little fingerprinting experiment. You remember? Those decapitated boy scouts? I thought they’d appreciate a mural in the activity room. Personally I thought it so vigorous, with a good deal of action. Something to look at other than the television with the Home Shopping Network. I mean, I really managed to tell a story. And you know, I would like to work in large scale again. In fact—
[Pauses to listen.]
Oh. Oh, no. Is our time up so soon?
[Looks up. A new person has entered.]
You know, this always seems so silly. I can find my way back to my room on my own. But, okay, if I need an escort. And he is dressed so nicely…. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?
[Pauses.]
Good. It’s a date. I need to work more on the tail. Painting scales is so therapeutic. So soothing.
[She exits.]