Cowboy

(The theme from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly by Ennio Morricone plays in its entirety as a Roomba wearing a cowboy hat enters the stage. The full song plays out with lighting effects dramatically proclaiming the Cowboy’s entrance. He is amazing, this cowboy. Once a different western song comes on, the Cowboy speaks.)

Howdy.

I am a cowboy. I am the last cowboy. No other cowboys exist.

Being a cowboy was always a lonely proposition. But now it’s even lonelier. Now that I’m . . .

the only cowboy.

Used to be—they’d hitch their rig on a six-shooter and ride into the night, no end in sight. The darkness eclipsing before the edge of the hill. Now—I’ve only got so far to go.

(We wait for the Cowboy to hit a wall. It takes as long as it takes. The Cowboy hits a wall.)

Owie.

(The Cowboy continues to wander.)

I’m like a puddin’ foot on a moonless night. Clutchin’ my nubbin, diggin’ in m’spurs, holding on for who knows what.

My jingle knobs don’t jangle as they used to.

It’s awful lonesome.

Are you a serial monogamist? Raise your hand if the answer is yes. Go on. I will know if you are lying. That is a power that I have.

Keep your hand up.

Now, do you ever think you are a serial monogamist because you secretly hope that one of these days, you’ll be sleeping next to them—and they will quietly murder you in your sleep?

You don’t need to answer these questions, but you do need to keep your hand up.

Do your friends get a few beers in them and ask you if you’re afraid of being alone?

Keep that hand up.

Have you told someone you needed to be alone for a little while, only to turn around and leap into the arms of another?

Keep it up.

Have you ever been awoken by your own fart? And then you realized your partner was fully asleep, and then really, really farted? Like a long and low and rumbling fart? And then your partner woke up, and you realized the fart smelled really bad and they could smell it and that is what woke them up and you were terrified but then they went back to sleep?

Everyone who has their hand up: slap yourself in the face . . .

(Wait one second.)

if you have a complicated relationship to intimacy. Now put your hands down, but remember the feeling of having your hand raised.

I’ve never been married. My kind tend not to. Used to be, cowboys weren’t allowed in most establishments.

Once, I became very close with a saguaro cactus. She had kind of a hand on her hip. That kind of shape. Looked like she was sort of like . . . waiting for someone, you know? With a hand on her hip? A big pink flower at the top. I tried to kiss her, but it hurt something terrible. I called her my wife. She was unmoved. That’s the thing about a cactus woman. She got deep roots.

Sometimes when I’m alone on the range, I start thinking about some pretty serious stuff. Like . . . maybe Moonlight is the only good movie to win Best Picture? But then I remember The Silence of the Lambs. And maybe Birdman? No. NO. Not Birdman.

( . . . )

This kind of lonesome. It stirs things in a cowpoke. Questions like . . . Is it a good idea for dogs to be waiters? Like, would that be kind of a fun themed restaurant? I’d be worried about soups, but other than that, I think you could call it . . . Dogstaurant, and people might get pretty excited about it.

The one thing that’s wonderful about being a cowboy is that . . . I very rarely come into contact with children. And let me tell you—I cannot abide children. Usually I hedge around this idea in public. I say, “Oh, you know, I’m just a cowboy, I don’t know how to talk to them.” Or, you know, “I’ve never really spent time around them.” But that is . . . such a lie. I—do not like them. Not at all. The way they—spill their sippy cups and just a little bit of their beverage falls out and on me. They are always making such TERRIBLE SOUNDS WITH THEIR MOUTHS.

Or does this feeling come from its own kinda loneliness? ’Cuz I don’t figure my own kinda progeny’s gotta shot?

Maybe . . . I know I’m too ordinary for love.

I know I seem rough.

I know.

I seem like I’ve got it all figured out.

Seem like I’m good on my own. But . . . I’m askin’ ya. I’m really askin’ . . .

Will someone . . . please take me home?

It would make me so happy if someone would please take me home.

Please?

I’m asking you.

Perhaps one of you serial monogamists who held your hands aloft before?

I see you.

I can be green broke.

I could be your cayuse.

Perhaps you, the one with the sad eyes. Or you, the one who’s new to town. Or you, the one with no sense of shame. Or you, the one who keeps lookin’ for love in a place where there’s none. Or you, the one with the outfit you felt might be too fashionable for you to pull off. Let me tell you darlin’, you are really pullin’ it off.

Just come on down. Walk towards me darlin’, I don’t bite.

Take off my hat, baby.

Turn me off. Turn me off and take me home.

Read more from Issue 16.2.