A Heart of Pure Tin

gear-wheel-pixabayThe funny thing about tinker-trogs (or troglodytus mechanicus, as suggested by an overeager taxonomist who would later prove, in the eyes of his employers at least, to be as redundant as the above suggestion), is that they are deliberately built incomplete. Perhaps “funny” isn’t the best term, but then there is a reason that the Theatre is represented by two divergent masks in close proximity.

The average tinker-trog looks something like a goblin or a long-nosed chimpanzee constructed entirely out of steel pipes, gilt wire, bronze gears, and a desperate hope in the tenacity of the subject: along with a pair of old Christmas lights for eyes (usually the same color), and a wool cap. Some were even given tattered cotton cloaks to give them the appearance of age or veneration, and some had little bows obnoxiously perched on their heads, as though gender could be attached as easily as a magnet (which, being a social construct, it technically could, but that was arguably beside the point).

What no tinker-trog was given, however, was a heart. Most machines had no need of such a thing, of course: they were motivated by less poetic means, be it something as complex as a CPU or as simple as a pulley system. And as you might expect, trogs did not require a heart to function. They had everything they needed to perform whatever task was expected of them: cleaning sewers, preparing free meals for un-photogenic orphans, or whatever other unpopular task that neither paid a wage nor interested a celebrity. Most trogs grew bored easily and could not be trusted to manage a bank or raise a child, but since one trog was much the same as another, and since there were placement agencies erected to assign trogs to labor with as little as a half-hour’s notice, the little metal creatures were largely regarded as useful and lovable second-class citizens. All this was accomplished whether or not a particular trog had a heart in its chest.

Yet all the same, trogs were built with a small wire cage in their chests, barely held shut with a tiny latch, inside which could rest a small artifact of mineral. Said mineral could be anything, a ruby or diamond or sometimes even just a lump of bronze, always of very low quality and terribly subjected to the elements. These hearts were prepared at the same time a trog was being finished. The heart was put inside the chest, and the trog was powered up. The little creature was then allowed to play freely for twenty-four hours in the compound where it was built, along with anywhere from a half-dozen to a hundred others of its kind. Afterward, the heart was removed and thrown in the trash, dropped in a river, or given to a stray dog; whatever might transport it an unpredictable distance from the compound in an unpredictable direction.

This was not a painful experience for the trogs, whose memory systems remain questionable not only in their infancy but arguably for their entire service cycle (which was between twenty-five and fifty years, as deliberately vague expiration dates added to the charm of the little creatures). Being robbed of their hearts was not apparently traumatizing or necessarily inconvenient. All the act accomplished was to gift the little servants with an amorphous, ever-present feeling of incompleteness. This absence beautified them in the eyes of their renters, seeming to add to their cute diminution a bittersweet, semi-tragic sheen. And few things were more adorable, more inspiring, and more warming than the sight of a tinker-trog with a scratched and dulled heart in its cage.

You see, every so often, trogs were compelled to drop whatever they were doing and go on a journey in search of their hearts. The trick was, not just any jewel or metal would do; they needed their own. These machines longed with a chasmic pang for the feeling of the long-forgotten first twenty-four hours, and only their own personal heart could recreate that; or so they felt. And since it was not uncommon for a trog to abandon its job anyway out of the simple desire to perform some new menial task, these frequent quests were tolerated or even celebrated by the people who employed them. It added to their charm.

Perhaps even more charmingly, sojourning trogs would often form pairs or small groups in search of their hearts. Teamwork enabled them to stay focused, to climb greater heights, and to defend themselves against territorial rats, cats, and pigeons. It was a disarming sight, and a frequent subject of tourists’ photographs, to find a small cadre of metal gnomes scurrying across a quiet street just before sunset. Most delightful and heartwarming of all, trogs seemed more frequently compelled to attempt these journeys after a snowfall, and especially on Christmas day.

Some trogs, after finding their heart, would immediately leave their party with a fond wave and return to work, secure that their existence did indeed have a unique purpose. Others would stay together until everyone’s heart was found, sometimes spending entire months in the search. It was far more common, however, for all of them to give up and return to the work cycle, either as a group or separately. There was no question, however, that many mechanical ‘friendships’ (for lack of a better term) were formed out of the quest for hearts.

What the rest of us manage to ignore about these creatures who so warm our own hearts, is that most of them never find what they’re looking for. They search, they form parties and companionships, they have as much of a life as a machine can expect, but most of them reach expiration without ever finding their heart. Of course, to the rest of us, there seems to be no difference in a trog’s behavior, whether they have a heart or no, so it would very much seem as though it is indeed the journey that matters most, rather than the goal.

It was therefore maybe just a little tragic that one tinker-trog, whom we will call Goggles (thanks to an unusually large pair of eyes) discovered its heart at an unusually early point in its life. Goggles was slightly more focused and driven than most of its peers, so when three of its compatriots were incapacitated by a feral dog early in a sojourn, Goggles decided to commit itself to their reparation. Because it was not as easily distracted as other trogs, it deliberately chose jobs that would put it in contact with useful scrap; mostly janitorial jobs connected to factories and junkyards. It scavenged, welded, adhered, slotted, and anything else you can name, slowly returning its party back to working order. First to be repaired was Rattle (whose several joints were forever coming loose), who waved in gratitude before immediately heading off in search of its own heart. A few months later, Goggles found a particularly rare cog that allowed it to return Blue to functionality (despite a peculiar but harmless tint in its steel piping). Blue briefly joined Goggles in attempting to fix their final friend (Goldfish, whose head was of a remarkably odd shape), but boredom soon got the better of it, and Blue was off to bigger and better things.

Goggles spent the better part of a year searching for brain-parts that would fit in Goldfish’s unusual head. Finally, one Christmas Eve, it stumbled across a pair of interlocking gears of such peculiar dimensions that they seemed intentionally molded and left in the junkyard just for Goldfish. A light snow was dusting the land, the sun was setting, and as Goggles was scurrying back to their home in the alley a mile away from the junkyard, it tripped over something that had been left in the middle of the byway. After returning to its feet, Goggles looked down to discover a small chunk of tin with which it immediately felt a novel sensation of kinship. It was incredible: trogs could spend their entire lives looking for their hearts, and here Goggles had found its own quite by accident while trying to make another trog whole. Goggles picked up the lump of tin in one hand, carried the unique gears in the other, and hurried home.

The night was young when Goggles reached home, but many living children had already been tucked into bed in anticipation of the following morning. It was a near silent night as Goggles entered the alleyway, whirring and chirping in excitement; it still had not even put its own heart in its chest, it was so elated.

Goldfish, however, did not share the excitement. Goldfish was not moving. It appeared that, whatever those gears were and whatever they did, Goldfish could function only so long without them, and that time had just expired. Goggles inserted the gears all the same. It poked and prodded its friend. It tried to get Goldfish’s brain whirring by main force. It even looked, vainly, for a random power source into which it might plug its friend, but it was all to no avail. Goldfish had expired before finishing its first year.

It was after midnight before Goggles found its tin heart, which it had dropped on the ground shortly after discovering its friend’s expiration. The trog opened its fragile wire cage, delicately placed the lump of tin inside, and closed the latch.

That was how Goggles became the first trog to discover its heart before the age of one.

It has already been said that Goggles was more focused than its peers, so without even having the absence of its heart as a distraction, it quickly became a consistent and reliable worker in the various junkyards, sewers, and factories of the city. Of course, since one trog is largely indistinguishable from another in an employer’s eyes, its superior dependability went unnoticed, but Goggles seemed to harbor no resentment nor even awareness of this.

What Goggles most certainly did notice was all the other trogs still banding together to go on journeys. They would meet each other at crosswalks or alleys and head off into the unknown. They would return from their quests, often empty-handed, chirping and gesticulating wildly about their adventure together. Many would continue to live together afterward, many would take jobs together often or even constantly. And those rare few that found hearts never gravitated toward each other, but rather invested their time more strongly in those who traveled with them, who helped them become whole. Goggles had a heart, but no journey, having lost all three of its companions due only to the inevitability of time. It was, for all that anyone could see, finished with its life, and it still had at least twenty-four years to go.

Goggles began to take solo work: fixing small engines, mopping empty warehouses, organizing small curio collections. It could no longer stand to be around other trogs, listening to them whir and chitter of their adventures. The tin-heart trog had tried a couple of times to join others on their quests, but was met only with shrugs and odd stares.

One night, in its seventh year, Goggles was sitting in an alley that it currently called home. In its hands, it held the heart cage that was all that remained of Goldfish’s body; everything else had been re-purposed by people or trogs. As it glanced out of the alleyway, Goggles happened to spy two trogs scurrying along in the late autumn chill. Its focus had been drawn by the sound of rattling metal, and there its spied two trogs, one of which had an unusual bluish tinge to its steel piping. The two trogs were dancing about, chittering madly. They were holding a large, blood-red ruby in their hands together. Goggles watched, silently at a distance, as the two finally calmed down. Rattles opened its cage and Blue placed the enormous ruby inside. They whirred and chirped a little longer, then continued off into the night, perhaps in search of a sapphire. Goggles looked down at its own heart, a small and severed chunk of tin.

The tin-hearted trog walked through the night, ignoring the adventures of human and machine. No stray could dissuade it, no chore or sudden wonder could charm it from its destination. It walked through the night, climbed onto roads and avoided huge and unfeeling automobiles, ignoring wailing children and desperate fools alike. The near-full moon shown down, oblivious to its journey.

It was nearly morning when Goggles reached its goal. It stood on a precipice, high above the reservoir’s dam, and looked down into the stampeding waters below, churning mercilessly and divinely unaware of the tin-heart trog’s existence. It looked up into the slowly lightening sky. Goggles stood there, and spared a thought for Goldfish. It spared a thought for Blue. It spared a thought for Rattles. It even spared a thought for the vague, mostly made-up memory of the human being that had opened its cage seven years ago and removed its tin heart, tossing it into a garbage can, or perhaps the curious claws of a passing raven.

For the first time, a trog made a wish. Goggles stood and wished that it could breathe like people did, so it might take a big breath before the big moment. It wished its insides could be so much bigger than it, just like the outside was.

The river galloped on. The sky lightened.

Goggles reached into its chest and unlatched its cage. It pulled out its tiny, broken, scarred and scored heart of tin with its delicate, clockwork hand. It left the cage open, unlatched. Goggles held the tiny tin heart out over the reservoir.

The Sun crested the horizon.

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