What Looks Like a Covered Bridge

She simply wanted him to have someone to talk to. I don’t blame her for that. I was not born into this world with any anger inside me despite my larger counterparts being fueled by fire. I am battery-operated. The force is not strong, therefore I am not able to muster up much emotion. Even the day I became aware, I didn’t feel much of anything. There was no time to drum up shock or surprise. I had a job to do. I had a track to cover.

This is what I’ve gathered over the past two years--

Mark is the one who loves me. He comes to me every night and turns me on. I do laps around the track for about an hour or so. He talks about how one day I’ll be powered by something other than a battery, because he hates knowing that the thing that keeps me going is slowly running out the more he uses me. He tells me that it makes him feel as though he’s taking advantage. That he wants me to be never-ending. Even if the world runs out of batteries, he wants me to continue on. He never talks about other trains, not even real ones. He makes adjustments to my surroundings. A new tree. A general store. A covered bridge, or what looks like a covered bridge. I now understand that nothing I see is real, but merely representative of a real thing. To me, it shouldn’t make a difference. If you’re several inches tall, then a doll house is simply a house, isn’t it? Even if you’re not a doll? It provides the same shelter for you as a normal house would a normal person.

If it sounds like I have a lot of time to think, that’s because I do. When Mark leaves me each night, he shuts off the lights, and I’m by myself with my thoughts. He turns me off, so I can’t run the track. I hear noises sometimes, but they don’t scare me. I can’t be killed, because I’m not really alive. I’ve been given sentience, but not humanity. I don’t believe that was what was meant to happen, but I have no way of really knowing, because I can’t speak.

What I do know is that Mark’s wife is named Ada. I know this, because Mark tells me about Ada. He tells me that she is strong and thoughtful and that she dabbles in the spiritual arts. I surmised that she’s the reason I’m in the state that I am, and I’m not sure whether I should thank her or curse her name. If I wanted to curse you, I could, since that can be done in isolation. Thanking her would require her coming downstairs, and I don’t see that happening anytime soon.

Mark tells me that Ada doesn’t come downstairs, because she believes Mark’s fascination with me is something that should be his alone. I support her supporting Mark. Mark seems like he needs something to contain his attention, and I seem to be a good container. Mark tells me that his job is very tedious. He watches television shows and writes about them. I determine what “television shows” are based on what Mark tells me, and they sound very depressing. Mark has opinions about the television shows he watches, but he cannot write about those opinions, because he writes something called “recaps” where he summarizes the television shows without a lot of input from his brain about whether the shows are good or bad.

(From what he tells me, they are mostly bad.)

Mark tells me about all the things he is going to build for me. He tells me that he has promised Ada that he will not build any more than he already has, but he tells me that is not true. He doesn’t like lying to Ada, but she wouldn’t understand. Her passion is potions, and making good luck charms, and giving sentience to trains that are not real trains. None of that takes up space, and so Ada can do as much of it as she likes. Mark tells me this has always been one of their biggest differences. She loves things you can’t see, and he loves things you can. Even in the way that they love each other, this difference is notable. He loves her cheekbones. She loves his patience. He loves her belly button. She loves his determination.

And they love each other in ways the other doesn’t always understand.

Mark promises to build me a countryside that takes up the entire basement. A track that goes over the washer and dryer. A track that goes around the furnace. Cotton clouds all over the ceiling. Plastic grass all over the floor. Little houses for me to pass by as I make my way around and around the room--never stopping, because one day I will be electric. I will go under what look like covered bridges, but are not covered bridges, and it will not upset me that nothing is real, because I will feel real, and the more real I feel, the less I will be able to tell myself that nothing is real, because part of being aware is being able to summon up denial. And I will summon as much denial as I can as Mark watches me and feels great pleasure in knowing that he is my god. That he has given me everything.

One night Mark explained religion to me, because he came from a very religious household, and he told me about a god and about the people who worship that god, and I realized that we have the opposite relationship. He talks to me constantly and I never talk to him. I never ask him for things, because what more could I ask for than what he has already promised? I simply need to wait, and I am good at waiting. Mark’s family was very upset with Mark when he married Ada, because they didn’t like the things she believed, but I could never be upset with Mark, because he is god, and I could never be upset with Ada, because she has given me god and myself.

Mark tells me that he grew up confused, because of all that religion, but I am never confused. Not by him, anyway. By everything else, maybe, but never by him. The only time he confused me was when he saw me going under the covered bridge for the twenty-third time one night, and spoke words I didn’t understand. I can’t ask him what they mean, but I’ve never forgotten them. Not the look in his eyes as he said them. Not the smile that came across his face as they left his mouth. Not the little pumping motion he made with his fist to go along with the words.

He said “Choo Choo.”

And again “Choo Choo.”

I may never know what that means, but I suppose some things must remain a mystery.