Mostly Void, Partially Stars

by Joseph Fink

  And remember, Night Vale is at war. Your careless talk costs lives. They know we are here, and it seems somebody talked. Who was it, Night Vale? Was it Steve Carlsberg? Did Steve Carlsberg talk? Maybe a group of good citizens should go have a chat with Steve and find out what he’s been saying . . . and to whom.

  Stay by your radios, listeners. We will report further, as events warrant.

  More now on the man in the tan jacket.

  Old Woman Josie called to tell us that her angel friends are saying that the deerskin suitcase is full of flies.

  The angels would not tell her more, explaining that knowing more would jeopardize her eternal soul, as well as their own statuses as angels. They did not want to mess with that.

  Old Woman Josie added that she thinks the man in the tan jacket is just a salesman of some sort. A fly salesman, she bets, wandering from town to town with polished shoes and a suitcase full of flies. “Oh I just can’t stand those fly salesmen,” she said, “ringing my doorbell at three a.m. wanting to show me samples and asking for glasses of orange milk.”

  The Night Vale Daily Journal has announced that, despite recent cost-cutting measures and mandatory subscription laws, it is facing a huge budget shortfall this year. “We cannot pay back our printers or our delivery crews,” said editor Leann Hart, in a prepared statement whispered through my mail slot late last night. “And we have already had to banish much of our staff into the sand wastes of the desert.”

  She went on to explain that this budget shortfall has nothing to do with the reported lavish birthday party she threw for herself in Night Vale Stadium, featuring a lazy river made entirely of champagne and a birthday cake topped with very thin slices of moonrock. In an addendum she tapped in Morse code on my bathroom window, she said that the Journal is considering all new sources of income, including creating additional advertising space and mugging Night Vale citizens, and that I shouldn’t mention the whole birthday party thing after all, because she was never even born, so how could she have had a birthday party? She spent the rest of the night tapping out the phrase “Birthdays are a fake idea,” which actually was a pretty relaxing sound to fall asleep to.

  Hey kids and parents! Time once again for our Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner. Today we are exploring common birds and their meanings.

  An eagle indicates that an important phone call is impending.

  A sparrow says that you should beware the sea and sell any stocks invested in food-based companies.

  A pigeon means that your mother has died, or that all is well. It’s a bit uncertain.

  A hummingbird tells us that the physical constants of the universe are slowly degrading and may someday shift, invalidating the laws of physics and instantly wiping out the universe as we know it, while simultaneously creating an entirely new universe in a single transcendent moment of genocide and genesis.

  As for hawks, well: No one knows what hawks mean, or if they are real. Have you ever even seen a hawk? Of course not. No one has.

  This has been our Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner.

  And now for a word from our sponsors. Today’s program has been sponsored by the physical act of gulping. For thousands of years, gulping has been there for human beings when they needed an expressive gesture of the throat. Whether you want to indicate nervousness about an upcoming test or appointment, fear of the Faceless Old Woman Who Lives Secretly in Your Home, or just want to ingest milk faster than with regular swallowing, gulping is the way to go. Forget sweating. Never mind shivering. Sneezing? Ugh! When you think physical actions, think gulping.

  Gulp now and receive a complimentary prize package, which will be conveniently buried in an unmarked spot somewhere in the scrublands. Find it and it’s yours!

  This just in. The Sheriff’s Secret Police has just issued an important request, related to our earlier story. They ask that all Night Vale citizens be on the lookout for a man in a tan jacket carrying a deerskin suitcase. He is about five- or six-foot something, probably with hair and normal human features. He was last seen early this morning on the unlit, gravel-paved stretch of Oak Trail, near Larry Leroy’s house, out on the edge of town. The man in the tan jacket was reportedly seen in the moonless black, standing next to a refrigerator engulfed in flames. He was smoking a cigarette.

  Witnesses claimed he stared at them as they slowly drove by on the darkened country road. But despite the prolonged eye contact, the witnesses still could not describe his face to police.

  Two days prior, the man in the tan jacket was seen standing in a park. No one can remember which park, but they’re fairly certain it was a park. Or maybe it was in the Old Navy outlet store or near the Invisible Clock Tower. It wasn’t quite clear. Either way, the man was definitely standing with his deerskin suitcase and staring up at the sun for hours. He followed the bizarre glowing orb, which is somehow the source of all light and life and—oh God, the sun! “Are you kidding us with this thing? We don’t even have time for that mystery,” the Secret Police then interjected.

  Secret Police officials added that if you see a man in a tan jacket carrying a deerskin suitcase, write down what you see immediately. The City Council has temporarily lifted their ban on pens and pencils, so that citizens can help law enforcement on this matter. Once you write down your encounter, call 911 immediately, or simply say “Hey Police” out loud. We’re all being monitored almost twenty-four/seven, so they’ll probably hear you just fine.

  Let’s go now to traffic.

  There is a car. It’s not in Night Vale, or even in the desert that cradles our little town. It’s out somewhere beyond that. There are many cars there, but I’m speaking only about one. Blue, squarish, with tires and windows and an engine that works most of the time. A woman is driving it and she is also glancing whenever she can at the child in the passenger seat. He is a child but he is fifteen. You understand. She is glancing at him, but she is not saying anything, and he is not saying anything either. She wants to cry or she wants to push him out of the car or she wants to go back in time and insist on using a condom, only she would never do that, she wouldn’t change any of this really, not for all the money, piles of money, some of it defunct money from defunct and absent governments, she wouldn’t give any of this back. So she drives her car, blue, squarish, with tires and windows and an engine that works most of the time. And she glances at the fifteen-year-old child, and neither of them speaks. This has been traffic.

  And now, the weather.

  WEATHER: “Movement 1: Invocation of the Duke” by daKAH Hip Hop Orchestra

  Ladies and gentlemen, during the break I received a call from someone claiming to be an angel. Now I don’t know if this was a prank or not, as nobody has ever actually proven that they’ve talked to an angel. (Even Old Woman Josie’s word is just that—her word.)

  But, listeners, I think this had to have been an angel, because my face became hot, and the voice filled every part of my body, and tears were flowing down my face the instant I touched the phone receiver, and the whole room was lit up in, well, how can I describe this . . . a bright black beam illuminating every atomic detail.

  And the angel, if that is indeed who called, the angel said that the man in the tan jacket with the deerskin suitcase was from a place underneath the earth, underneath our knowledge, a vast world right below our feet.

  I asked for more, but the angel, if that is indeed who called, whispered only “A flower in the desert,” and it filled me with ecstasy and dread. Then the call ended, and the black ray of truth was gone, and I was breathless and alone. And, dear listeners, the silence. Well, it was unlike any silence you have ever not heard.

  So our mystery man remains unfound, and I’m still not sure why an angel would have to use a telephone. But for now, we can only know what we know, and that is that we don’t know.

  Thank you again for listening, listeners. I look forward to another fine year, a new year, well spent with all of you out there. Stay tuned next for two commercial-free hours of E
sharp.

  Goodnight, Night Vale. Be alert, and write down everything you cannot comprehend.

  Until next time.

  PROVERB: Biologically speaking, we are all people made up of smaller people.

  EPISODE 15:

  “STREET CLEANING DAY”

  JANUARY 15, 2013

  THE MISSION OF NIGHT VALE HAS ALWAYS BEEN TO MAKE THE MUNDANE terrifying and the terrifying mundane.

  At the time I wrote this episode I was living in Brooklyn, and there is nothing more constant and mundane in Brooklyn than street cleaning. The game of alternate side of the street parking and street cleaning is a big part of owning a car in the city, which my wife did. It’s an ominous game, with the threat of towing and tickets if one hapless car owner mixes up their dates and times.

  I took this mundane threat of the street cleaners and blew them up into full-fledged monsters. This must have resonated with people, as this episode is one that I see referenced more than almost any other by fans. It seems to be one that, if nothing else, sticks in their memories as representative of what we do on our show.

  More recently, the script of it would be featured in the Best American Nonrequired Reading 2014 collection, our first published work, beating our novel by about a year.

  This post-weather section of the episode was a bit of a gamble. We often end our shows with the horrible catastrophe from before the weather section having worked itself out and leaving a peaceful and relieved town, and I wanted to expand that moment and zoom in on it. It’s a lovely, peaceful moment. And lovely, peaceful moments are nice to linger on, especially in a town as terrifying and unpeaceful as Night Vale.

  —Joseph Fink

  Bananas are hardly that slippery. But watch your step, anyway.

  WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE.

  Ladies, gentlemen, you: Today is Street Cleaning Day. Please remain calm. Street Cleaners will be upon us quite soon. We have little time to prepare. Please remain calm. The City Council has issued a statement in twenty-point all-caps type, saying, “RUN! RUN! FORGET YOUR CHILDREN AND LEAVE BEHIND THE WEAK! RUN!” We have contacted those experts who have not already gone underground or changed their identity, and have been told that Street Cleaners focus on heat and movement, and so the best strategy is to be dead already. Then the experts all swallowed pills and fell, mouths frothing, at my feet. If you have doors, lock them. If you have windows, board them up. If you still have ears, cover them, and crouch, wherever you are. It is Street Cleaning Day. Please remain calm.

  John Peters, you know, the farmer? He reports finding an old oak door standing unsupported by any other structure out in the scrubland. He says that he’s sure it wasn’t there yesterday, or pretty sure anyway. As sure as he can be since the accident. Apparently, there is knocking from the door, as though there were someone from some other side that does not exist in our narrow, fragile reality, trying to get in. He has added several deadbolts and chains to the door on both sides, unsure which direction the door opens. Which is, by the way, a huge design flaw. One should always know which way a door opens merely by looking at it if the designer has done their job, and this holds true whether it’s a bank of glass doors at the local mall, or an unspeakably old wooden door leading to other worlds than these. John, meanwhile, says he will keep a sleepless vigil upon the door, as any sleep merely leads to dreams of blurry shapes in the dim distance, advancing, hissing, upon this vulnerable planet. He also says the imaginary corn is coming in real good, and we should have a nice crop to choose from soon, especially now that it will be available for sale at the green market.

  The staff of Dark Owl Records announced today that they are only listening to, selling, and talking about Buddy Holly. If you want to buy music at all, you had better like Buddy Holly. If you dress like Buddy Holly, that’s cool, too.

  They also announced that Buddy Holly will be performing live there this Saturday night at eleven to promote his newest album, which is called I’m Trapped in Between Worlds, Existing Only in the Form that You Knew Me; This Is Not Who I Am; Leave Me Alone and Just Let Me Die, Please.

  Organized crime is on the rise, Night Vale. The Sheriff’s Secret Police and the Night Vale Council for Commerce are cracking down on illegal wheat & wheat by-product “speakeasies.”

  Two months ago the City Council abolished forever all wheat & wheat by-products, but a black market appears to have formed for those depraved addicts who can’t get enough wheat, nor its by-products.

  Big Rico’s Pizza was cited this week for hosting an illegal wheat & wheat by-products joint in a hidden basement space. Big Rico’s, in light of the new laws, has had to alter its menu to mostly just bowls of stewed tomatoes, melted cheese wads, and gluten-free pizza slices.

  His storefront seemed to be the model of a wheat-free & wheat by-product–free society, but even the most honest businesses can turn to crime when their livelihood is on the line.

  Fortunately for Big Rico, he is a very nice person and apologized to the City Council in a way that did not include blackmail or secret campaign contributions or special favors. Big Rico is just truly sorry for what he has done.

  The Sheriff’s Secret Police say they are upping their efforts to stop these illicit wheat & wheat by-product manufacturers. They are mostly just sniffing the air until they smell bread. It’s pretty easy, actually, the sheriff said from his hoveroffice in the clouds.

  More information now on Street Cleaning Day, which has come upon us just as we always feared it would. The information is that Street Cleaning Day is terrifying, and that we should all perhaps fall to our knees, letting out moans and rubbing our forearms absently. The City Council has issued a statement indicating that they forgot they had vacation plans this week, and so are currently on a plane to Miami, as they had been planning and looking forward to for some time. They said their vacation, since it was definitely planned, has a pre-established end date, but that they cannot tell anyone what that end date is until the Street Cleaners are completely gone. In the meantime, they are leaving Paul Birmingham in charge. Paul, the vagrant who lives in a lean-to behind the library, could not be reached for comment, as he has faked his own death in an elaborate scheme to escape Street Cleaning Day unscathed. More, if there ever is more for any of us.

  And now a word from our sponsors. Today’s broadcast is sponsored by Target. Target is a great place to shop, and they would like you to consider the variety of silence in this world. The deathly silence when an argument has reached a height from which neither party can see a safe way down, and the soft, wet silence of post-coital breath catching. Silence in a courtroom, moments before a man’s life is changed completely by something so insignificant as his past, and the silence of a hospital room as a man, in front of everyone he loves, lets the heat from his clenched hands dissipate into the background hum of the universe. The quiet of outdoor distances, of wilderness, of the luxury of space, and the quiet of dead air on the radio, the sound of a mistake, of emphasis, of your own thoughts when you expected someone else’s. [Pause] Shop at Target.

  From time to time, listeners, I like to bring a little education to our show, throw out some interesting facts, or “mind fuel.” Today, I’d like to share some fascinating facts about clouds.

  [Struck out words should be read normally but will be beeped out]

  Clouds are made up of tiny water droplets.

  Rain clouds are formed when large amounts of moisture accumulate above dense air. When the density of the humid air (a.k.a. the cloud) becomes denser than the air below, that’s when it rains.

  Lightning is caused by static electricity, and it’s important to stay away as lightning can kill you, or at least cause you a great deal of body-altering pain and regret.

  But take some time to stop and look at the clouds. They are beautiful, wondrous creations.

  Wait. I’ve just been handed a red piece of paper by one of the Sheriff’s Secret Police officers. [Whispering] I can tell that’s what he was because of his short cape, blow dart chest belt,
and tight leather balaclava.

  Dear listeners, I’ve been told to inform you that you are to stop looking at the clouds immediately. Stop knowing about the clouds. Intern Stacey tells me in my headset here that they’ve also been censoring my broadcast. Well, I back our public protectors, and if they say to stop knowing about whatever it was I was talking about, then I’ll stop knowing about it.

  Let’s go now to the sounds of predatory birds.

  [Sound of predatory birds for thirty to forty-five seconds]

  Sirens have been going off in central Night Vale, as a warning about sirens going off in Old Town Night Vale. These sirens indicate that sirens might occur in the general Night Vale area over the next few hours, which would be a declaration of a current “Siren Watch.” Please check that your Siren-Preparedness Kit is fully stocked and easily reachable.

  Lieutenant Regis, of Unit 7 of the local National Guard Station and KFC combo store, said that, “It always seemed that the only way to live without regrets was just to never regret anything you did. And that seems to be the only hope for the future, anyway. Regrets just bear us down. Regrets just bear us down.”

  This wasn’t related to today’s Siren Watch. He said that a few years back and it just always stuck with me.

  And now traffic.

  Southbound HOV lanes of Route 800, near Exit 15, have large glowing arrows. Drive over the arrows and get a boost in speed. Save time and gas, and get your high-occupancy vehicle to work on time!

  There’s a stalled car at the downtown off-ramp of Eastern Expressway. Tow trucks are on the scene to euthanize the vehicle and chase away scavenging vermin.

  There are several accidents to report. In fact, infinite accidents. Everything is an accident. Or at least, let us hope so. This has been traffic.

  Ladies and gentlemen, it is not possible for us to exactly do another news report on Street Cleaning Day, as no information can get through the barricades and seals that are keeping us safe within our broadcasting bunker. Instead we offer the following impressionistic list of what we believe is happening outside our secure perimeter: screaming. A slow movement downwards. The crunch of items made of wood and items not made of wood. A quick movement upwards. Char. A smell like rotting seaweed, or a poisoned ocean. The song “La Bamba,” only faster. You know that feeling when you realize you’re not alone? Only more so. Screaming. Screaming. Screaming. Ladies and gentlemen. Ladies and gentlemen. The Street Cleaners are upon us. What can we do? What is there to do? Besides, perhaps, taking you in a haze of terror and heat, to the weather.