Who's a Good Boy?

by Joseph Fink

  EARL: I’m trying to build family traditions with Roger. I’m trying to build anything with Roger.

  CECIL: Fun! And hey, I remembered to rent an oven for your appearance this time, Earl. Now, you already prepared our turkey before the broadcast today. It’s cooking right now low and slow at 675 degrees. I can’t wait to taste it.

  But first a public service announcement:

  The Night Vale Parks Department would like to remind you that bears are dangerous animals, and you should stay away from them. Conversely, bears are also adorable, so it’s hard to want to stay too far away. The Night Vale Parks Department understands bears look like they want hugs, and maybe they do want hugs. Maybe a hug would be just the thing to calm down their aggressive side. Who knows? In fact, the rangers over at the Parks Department are split right down the middle as to whether bears are dangerous or cute.

  According to the new Parks Department brochure on wilderness safety: “It’s tough to say. I dunno. Try hugging a bear. See what happens.”

  EARL: What a weird brochure. Bears are dangerous animals. No one should ever hug—

  CECIL: Let’s not argue, Earl.

  [beat]

  This has been a public service announcement created by the Night Vale Parks Department and paid for by a bunch of bears that pooled their money and bought some airtime.

  Let’s talk now about the ultimate Thanksgiving side: mashed potatoes.

  EARL: Right. Mashed potatoes are a simple dish in concept, but they take skill to master. A lot of people think they only need to mix potatoes, stock, butter, and cream. But there’s so much more to it than that!

  CECIL: Really? I’ve been using that standard recipe for years. It seems fine.

  EARL: Oh, but, Cecil. It could be so much better. For instance, you could cook those potatoes for about forty-five to sixty minutes to really soften them up. A raw potato is quite hard to mash, let alone chew.

  CECIL: I never thought about that.

  EARL: People also forget to take the butter out of its wax paper or foil wrapping. You should definitely unwrap your butter before using it. Also make sure your cream is fresh. You don’t want to use any heavy cream older than, say, six months.

  CECIL: Amazing. I would have never thought of any of this.

  EARL: And listen, salt and pepper are fine for mashed potato seasoning, but if you really want to step your dish up a notch, really have your family clamoring about your kitchen skills, then let me tell you my secret spice mix.

  CECIL: What is it, Earl?

  EARL: I use slightly more salt and a little extra pepper. Just a tad.

  CECIL: Amazing.

  EARL: Then you just put it all in a pot and mash it with your feet until it’s warm enough to serve.

  You know, I made this dish recently for me and Roger.

  CECIL: Did he love it?

  EARL: I couldn’t tell. He ate it and then said, “Thanks, um,” and then I said, “Dad,” and he said, “Okay” and he went to bed.

  CECIL: How sweet.

  EARL: Lately I’ve noticed he wakes up in the middle of the night and just walks. I got up and quietly followed him one night. He walked out of the house and into the neighborhood. He walked down each street in our subdivision, never backtracking or walking the same street twice. He didn’t stop or look at anything. He just walked in the darkness. Once, a hooded figure passed him but neither of them acknowledged each other. The hooded figure saw me for sure, but I think they also saw that I was just a concerned father and was not interested in spying on any of their secretive activities. The hooded figure nodded and let me pass.

  CECIL: And Roger came home after that?

  EARL: Yep, he walks each street, each night in a different pattern, and then returns to bed.

  CECIL: Quite an adventurous kiddo you have there. Let’s pause now for a word from today’s sponsor. With that, here’s Deb, a sentient patch of haze.

  DEB: Hello, human listeners. Today’s show is proudly sponsored by Corn. It’s almost Thanksgiving, after all. And you wouldn’t have Thanksgiving without Corn. Thanksgiving is America’s holiday. Corn is America’s crop, America’s lifeblood. You can’t live without Corn. If we didn’t have Corn, we wouldn’t have tortillas, or syrup, or soft drinks. Without Corn, we wouldn’t have dogs or cars. We wouldn’t even have a moon. Everything is made of Corn. Lifeblood. Listen to your heartbeat. ZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzT! You hear that heartbeat of yours? I’m a patch of haze. I don’t know what a heartbeat sounds like, but this is what I imagine it sounds like. ZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzT! That sound in your chest is Corn, my friend. All of that Corn, pumping through your delicate, mortal veins. You didn’t choose how you got here. Neither did Corn. You are both products of free market and overpopulation.

  Corn. Eat it.

  This message brought to you by the Corn and Imaginary Corn Farmers of America.

  CECIL: Thanks, Deb.

  EARL: It’s really humid in here.

  CECIL: That’s Deb for you. Well, speaking of corn, that brings us to my favorite Thanksgiving dish: cranberry sauce.

  EARL: A lot of people look down on canned cranberry sauce. But don’t be so quick to judge. It’s inexpensive, easy to store, and with the right preparation you can elevate this plain can of red gelatin into the most talked-about dish on the table.

  CECIL: Great news. I have an entire cupboard full of canned cranberry sauce. I’m looking forward to hearing what I’m supposed to do with it.

  [beat]

  Earl?

  EARL: I found Roger one evening in the cupboard. He was just sitting there. He wasn’t hiding or crying. I asked him what he was doing and he shrugged his shoulders. I asked him if he was all right, and he said, “Sure.”

  CECIL: Tell me. How is he doing in school?

  EARL: It’s been up and down. There’s no record of his birth or his existence prior to last fall. I don’t know of any birth mother and he has no memories prior to showing up at my house for the first time a little over a year ago. The school has let him enroll and take classes despite his lack of paperwork. He gets along with most kids okay, but some tease him and call him names like “Ghost Child” and “Zombie Kid” because his skin is grayish and decaying, and he is nearly transparent.

  CECIL: Ouch. Kids can be cruel.

  EARL: He’s really good in class, though. He’s still in elementary school because he looks about eight or nine. But his teacher Ms. Blackwell said he has adult-level reading and math skills, so we’re trying to get him more advanced material. He’s been reading Immanuel Kant for a book report.

  CECIL: Roger’s such a bright kid. You’re a good father, Earl. You know that, right?

  EARL: I have no idea what he’s thinking. I try to talk to him, but he seems . . . distant? bored?

  CECIL: He’s a child. It’s difficult, I imagine, for what is essentially an adopted child to—

  EARL: He’s not adopted, though. He looks just like me, Cecil. See, here’s a photo of him. And one of me when I was a child.

  CECIL: Oh wow. You two are identical. When was this photo taken of you? Is that a steam locomotive in the backg——

  EARL: AAAH! Fire!

  CECIL: Oh my. Listeners, it appears our oven has caught fire. Where’s that extinguisher?

  EARL: Here! Here!

  CECIL: [coughs] Where are you? Earl? There’s so much smoke. Listeners, while I find Earl, let me take you all to the weather.

  WEATHER: “Autumn’s Echo” by Stripmall Architecture

  CECIL: Well, our turkey has finished cooking, and you’ve laid out a whole Thanksgiving spread for us here, Earl. It looks delectable.

  EARL: Yeah, the turkey came out perfectly. Once the oven catches fire, that’s when you know it’s time to take out your bird and dig in.

  CECIL: Let me start by tasting the cranberry sauce. [takes bite] Oh, so good. It’s got that perfect balance of tart and sugary sweetness I like. Plus the crunch of the frozen corn mixed in just gives this gooey dish a delightfully complex texture.
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br />   EARL: I also recommend mixing in a handful of bay leaves at the end.

  CECIL: Yum! And now let’s try these “Earl Harlan Special” mashed potatoes. [takes bite] Mmm . . . so buttery and warm, like the skin on the bottom of a human foot.

  EARL: And don’t forget my secret spice mix.

  CECIL: I’ve already forgotten. Let’s move on to the crown jewel of Thanksgiving dinner: the turkey. Tell us about this masterpiece, Earl.

  EARL: Turkey is easier than you think, listeners. Don’t be intimidated. I shot this bird, drained its blood, tore all of its feathers off, removed its organs, and cut off its head and feet. Then I stuffed things into its dead body and put it in an oven.

  CECIL: Let’s give it a taste. [loud crunching, like crushing gravel?] Mmm. So . . . Okay . . . Huh.

  EARL: That’s so nice of you to say, Cecil. This show has meant a lot to me today. I’ve been having a tough—well, a complicated year—and cooking has brought be so much joy—well, distraction. It’s a real pleasure getting to spend time with you and your listeners.

  CECIL: Earl, come over to our place for Thanksgiving.

  EARL: I—No.

  CECIL: Yes, please. Carlos and I would love to have you and Roger—

  EARL: Who?

  CECIL: Your son.

  EARL: Right. Right.

  CECIL: We’d love to have you two over. My sister and her husband are coming. Plus, my niece Janice will be there, so that would be someone Roger could talk to and play with.

  EARL: I don’t want to intrude. Can you even fit that many people?

  CECIL: Of course. Plus, Carlos and I will do the cooking. No working for you this holiday.

  EARL: Cecil, I don’t know what to say.

  CECIL: Actually, we might need a hand with the cranberry sauce. I have over twenty cans of the stuff I need to prepare. But other than that, you and Roger just sit back and try to understand the point of football. Maybe even have Carlos describe the torture scenes from the parade to you both. Keep Steve occupied and out of the kitchen while I’m cooking.

  EARL: Thank you, Cecil.

  CECIL: You’re welcome. I can’t wait to try out all these new recipes. I’m going to go out and assassinate a turkey right after the broadcast today, I’m that excited.

  Listeners, thanks again for tuning in and thanks to Earl Harlan of the restaurant Tourniquet for these helpful cooking tips. Stay tuned next for a nearly exact repeat of this same show, but with the addition of one extra word that changes the meaning of everything.

  And as always, good night, Night Vale. Good night.

  PROVERB: If a car flashes its brights at you, it’s probably a gang. And if you flash your brights back, the gang gives you a cake. It’s a cake gang.

  Episode 79:

  “Lost in the Mail”

  DECEMBER 1, 2015

  COWRITTEN WITH ZACK PARSONS

  GUEST VOICE: ALIEE CHAN (BASIMAH BASHARA)

  A COUPLE YEARS AGO I APPROACHED JOSEPH FINK WITH AN IDEA OF doing something for either Memorial Day or Veterans Day that related to the Blood Space War. It was one of those great elements that was introduced in the first episode of the show that has only been slightly expanded upon over subsequent episodes. I had a lot of ideas for what the Blood Space War might be and some of these we went back and forth on—a time war, a scam to send people to be eaten by aliens, some sort of heroic adventure—but in the end what I settled on was that simple message, not insanely original, that war is subtraction. The specifics of the war don’t matter. It’s not giving a benefit to the people who see their loved ones go off to fight in it and the Blood Space War, like most wars, almost never makes sense.

  I liked that idea of Night Vale being pressured by mores (and the Sheriff’s Secret Police) to celebrate the Blood Space War, but nobody, not even Cecil, can explain what it’s about or why it’s happening. Nobody knows what winning would look like or if it’s even possible. Meanwhile this parade is complimented by Basimah’s story. You have this vibrant young woman, coming of age, becoming who she will be as an adult, who hasn’t seen her father most of her life because he volunteered. She tries to celebrate him as a hero and it doesn’t work. Maybe he is a hero, maybe he’s out there winning the war and saving Night Vale, but what does Basimah care? She wants her dad.

  And because it’s Night Vale, she gets him back, even if it’s only for the length of a song.

  —Zack Parsons

  We brought something back with us. Something we cannot escape. Memories of a great vacation to deepest space! And the merciless Distant Prince.

  WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE

  Listeners, it is a solemn day here in Night Vale. Even more solemn than last year’s Solemnity Fest, during which three people were overcome and had to be revived with party hats and whoopee cushions.

  Today is Remembrance Day, that special day once per year when we interrupt our routines to reflect upon those who probably sacrifice their lives for us in the endless Blood Space War. We’re not sure whether they are alive or dead, because there is a thousand-year difference between our time and those who fight for us on the vast intergalactic battlefields where time converges. But we assume that they are all heroes.

  On this day, we put aside our political differences, even deeply bitter, divisive differences like the belief or disbelief in mountains, and we all come together to remember those who will die thousands of years from now, and to hope that the impossibility of victory is less impossible than before.

  Like any deeply painful and serious subject, it is best remembered through the medium of a civic parade.

  Looking out of the studio, I can see the parade route is packed with onlookers and everything is getting under way.

  The symbolic dead lead the procession, each of them wearing the mask of one of those who went into the distance of time and can never return. Behind them is a float depicting the enormous serpent whose mouth contains the universe. A playful reminder to us all that even the stars must someday be swallowed.

  Following that apparition comes our mayor, and my friend, Dana Cardinal, in her ceremonial mayor’s coffin. Behind her are the Citizens for a Blood Space War. Still over six hundred million dollars left to hit the fund-raising goal for their bomb that may destroy reality as we understand it. Get those cookies in the oven for the next bake sale!

  A brief departure now from the parade in progress. All this week we have been reaching out to you, the listeners, and asking for stories about how the Blood Space War has affected your lives. You heard from the Black Dauphin on how to grow a victory garden inside your body and Sara Bismuth shared the story of her Etsy store where she sells dolls that represent individual soldiers in the Blood Space War, showing the actual wounds they will someday suffer. And now, today, in her own words, I bring you the story of a girl whose father volunteered to fight. Let’s listen together.

  [amateur recording quality with low ambient sound maybe crickets or night sounds]

  BASIMAH: Hello. I’m Basimah Bishara and I am a junior at Night Vale High. My father, Fakhir Bishara, left to join the Blood Space War when I was six. I remember the glowing doorway he stepped through when the tall, silver-skinned recruiter came to our house. And the sound of it, like a slide whistle going up, but the most tragic slide whistle I’ve ever heard.

  My dad was gone forever. But also, he isn’t gone at all.

  [laughing, ambient sound like a lunchroom]

  I think I’m a regular student. Whatever that means. I haven’t grown wings like the cheerleaders, but I fit in. I’m bad at math, I mean I used to be good at it but I think I stopped paying attention. It seemed like it was pointing toward a truth I didn’t want to learn. I’m really good at science and English. I used to be in marching band, now I prefer guitar. Me and my friends formed an all-girl thrash group. We’re called the Mizz Fits.

  [guitar plucking mixed in with the ambient sound]

  I guess how it works is that once a year for the first hundred years of dad’s journey they are go
ing to wake him up and allow him to send a message back to earth.

  I have a big family, so it’s not like I don’t feel loved. Sometimes I feel like it would be easier if dad couldn’t get in touch with me at all. No, I don’t wish that. I love him. I wish he had never left.

  The messages show up on my nightstand in these gelatinous gashapon capsules. They’re warm and soft in my hands. The words are printed on a tiny roll of plastic inside. He only gets to send one, every year, and he always sends it to me right around my birthday, but not exactly on my birthday. I don’t know whether he’s getting it wrong or they are. Or maybe it’s just time being weird again. I’d like to believe it’s that.

  To my dad, he left eleven days ago, but to me it’s most of my lifetime. I’ll be an old woman and he’ll still be on his way to the war, sending letters to a me that he remembers from just a few weeks before. It’s stupid. It’s not stupid, I guess. It is stupid though. It is.

  CECIL: More from Basimah in a bit, but we need to update you on the parade.

  [rattling chains and distant fluting]

  Here comes the emissary, listeners! It wouldn’t be Remembrance Day without a visit from the only entity to ever return from the war. It has been hauled up from the pit and, yes, here it comes.

  [high-pitched merry flute whistling, think the bird from Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf]

  No one knows what the emissary is or why the emissary inhabits a cosmonaut’s suit. Oh, it’s lifting the visor and giving us a glimpse at the void within the helmet. It’s saying something. I’ll try to interpret. “All these things . . . are meaningless. End . . . the . . . war.”

  Of course, that’s the whole point, isn’t it, listeners? If we end the war it will go on eternally. We must continue the war to bring it to an end. It’s why all those brave people enlisted and keep enlisting and will enlist forever.

  [fluting moves away]