by Joseph Fink
I saw she was with someone, but his baseball hat was pulled down over his face, so I didn’t get a good look at him.
Maureen then asked me for a letter stating she’d completed her internship, because she needed these two credits for college. I reminded her she spent most of her internship flickering in and out of existence, so I couldn’t write the letter, but I was really excited to see she was dating someone.
Then she said something about not assuming people are dating just because they’re hanging out. Blah blah blah. I don’t even like boys. Blah blah. But I kept staring at the boy in the ball cap, and I did not like him one bit. I felt like I knew him from somewhere, but I couldn’t put my finger on where. Oh well, I’m sure it won’t come up again.
I told Maureen it was a good thing she wasn’t into boys because this one seemed like bad news. Really bad news, I whispered, and Maureen groaned and rolled her eyes in what I assume was agreement.
Then I said, “Good seeing you,” and walked away. She shouted, “Come back,” and “Where’s my credit letter?” while waving her fist and cussing, which is I guess how kids today say good-bye.
Oh, listeners. I need to make an apology. Earlier in today’s show I mentioned giving some cookies to the agent from a vague yet menacing government agency, and in the process I revealed her full name as Monica Barnwell and the location of her operation as in front of my home.
Because of this security breach, Monica has apparently lost her job as a secret agent and had to go into hiding for the rest of her life, changing her looks and identity, and never seeing her family or friends again. Really sorry about that one, Monica.
Let’s have a look at traffic. What do you say?
Feet apart. Toes together. Right foot turned forty-five degrees. No need for mathematical precision, but if you have a protractor, break it into pieces and swallow it. Absorb its numbers like nutrients.
Bend your knees. Bend other things that allow for bending. Do not force malleability. That right foot though. What’s it doing?
Did you move your foot? Memories aren’t real. Do you control yourself? Not if you don’t remember being in control. Maybe we pretend to have experienced things so we don’t have to actually understand why they happened.
Your foot is flexing now. Why? What silent siren song calls your right foot? You are sitting. You are passive, still. Your left foot idles in the dark, complacent and obedient. Your right foot serves a greater god. It flexes for its idol: all plastic and steel and full of fire and fumes. Your right foot wishes for you to pray with a clear mind and open eyes.
This has been traffic.
And now an update on the new sheriff’s press conference. The sheriff announced that while they couldn’t do anything about the money the mayor has already wasted on neighboring towns, the Secret Police would certainly make it clear to anyone from Desert Bluffs who might be trying to enter Night Vale that they would not be wanted.
The sheriff announced a plan to tag all Desert Bluffs citizens with bright orange hats that have the word “UNWANTED” written in blinking LED lights across the front.
As the sheriff said this, several journalists shifted uncomfortably in their seats. This was because their seats were uncomfortable, but they still nodded excitedly about the sheriff’s cool new idea.
One journalist pointed out, though, that the orange hat thing would be an added expense, what with having to print up hats and design the LEDs and all that. And this whole press conference seems to be about our city’s lack of funding for new projects, the journalist said.
In the tense silence that followed, the journalist added, “Plus everyone from Desert Bluffs is pretty easy to identify what with all the blood on their shir——”
But then the reporter was helpfully tackled and muzzled by the other reporters who did not want to get off on the wrong foot with the new sheriff. As the great television newsman Edward R. Murrow once said, “Hey, don’t rock the boat, okay?”
In the commotion, no one seemed to notice the appearance of several strangers, standing around the perimeter of the conference room. Our new station intern Kareem was there and claimed the strangers really didn’t appear so much as seemed to have always been there, even though he was positive they were not there at the start.
They were completely still, except for their breathing. They were definitely breathing, and everyone heard it.
No one knew what the strangers wanted but they were certain it wasn’t good. The members of the press stepped backward into the middle of the room. They waited. And from the silence came a noise. There came a sudden—
Oh, it’s almost twenty past the hour, listeners, I better get to the weather report. Here you go.
WEATHER: “She Knows” by John Fullbright
Where was I? Umm . . . “They waited. From the silence came a noise. Then there came a sudden . . .” Oh yeah, basically, everyone was quiet until a reporter asked the sheriff, “Who are these people? Will the Secret Police protect us?”
The sheriff did not respond. It was quiet, save for the strangers’ breathing, for about three minutes. Then the questions and cries came in increasing volume and pace, “Who are these people?” “Sheriff, why aren’t they moving?” “What do they want?” “Has anyone seen my phone?” “We’re going to die!” Et cetera.
Eventually the room devolved into panic, members of the press shoving to get out, but in a way that suggested that the exit was through each other. Then the sheriff raised their hand and announced into the microPHONE, “Everything’s fine.”
No one believed the sheriff, and the sheriff, knowing this, rephrased the statement, “Some things are not fine, but other things are fine. This”—and here the sheriff indicated the whole room—“is probably fine.”
The panicked reporters were now filled with both fear and doubt.
The sheriff stood stupefied as a single bead of sweat rolled down their brow, along the nose, forming a thin, wet crack across their entire face.
No one breathed, except the strangers, of course, who by the time the droplet had completed its erratic journey, were somehow several feet closer to the press corps despite never having visibly moved an inch.
Everyone in the room, including the sheriff, knew that death was upon them. None of them were afraid of death. They were, instead, terrified of what would come immediately before and immediately after death.
Listeners, like I said earlier, our own Intern Kareem was part of that press corps today. So, to the family of Intern Kareem, he’s a good intern and is doing great work. He got back from the press conference a little bit ago saying he had a great time. He also provided some excellent reporting.
According to Kareem, the strangers encroached slowly on the remaining journalists, moving without seeming to move. No one could look the strangers in the eyes. They did not know what the strangers wanted of them, just that their lives were likely over. Kareem said he heard someone crying, another person frantically chanting, and he was trying to take it all in, but then he heard a flapping of wings, like a pteranodon or a librarian. And looking up, he saw a flash of blackness and long, feathered creatures descending from a dark sky.
And next thing he knew, he was back at the radio station, safely interning once again. Kareem called the creatures that saved everyone “angels,” but I reminded him that there is no such thing, and according to the AP Style Guide, it is illegal to acknowledge the existence of angels. So this is why—
Kareem is now trying to argue with me about the fluidity of vernacular and the constant evolution of language.
Ugh. Okay, listeners, I need to deal with this.
Stay tuned next for the real-life actualization of that dream you had last Tuesday. You’ll make a cute couple, so congratulations.
And as always, good night, Night Vale. Good Night.
PROVERB: There are hot singles in your area. And they all died exactly twenty years ago on a night just like tonight.
Episode 81:
“After 3327�
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FEBRUARY 1, 2016
GUEST VOICE: MAUREEN JOHNSON (INTERN MAUREEN)
CONSIDER THIS:
Welcome to Night Vale is a human named Cecil (moi), playing a character named Cecil (moi aussi) on an imaginary radio show, discussing fake news that refers to real news that has been manipulated so much as to become “fake news . . .” (sung to the tune of “Girls and Boys” by Blur).
Is Cecil Palmer the postmillennial podcast incarnation of ’80s New Wave veejay Max Headroom? Both are friendly, gregarious pseudohumans who live within the technology they occupy, but also a little bit in the world we inhabit too. Max has his cable TV, Cecil his radio show. They are the ghost in the machine. And most importantly, they represent all that is organic about humanity (humor, love, ego), whilst being completely artificial.
Because let’s face it—the practicalities of Cecil Palmer and his relationship to technology are mysterious at best.
In this episode we fall down the weird rabbit hole of Cecil relating confidential and classified information on the air about Night Vale newcomer Nick Teller and his inventions and his loosely veiled Nicola Tesla identity. So, how does he actually get away with this? When you really stop to think about it, how does he do this? What is the structure of his relationship with the Management of community radio that he can get away with this? And how does he even know these things? Does he have spies? Minions? Does he get a ticker-tape news feed of everybody’s doings in town?
The mystery is clearly way more fun than the solution. It’s not about whodunnit, or how they done it, but the fact that the mystery exists at all.
This episode is an alt-history, time-travel nerd dream! It begins with the usual sci-fi fodder—If you had the technology to go back and fix the mistakes you’ve made, would you? It’s the classic fanboy time-travel paradox. (See: Primer, Back to the Future, The Philadelphia Experiment, Terminator, et cetera.) But in true Night Vale fashion, the solutions are not what you would expect. In fact, is there even a “solution” to the sum of a human’s life? Are the problems that send you careening through time in a Terry Gilliam joyride really problems at all, or just a matter of perspective and self-acceptance?
Humans love to give themselves labels, while simultaneously shouting to anyone who will listen that they are more than just the label they’ve been given. We willfully fall in line with our own personal set of identity politics, tempered with just enough individual quirks to make it feel authentic.
So the question that Cecil and Max Headroom and all the other automaton psychopomps pose: Is technology actually changing human society, or is it actually showing us what human society has been this whole time?
—Cecil Baldwin
To err is human. But to err is also computer. We’ll have to find another test to reveal which of us are secretly bots.
WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE
Let’s start things off with the community calendar.
This afternoon the Museum of Forbidden Technologies will be hosting a lecture by Night Vale High’s AP auto shop teacher Nick Teller. He will be demonstrating some fun devices he came up with while tinkering around in his garage. As usual for talks at the Museum, Nick will be covered with a burlap tarp, and a white noise machine will be played through a state-of-the-art surround-sound system so that no dangerous and secret technology can accidentally be learned about.
Tuesday will be the annual day in which we leave offerings of fruit and Rolaids for the Eternal Scouts on display in front of City Hall. These brave children rose through the ranks, from Boy Scout to Eagle Scout, Blood Pact Scout, Weird Scout, Dreadnaught Scout, Dark Scout, and Fear Scout before finally achieving the rank of Eternal Scout. Now these two brave boys, Frank and Barty, stand in their glass cases, as they have for almost three years, with wide unseeing eyes, wide unseeing mouths, and long unseeing hair.
It is rumored that one day, in Night Vale’s hour of greatest need, the Eternal Scouts will awake, and walk among us once again. Until then, we all bow our heads in silent reverence, so that we don’t have to look at them, because they are very creepy. We all look at the ground instead, because the ground is not creepy, except that it consumes your body when your body no longer belongs to you.
Wednesday is Take Your Daughter to Work Day. Wednesday is Put Your Daughter to Work Day. Wednesday is Teach Your Daughter How to Do Whatever Simple Task It Is You Are Paid to Do and Then, Once She Has Mastered It, Slip Away and Leave Her as Your Replacement Day. If you do not have a daughter, one will be assigned to you. If you do have a daughter, are you sure you do?
Thursday is a lost cause. Why even bother with Thursday? We all tried and tried and still Thursday is what it is. Let’s all give up hope for Thursday and just let it do its thing.
Friday evening, legendary rock band the Clash and the great Amy Winehouse are joining together for a Free Concert in your imagination.
Saturday, there will be a sale at Dark Owl Records, with everything wildly reduced in price. “Cheapest of all,” said Dark Owl owner Michelle Nguyen, “will be the idea of art, which has been degraded to a point where it holds no recognizable value.
“It’s like, what does art even mean outside of the intention to make art?” said Nguyen, in a statement she burned into my lawn this morning. “And does the intention to make art alone define what it is? Anyway, you can take art for all I care. I moved on to the intricate, fractal happenstance of nature, like, years ago,” she concluded.
If there’s any particular album you’re looking for, please do ask for it by name, so that Michelle can know the album is too well known now and she can put every copy she owns in the garbage with all the rest of the popular music.
Sunday is someone else’s problem. What, you have to worry about every day yourself?
This has been the community calendar.
My former intern Maureen has dropped by the studio. And oh my god, she has just the most ADORABLE beagle puppy with her. Look at you! Look at you!
MAUREEN: I’m here too.
CECIL: Of course! Hello, Maureen, you are also here, yes.
MAUREEN: Hi. Or whatever. I guess “hi.”
CECIL: Maureen, it’s just a delight to have you and your little buddy there on.
MAUREEN: I bet it’s a delight.
CECIL: Okay. What’s been new with you?
MAUREEN: Well, let’s see. Oh yeah, I had to start a new internship because I still need those credits to graduate. The new internship is pretty sweet I guess. I lead an army or whatever.
CECIL: You lead an army?
MAUREEN: Or whatever. Doesn’t matter. I mean I don’t have to. If you could write me my intern credit letter for school, I wouldn’t have to do this other internship. I could just graduate and—
CECIL: Oh, your new internship sounds just great. I hope you’re truly applying yourself.
MAUREEN: [beat, maybe a slight inhale] I’ve been talking with another former intern of yours by the way.
CECIL: Dana? I’m so proud of her. My best intern ever. She’s really doing some great things for this town. You know, she’s mayor now, right?
MAUREEN: I know who Mayor Cardinal is! Everything’s about Dana, isn’t it? Oh look at me I get college credits AND I get to be mayor. Not like Maureen. Maureen has to lead an army or whatever to get those credits.
CECIL: An army . . .
MAUREEN: Or whatever. It’s not important.
CECIL: It sounds kind of important.
MAUREEN: Oh, does it? Is that what sounds important? Do you know that there are people starving to death somewhere?
CECIL: Oh my god, where? We should help them.
MAUREEN: I dunno. Somewhere. I wasn’t being specific. I wasn’t actually suggesting making the world a better place. I was just using theoretical human suffering as a deflection.
CECIL: Have you been taking those Art of Conversation classes at the community college too? Our receptionist, Lance, got me into these classes. I’ve learned so much about how to better talk with people.
Techniques like “Intense, Almost Invasive Listening” and “Absolute Denial of the Reality of Truth” and “Changing the Subject: Your Best Line of Defense.”
MAUREEN: Can you write me a credit letter or not?
CECIL: That’s a good question. Another good question is: Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?
MAUREEN: This dog is, obviously. He’s a beagle. Therefore he’s a good boy. This was a mistake. I’ll talk to you later. Or whatever. More “whatever” than “later.”
CECIL: Bye, buddy. Oooh. Look at you! Such a cute dog. I would do anything for that little face. That tiny, adorable face and those floppy dumb ears. Ugh, I would do anything! Oh no, the beagle’s leaving. In the arms of Maureen. Maureen is also leaving. Good-bye, Maureen! It was nice of you to drop by and talk about . . . whatever it was you talked about.
Listeners, she’s leaving in the company of that same boy I saw her with a couple weeks ago. The one with the ball cap pulled low over his face. I definitely recognize him. Where do I know him from?
I’m certain this won’t come up again. I wouldn’t worry about it.
A small update on my previous community calendar announcement. Things have gone off track during AP auto shop teacher Nick Teller’s presentation on his inventions. It seems that he somehow accidentally removed the unsecured burlap tarp from his body, and turned off the switch on the white noise machine next to him, thus foiling the usual safeguards against learning.
His completely audible talk covered simple life hacks he’s developed to lower your electrical bill. The first is a way of transmitting energy over great distances. To that end, he held up a lit light bulb, not visibly attached to any power source. The power, Nick said, came wirelessly from a coil situated twenty-six miles away in the desert. His other power-saving tips included setting your thermostat just a bit higher, improving the insulation of your home, and using a free energy generator he invented that can provide power for an entire household indefinitely on no fuel at all.