Who's a Good Boy?

by Joseph Fink

And now a word from our sponsors.

  Today’s show is sponsored by a happy-looking dog that’s woofing and wagging his tail. He just wants you to play, or to pet him, or maybe just to stop feeling sad for a moment. He wants what’s best for you, even if he doesn’t know that he wants it. His instincts have been tinkered with, made to align with your interests, and now his happiness is yours. He’s a big-eyed, woofing dog and he’s dancing from paw to paw because he’s so excited to make your life better. Are you about to take him for a walk? Oh no, did someone say the W word? Did the physical needs of an animal companion force someone to also go outside and move their body, both things that will chemically make them feel better? What a convenient system. What a good boy. What a good boy.

  This has been brought to you by a happy-looking dog that’s woofing and wagging his tail.

  Paul Birmingham, local community activist who lives in a lean-to behind the library, wanted everyone to know that he was against it. When questioned what he was against specifically, he shrugged and said “I dunno. It. All of it. Or some of it. The bad parts. I’m totally opposed. Not a fan at all,” he concluded. He waved signs, all of which just said “NO.”

  Paul has a long history of political activism in Night Vale, starting with his “Oregano Should Be Legal” campaign that he waged ferociously for the better part of the ’80s, only giving it up when he found out that oregano already was legal. Then he shifted into environmental activism, marching every day in front of City Hall to draw attention to his controversial “What If What I See as Red Is What You See as Blue What If Color Isn’t Even Real” campaign. More recently, he had joined the Airfilled Earth Society, the group that believes the earth is a precariously inflated orb that could pop or deflate at any moment.

  Now he seems to have dropped all of his previous specific beliefs for the more general stance of negativity without target, a No directed at Nothing. Reporters report his breath sighed. Reporters report his shoulders sagged. Reporters report his shouting waned, his signs drooped. Paul wiped his brow.

  “Just, something has to be true, you know?” he said. “Somewhere in all of this something has to be true.” He squinted at the sky before concluding, “I still can’t see them. I wish I could. Then maybe I would understand.”

  He wandered back to his lean-to, seeming to have grown years older, his defiance burned out of him.

  Breaking news: The Sheriff’s Secret Police and the City Council have taken unilateral action to disunite Night Vale and Desert Bluffs. The sheriff, backed by the hulking figures of the City Council, led a fleet of Secret Police cars into neighborhoods that used to be Desert Bluffs, announcing that all these buildings were now Night Vale’s and that everyone living there needed to go.

  “Nothing against you personally,” the sheriff said, as their Secret Police chased after former Desert Bluffs citizens with what could be described as comically sized potato sacks if it weren’t for the grim seriousness with which the police conducted their chase. The former Desert Bluffs citizens started to flee, panic set pale and glistening on their faces, but they stopped when they saw yet another car coming at them from the other direction. Black sedan. Tinted windows. Unmistakably governmental. It pulled directly in front of the sheriff’s group, bringing everyone to a momentary confused halt.

  Out of the car stepped Mayor Cardinal. She looked around at the scene as it lay. She couldn’t have seemed younger, or more tired. She took a slow, deliberate breath.

  “Go home, Sam,” she said to the sheriff. “Go home, all of you.”

  The sheriff looked around at their police officers for support and then shouted back “You can’t stop us, Dana. We will drive these people out of our town.”

  “No, Sam,” she said, “you won’t. You won’t because it’s their town too now. You won’t because there’s nowhere else they should go. You won’t because it’s a bad thing to do and I think, somewhere in there, you aren’t a bad person. Maybe I’m wrong about that. Wouldn’t be the first time. But, primarily you won’t,” she concluded, “because I won’t let you.”

  And she folded her arms. And she said nothing more. The Secret Police still held their potato sacks, unsure now of what they should do. Their sheriff no longer ordered or even goaded, but just stared thoughtfully at their mayor. The former citizens of Desert Bluffs stopped fleeing, looking back at this first figment of hope.

  And then the sheriff got in their car, turned it around, and drove away. The Secret Police all got in their cars and followed. The City Council roared and stomped, but without the police to back them up, they too eventually retreated. And still Dana stood, silent, arms folded, until the last of them was gone. She turned to the new citizens of Night Vale who had moments before been fleeing.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Dana. Don’t hesitate to get in touch if you have any problems, okay?”

  She got back in her car. She too left.

  I . . . I don’t know where I stand on this scene as it just unfolded. I need to think about it. While I think about it, let’s go to the weather.

  WEATHER: “The Sky Is Calling” by Kim Boekbinder

  Here’s what.

  We all have our regionalisms. For instance, in many parts of the country, there is a sandwich known as a sub sandwich, that is in other places known as a hero, a hoagie, a grinder, a longburger, a prince’s delight, or a bread burrito. This is one example of a difference in culture. There are others.

  It is in these little details that we see ourselves, that we define how we are not others, and thus, how we are ourselves.

  When confronted with someone whose normal is not our normal, we are forced to confront the most frightening prospect of all, that there is no such thing as normal, just the accidental cultural moment we happened to be born into. A cultural happenstance that never existed before and will never exist again.

  Our idea of normal is a city built on sand. For instance, for us, our city is literally built on sand, and this is our normal.

  We resist difference because it requires we acknowledge that the culture we grew up with as normal is just a momentary accident. It requires we accept that the world we were born into will never be the same as the world we die in. The longer we live, the more we become interlopers, even in our own hometowns. But, if we let it happen, also the more we will learn.

  I cannot say I am always happy about Desert Bluffs. It can be said that I have ranted about them on the radio, sometimes for hours, while listeners called in to complain that they wanted me to talk about something, anything, else. I have thrown things at the microphone, and attempted to cast spells upon Desert Bluffs that would drive them into ruin.

  But my happiness or unhappiness is irrelevant to their existence. They exist, and so do I, and now our differing normals, in such close proximity, perhaps will edge just slightly toward each other.

  Night Vale may never again be the Night Vale I knew, but it will be some kind of Night Vale. It will be a version of our town that someday someone will look back on and think, “Those were the days. That was what was normal.” And that person will be wrong. And that person will be right.

  Stay tuned next for tomorrow’s winning lottery numbers, broadcast to everyone simultaneously and so reducing each jackpot share to a small but fair amount.

  And from a town that isn’t the town it was before, and then won’t be the town it has become, and then will change again, and then again after that, and all of them the same town, and all of them our town: Good night, Night Vale. Good night.

  PROVERB: Actually, it’s Properties Brother.

  Episode 84:

  “Past Time”

  MARCH 15, 2016

  GUEST VOICE: JACKSON PUBLICK (HIRAM MCDANIELS)

  I PLAYED ONE SEASON OF LITTLE LEAGUE IN GARLAND, TEXAS. WE were the outlaws. I played catcher. My batting average that season was .000. (If you don’t follow baseball, then good, because I don’t need you knowing just how terrible a batter I was.)

  One thing I was pretty good at doing
was catching the ball and throwing the ball. I was bad at doing either of those things while moving, so catcher seemed to be the one thing that fit my (lack of) talents. You just squat, and when a little league pitcher throws the ball, you mostly just have to catch it and throw it back.

  Sometimes kids made contact with the ball and ran to a base, which was pretty great because it meant I didn’t have to catch a ball and throw it back.

  Growing up in North Texas, we went to watch the Texas Rangers from time to time and even an Oklahoma City 89ers* game or two, but it was never my sport. The game seemed dull, and I thought the sound and fury of canned music, the Wave, and interstitial fan contests was silly and not worth the time I could have spent playing Atari.

  But a girl I liked in high school loved baseball, so I started going to games with her. For a short time, she got me really into baseball. I even started going regularly to batting cages and eventually signed up to try out for my high school baseball team. (I said, “Signed up to try out,” not “Tried out.”)

  After graduation, we drifted apart, and I lost interest in baseball again until 2003, when I moved to Northampton, Massachusetts. In a divey corner bar, I witnessed Red Sox fans transcend existence with the success of their team, only for them to spiritually implode during Game 7 of the American League Championship Series against the hated Yankees. Boston blew a late lead, and in the bottom of the eleventh, the game-winning homer was hit by the Yankees third baseman, a man known in New England as Aaron Fucking Boone.

  I’ve been a Red Sox fan ever since.

  This episode isn’t about baseball, but it is about the Little League coach I wish I had had growing up. Maybe Lusia could have refined my undeveloped skills and my interest in America’s pastime. Maybe I could have been on that 2003 Red Sox team, and I could have told Aaron, in person, where he could shove that home run.

  —Jeffrey Cranor

  Dress for success. Put on your tall hat and rubber gloves and long, gray coat. Success requires this specific outfit.

  WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE

  It’s spring again, which apparently means it’s baseball season. My brother-in-law, Steve [long inhale and exhale; like a regimented breathing exercise] Steve and I took his stepdaughter, Janice, for little league baseball tryouts this weekend.

  Steve and Janice play catch a lot together. She really loves the sport. It’s actually pretty adorable. She shouts things like, “Go farther Steve. I want to see how far I can throw the ball.” And I shout things like, “Keep going, Steve. See how far away you can go.”

  The tryouts were at the haunted baseball diamond over near the Shambling Orphan Housing Development. There were a lot of kids there. Say what you will about all the people from Desert Bluffs moving to Night Vale, and I’ve said many things, but it’s created enormous growth in youth sports. There are leagues for kids with all kinds of interests and abilities.

  Janice tried out for a wheelchair softball league—the first of its kind in Night Vale. Plus I got to spend time talking to Little League baseball coaches Betty Lucero and Lusia Tereshchenko. Lusia is a fascinating woman. So despite having to be around Steve all day, I had a pretty good time. More on that in a bit, but first the news.

  In a study released today, the Greater Night Vale Medical Community has found a statistical link between a high-carbohydrate diet and the number of squirrels on your lawn.

  According to the study, they found that people who take in a higher-than-normal number of carbohydrates have an average of four point seventy-four squirrels somewhere on their lawn. But those with lower carb intake have a slightly different number of squirrels.

  A representative from the Greater Night Vale Medical Community said, “You can see from this pie chart,” and here the representative pointed at an American flag, “that the data shows a statistical link between these things.”

  Another representative, who was previously unnoticed, then emerged from behind the first representative and stated, “It is important that you adjust your carbohydrate intake and/or your trust-slash-distrust of squirrels accordingly.” The first representative then did a set of twelve pushups—the kind where you clap your hands between each one.

  “Believe us. We are doctors,” a third representative said, as she lowered herself down, headfirst from the ceiling at the back of the room. As everyone turned to see her, she said, “Just kidding!” And then the three representatives began juggling and doing yo-yo tricks to hip-hop music.

  And now it’s time for another edition of “Hey There, Cecil.”

  “Hey there, Cecil. I just moved into a new apartment and after two months, my landlord is telling me I’m behind on rent. But I’ve been paying my rent. On the last day of each month, I carry a twenty-stone bag of quartz chips and two pheasant carcasses and lay them outside his office. What am I doing wrong? Also, what is the currency these days? Signed: IN DEBT IN OLD TOWN.”

  Hey there, In Debt. Well, I think you’re in the wrong here. Quartz and dead pheasants are not currency. They have not been legal tender since the 1990s, so you are in arrears on your rent. Here’s what I would do. Write a nice note to your landlord explaining you didn’t understand how money works. Then maybe find a different job where they pay you in actual American currency, which has no physical form and is just a series of arbitrary numbers printed on ATM receipts. Hope this helps.

  “Hey there, Cecil. I love dogs a lot. The other day, I saw a young couple out walking the cutest little beagle puppy. I asked if I could pet him. They didn’t say anything, but the dog had the sweetest expression. So I pet the dog. The couple didn’t speak or move. She just glared at me. The boy was smiling. And as the dog licked my hand, I asked the boy, “What’s your dog’s name?” and the boy laughed. It was a cruel, hollow laugh. And I pet the dog once more and they left. And I can’t get that dog out of my head. I’m now dreaming about it. Terrible dreams. Terrible dreams where I cannot move. I wake, physically incapacitated and crying. When I can finally move, I run to the bathroom needing to vomit but unable. I am covered in cold sweat but my face is on fire. I hunch over the sink spitting up small globs of black tar. Every single night. So my question is: Should I get a dog? And if so, is a beagle a good breed? Signed: DOG LOVER IN DOWNTOWN.”

  Hey there, Dog Lover. You should absolutely get a dog. You sound allergic to beagles, so maybe a basset instead.

  “Hey there, Cecil. What are you doing Saturday night, at say, 8:00 P.M.? Would you be interested in an opera and drinks after? Signed: LONELY BOY IN THE LABORATORY.”

  Hey there, Lonely Boy. Yes. I would very much like an opera and whatever else after.

  And now back to the tryouts. Coach Lusia Tereshchenko told me she’s been seeing more and more of those strangers lately. She does not like them. “They stand and they stare at the kids, at the coaches, at the parents. Just breathing, not moving or speaking. Them, I do not like,” Lusia said. “At first I thought they were from this Desert Bluffs. So many of those people coming to Night Vale. But Desert Bluffs families play in the baseball league now. I meet them. They are nice people. They are good people. They do not stand and stare and breathe,” Lusia said.

  “These strangers. They are from someplace else. Not here. Not Desert Bluffs. They are not humans. They are not even ghosts. Believe me. I should know,” Lusia said, and then laughed. “Get it, because I am dead?”

  I told Lusia I got it. But she continued, “I’m dead, Cecil. It’s funny. Laugh, okay? I’m a ghost.”

  And so I laughed. It was genuinely funny. But then she went suddenly solemn, “Oh, these strangers, they remind me of those terrible men on the train.”

  I asked Lusia, “What men on the train?” But just then an errantly thrown baseball bounced to a stop at Lusia’s feet. She bent over to pick it up, but being a ghost, her hands went right through it.

  “Ah, Cecil, some days I can pick up the ball, some days I cannot. Will you help?”

  I picked up the baseball and threw it back to the child who nearly fell over run
ning but caught it nonetheless.

  And Lusia said, “You still have a good arm, Cecil. You were a great shortstop.”

  I told her I don’t remember playing baseball, and she laughed and said, “Well, you know what they say about growing old? Memory is the second thing to go.”

  I asked, “What’s the first?”

  “Relevance,” she said quickly. “Relevance.”

  Listeners, sorry I have to interrupt my story. We’re getting another call from Hiram McDaniels, literal five-headed dragon and former mayoral candidate. Hiram is in the jailhouse for attempting to kill our current mayor. And he’s on our phones now. Hiram. Hello.

  HIRAM-VIOLET: Cecil, it’s me, Hiram’s violet head.

  CECIL: Hello, Violet. Listeners, it was Hiram’s violet head who courageously turned in his other four heads for their crimes against the mayor. Violet, how are you?

  HIRAM-VIOLET: They cut a hole in the cell where our main body and other four heads are. My head is poking out of the hole into the fresh air. Technically I am not in jail, but I am also not free. I think I have made a mistake.

  CECIL: You did the right thing, Violet. Your other four heads wanted to kill the mayor.

  HIRAM-VIOLET: There are five of us, but there is one of us.

  CECIL: I’m not sure I follow.

  HIRAM-VIOLET: “Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.”

  CECIL: AH! My favorite line from Die Hard.

  HIRAM-VIOLET: Cecil, I have removed myself as a witness for the prosecution. I stand with my other heads. I stand with and for myself.

  HIRAM-GOLD: And it sure is nice to have you back, Purp . . . I’m sorry. You are not purple. You are violet. I respect that.

  HIRAM-VIOLET: Thanks, gold head.

  HIRAM-GRAY: Injustice makes me sad.

  HIRAM-GOLD: We’re gonna do our best, Gray. We’re going to do our best.

  HIRAM-GREEN: WE WILL BURN THE COURTHOUSE. WE WILL DEVOUR THE JUDGE. WE WILL CRUSH THE JURY WITH OUR TAIL.