by Joseph Fink
On a separate note, we often get asked for visual details about the characters, most especially Cecil. And we rarely give them. But that doesn’t mean we never give them. We have mentioned in the past specific outfits that Cecil wears, and in this episode we make canon that he always has in his hand his Lil’ Reporter’s Big Book of Big-Boy Note Taking. What I find especially interesting, given how seemingly voracious the fan appetite for canon visual details has been, is that the few specific details we’ve given are generally ignored. I rarely see a Cecil cosplay that includes his furry pants or the notebook he has carried since he was five years old. Not to say I never see those. Sometimes I do and I get really excited.
I think that this is one of those times where what people think they want and what they actually want are very different. They think they want us to describe what Cecil looks like. But what they actually want is for us to confirm what they already think Cecil looks like (generally people prefer their Cecils to be much more suave and a snappier dresser than our Cecil). And so I’m happy to do that: whatever you think Cecil looks like is 100 percent correct. Please feel free to ignore the few details we’ve given, because, genuinely, the details you’ve come up with are going to be far more enjoyable for you.
—Joseph Fink
Pound for pound, Pamela Winchell probably has some of the most quotable Night Vale text just because she is so insane. She’s insane by Night Vale standards (and that’s even before you incorporate the brilliant whirlwind who is Desiree Burch playing her in the live shows). Pamela’s tether to reality is just so thin!
In the early days of Night Vale, playing off of headlines and tropes, trying to figure out what bits were bits, having this insane mayor made sense. So you get her claiming that she’s a bunch of birds inside a sack that looks like a person or whatnot and then speaking nothing of it ever again.
There’s also kind of a dark psychosexual undercurrent to a lot of what Pamela says as well, but it’s all so random that you can’t quite pick it out. She has a purpose to serve—she likes to give press conferences, standing in front of a bunch of people and controlling the scene, as so many government mouthpieces seem to enjoy. But I think you’d be hard-pressed to find examples of Pamela Winchell at home, outside the spotlight, to determine whether she’s actually insane or whether she’s putting on a show.
Desiree Burch, who plays her on tour, performs standup comedy and award-winning solo shows, where she speaks candidly about race, body image, feminism, and sexuality. I feel safe on stage with Desiree because, even though she could literally pick me up and snap me like a twig, I know there is method to her madness.
One of the great fears of a life of great fears, perhaps the last great fear, is the fear of no longer being useful. Even more than death, even more than pain, as Americans we fear this loss of category, of self, of self-definition. What’s a person to do once they have been made redundant? Then come the two most terrifying words a person can hear: What next?
When I was at a theater talkback with the cast in Washington, D.C., a member of the audience asked one of the actors, “What’s your favorite role?” Without blinking, one of my castmates said, “The next one.” Mild nods of semi-comprehension from the audience. But the octogenarian Shakespeare Patron pressed further: “Oh, so you’re excited about the next show that you are working on after this one?” To which the veteran actor replied, “No. Just the next one. Whatever that may be, because it means there’s a next one.”
And if you have ever wondered what being a freelance artist is truly like—always remember that the sweetest gig is the next one.
—Cecil Baldwin
Now is your chance. Well, that was it. It’s over. Did you do it? Have you achieved what you wanted? No? Ah well.
WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE
Former Mayor Pamela Winchell called an emergency press conference today to announce that she is enjoying her retirement immensely, and she could not be happier to no longer be mayor.
“More happiness is not possible,” she wailed. “Happiness is a fool’s day dream.”
She was then reminded by reporters that she is no longer mayor and so shouldn’t be calling emergency press conferences, especially when there are none of the usual emergencies happening, like seeing an interesting butterfly, eating a very good sandwich, or being disappointed that it is two o’clock already.
I sought a statement from current mayor Dana Cardinal, who is, of course, a former intern and dear friend of mine. I found her at the end of a dark hallway draped with rotting black cloth and thick with cobwebs, where she was sitting on the mayoral throne and contemplating her hands.
“I thought it would be different than this,” she said, “but it’s exactly what it is.”
I asked her specifically her thoughts on former mayor Pamela Winchell continuing to call emergency press conferences.
“Oh,” Mayor Dana said, and then again, “Oh,” and then, “She can do that if she wants. I’m too busy these days to do press conferences anyway. Tell you what,” and then she did tell me what, which is that she is naming Pamela Winchell the Official Night Vale Director of Emergency Press Conferences.
When informed of this news, Pamela made swiping, dismissive gestures with her hands, saying, “I don’t need her permission. I’ll call them if I want. Anyway, I’m retired.” She was crying. She smiled and she cried. “I’m retired,” she continued, “but that’s very, very nice of her. What a wonderful woman. I’m going to call an emergency press conference to let people know what a wonderful woman the new mayor is,” she concluded.
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Pamela Winchell called an emergency press conference to announce that while she thanks the current mayor for her generous offer, after some thought and discussion with a couple of helpful advisors, she simply is too busy being retired to accept. “I’m just too busy fishing,” she said, wildly waving a fishing rod around, slapping it on her podium and narrowly avoiding catching several reporters with the absurdly oversized hook as they ducked and scrambled out of reach. “See?” she continued. “I’m fishing right now. This is what fishing looks like, I’m pretty sure,” she concluded, cracking the thick, leather fishing line like in that popular and heartwarming series of adventure movies about a wisecracking archaeologist who comically destroys countless important artifacts under the hilarious misapprehension that they belong in his museum rather than in the religious sites of the cultures that made them.
As the reporters ran from her dangerous, flailing fishing line she shouted, “This concludes my emergency press conference about my complete retirement from emergency press conferences. Please assemble again in three hours for an emergency press conference that will update you on my retirement status.”
She then took hold of a rope dangling from the hastily painted blue backdrop that we all assume is the sky and was lifted up through a door, shaking the flimsy particleboard known as the sky as she went.
In other news, Strexcorp Synernists Inc., a company which until recently had something of an outsized effect on our town, is now under the control of being
s who call themselves angels and who do not legally exist. The existence of the company itself is therefore something of a moral/ethical question, the kind that philosophers consider in their secret black-market philosophy meetings.
Despite all the difficulties in discussing its very concept, Strex and its new owners have gone about making what they say are constructive repairs to a town damaged by its recent battle with a force that seemed (but was not) greater than our own.
For instance, they gave Teddy Williams of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex the funds to hire contractors to renovate his building and cover over lane five with asphalt, thus trapping beneath it the tiny civilization that is still declaring war on us.
A so-called angel said in a statement: “I have donated a coffee table made of human bones to charity and will use the money I save on taxes to invest in the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex because angels (if we were real) would certainly love to bowl. Or, whatever,” the creature added.
Meanwhile, I’ve been getting regular calls and Snapchats from Carlos—you know, my hero scientist boyfriend—from the desert otherworld he is very temporarily trapped in. He’ll be back super soon. He says that he has found a cactus, only it’s not a cactus, only it is. He says it’s difficult to explain and that he really wants to explain it. This is what he is for, he said. To explain a world that defies explanation. He sent me a photo of the cactus but it only appeared on my phone as an error box that said EVEN IF YOU COULD, YOU WOULD WISH YOU HADN’T.
Well, it sounds like he’s having fun out there. That’s good.
Pamela Winchell called another emergency press conference to show just how well she’s doing without the need to call emergency press conferences.
“Retirement is great,” she said. “I’ve taken up bird watching.” She then showed off this new hobby, in the process demonstrating a deep misunderstanding of both the concept of birds and the concept of watching. The resulting fire wiped out the podium and, indeed, the entire press conference gazebo, sending both Pamela and the attending reporters fleeing in every direction.
“See how wonderful being retired is?” she shouted behind her as she sprinted away, smoke-fueled tears streaming from her sunken eyes. “I love being retired. It’s the best,” she concluded, as the fire spread to several nearby structures despite the earnest lectures and head shaking from Night Vale’s brigade of brave fire-disapprovers.
Oh, listeners, I finally got a chance to eat at Tourniquet, Night Vale’s hottest new culinary nightspot. I mean, I didn’t get to eat their food, or sit at any of their tables, reservations are still just too hard to get. But I did make a PB&J at home and ate it quickly in their front waiting area as the maître d’ glared at me implacably, as he does to everyone, due to the fact that he is a large idol carved from volcanic rock.
But despite the less-than-ideal visit to the restaurant, it did give me a chance to say hello again to Earl Harlan. Now, it was a big surprise for me, my childhood best-friend Earl Harlan working at this restaurant after being dragged away by mute interdimensional children, not to be heard from again for a year and a half. It was a big surprise for me obviously because I had no idea he had any interest in cooking, let alone the skills to be a sous chef.
Well I invited him to come on the show some time and give all of us a few cooking tips. I don’t know if he’ll take me up on it, but we might be lucky enough to get a peek into the mystical, nearly forgotten art that is cooking. Won’t that be dangerous and probably illegal!
Despite pleas from local, regional, national, international, and interstellar authorities, Pamela Winchell has continued to give emergency press conferences to publicize her deep enjoyment of retirement and to decline the new mayor’s standing job offer to give emergency press conferences.
Her press conference about tropical fish care resulted in a deadly flash flood that swept through Old Town Night Vale, washing away everyone’s piles of cool stones they had found.
Her demonstration of coin collecting crashed several world economies, in the process breaking a ten-year peace treaty that had ended the previous Blood Space War.
And her demonstration of mass poisoning, unfortunately, went without a hitch.
Even as her press conferences have become much more fatal than usual, she has increased their frequency considerably, sometimes having two conferences so close together that they actually occur simultaneously, Pamela speaking in a rapid back and forth to two different groups of reporters as she shows two different cataclysmic methods of retirement she has recently been taught by her mysterious team of advisers.
More on this story as Pamela continues to create it.
And now, some “life hacks” that will allow you to parse and reprogram the code of life, thus changing the very fabric of your being in a clumsy and likely horrifying fashion. Also a handy way of organizing your entire existence through a complex system of binder clips and toilet paper rolls. Let’s get started.
Life hack one is . . . um . . . listeners. Intern Maureen is waving to me frantically from the control room. More frantically than she does at all times about the general terrifying nature of life. She is mouthing something. Flannel fissure? Animals whiz beer? Oh! Oh . . . no. She’s mouthing “Pamela is here.” Listeners, it seems that Pamela Winchell, her press conference gazebo burned down, has chosen the steps of the community radio station as the site of her next retirement demonstration. Given the effect of her previous demonstrations, this could spell doom for our little station and our little lives. I must . . . I must try to talk to her. I will, listeners, I will make her listen.
And while I make her listen, I will also make you listen, to the weather. [running from microphone] Pamela! Stop!
WEATHER: “Here I Land” by Nicholas Stevenson
Well we have returned, as we always do, all of us, unless we don’t, as we sometimes don’t, all of us.
Many people who have had Night Vale community radio mean something in their lives rushed to the front steps of the building to save this vital part of our little town. The crowd held most of the population of our beloved burg. In this modern age of media, there is of course no medium so close to the common heart as community radio. Leading the crowd was Mayor Dana, who pressed Ms. Winchell further to accept her offer of the official position.
But Pamela was unswayed. She, in fact, was standing rigidly, her eyes rolled to the whites, her fingers splayed, booming RETIREMENT, RETIREMENT in a voice not her own. A great wind gusted up from around her body, whirling through the crowd and sweeping Intern Maureen away into the distance. To the family and friends of Intern Maureen. Etcetera. Anyway . . .
“Pamela,” we cried, unified under threat just as we are often at odds through peace. “Pamela. Do not retire. We need you,” we cried. “Specifically, we need you to stop demonstrating your retirement. Definitely stop doing that right away,” we said in unison and in fear.
But Pamela would not hear us. We had given up all hope and were casting about for other things to give up: dreams, aspirations, and then, digging further, anticipated muscle pains, pre-grief for loss that hadn’t happened yet, post-grief for losses long ago, and further still, until we were ready to give up that shifting, shivery spark that is our human heart itself. But then. But then . . .
Well, I don’t remember what happened next. There seems to be just a gap in my memory, much longer and deeper than the usual gaps that we all develop in our memories to protect us from forbidden information we might have heard or hooded figures we might have accidentally brushed against in the dark of our rooms just before we turn on the lights. But fortunately, being a reporter, I had my Lil’ Reporter’s Big Book of Big-Boy Note Taking, just like I’ve had since I was five years old and the prophecies were first revealed that I was destined to be the voice of our little community.
I always make notes in this book, even if I’m not aware of it. See, just now I wrote down “said ‘always makes notes in this book, even if I’m not aware o
f it.’” Wow. Very accurate and I’m not even holding a pen. Anyway. I can just consult my notes and see how this situation was solved.
Okay. It appears here that a man in a tan jacket, holding a deerskin suitcase, approached Pamela’s podium. “Fear not,” he said, perhaps a tad melodramatically. “I can relate to what she’s going through,” he continued. “I think I can talk her through this.”
“You look very familiar,” we all shouted back, still in unison. “But I don’t believe we’ve ever met you before. Who are you?”
But the man in the tan jacket was already skittering, spider-like, up to Pamela and whispering into her ear. No one could hear what he said, according to my notes, but Pamela seemed to immediately respond to his voice, stopping the mass destruction of her retirement activities and listening intently, occasionally nodding and saying, “Uh huh. Uh huh.”
And then, miracle of miracles, she stepped away from the podium.
“Mayor Cardinal,” she said. “I would be happy to accept the role of Director of Emergency Press Conferences. Thank you, and I am no longer retired.”
She then asked everyone to meet her tomorrow at 7:00 A.M. sharp in the newly rebuilt Press Conference Gazebo for her first official emergency press conference in that role.
As for that mysterious man, he of the tan jacket and deerskin suitcase, he turned to the audience and started a lecture about the place he is from, frequently naming it and even pointing to it on a map, but any time the name of the place should appear in my notes, the writing has been violently scratched out to the point of tearing through the paper. And then just blank pages until a few minutes ago when my notes resume.