by Joseph Fink
This week’s book is Helen DeWitt’s The Last Samurai. There is only one heavily charred edition of this novel left in the world, but Tamika assures us that she managed to “borrow” a copy from the Library’s Forbidden Material collection. She did finger quotes around the word “borrow,” while also shaking her head NO, and stomping “i am being totally facetious” in Morse code with her right leg. Then, an owl landed on her shoulder and winked.
Spring League Baseball tryouts are next Saturday afternoon at the haunted baseball diamond. Children new to organized baseball will be assigned teams automatically, based entirely on their personal dispositions. That way there’s a whole team of courageous players; a whole team of clever players; one of conniving, selfish players; and one that takes all the rest of the players, just like the four Major League Baseball teams.
Tryouts are from 10:00 A.M. to 2:00 P.M. with volunteer coaches Betty Lucero and Lusia Tereshchenko.
The Night Vale Youth Baseball Association is asking parents to bring any extra baseballs to tryouts as coach Tereshchenko died over 150 years ago and is now a ghost and so has a hard time picking up ground balls during batting drills.
Getting an update on the worms. City Council has now elevated the warning scale from worms . . ., with a lowercase w followed by an ellipsis, to Worms!! with a capital W and two exclamation points. It has not yet reached all caps WORMS, but if something is not done, this could become a more destructive Worms!! outbreak than the famous WORMS! with all caps, one exclamation point, and underlined twice disaster of 1997.
You know, listeners, if the worms get near the Dog Park, perhaps the hooded figures who pace about behind the tall black fences would get distracted and then I could run in there and get to the desert other——I could just go check out the dogs catching tennis balls and have a nice relaxing afternoon in a local park. Or, actually, no, I’d make a break for the desert otherworld inside the Dog Park and go finally visit Carlos.
Or, you know, something.
And now a word from our sponsors.
Too much clutter in your home? Do you have excess furniture, old clothes, a couple of folding bikes you never ride anymore, jazz CDs that you no longer want because you finally realized how intellectually dangerous they can be? Perhaps you could put that stuff online for sale.
There’s no reason to let old junk go to waste. How does that saying go? One person’s trash is another person’s leather body suit? It’s true. I bet that couch of yours would look really good in, say, Denise Esposito’s house.
In fact, it’s there now. We went ahead and sold your couch to Denise. She’s already come and picked it up while you were at work. Also we sold your TV to Sally Jansen, and your fridge to Mario Landis, and both of your cats to Pedro Reyna. We sold all your belongings and you didn’t have to do a thing.
Craigslist. We sold your stuff while you were gone.
Due to today’s worm attacks, the Sheriff’s Secret Police are putting their search on hold for literal five-headed dragon Hiram McDaniels and the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home. After the attempted coup at City Hall several weeks back, the Secret Police have been aggressively pursuing the two fugitives who have reportedly conspired many times to overthrow Mayor Dana Cardinal.
Mayor Cardinal has been imperiled several times in the last month only to be saved by someone controlling Night Vale Community Radio Host Cecil Palmer, who is still quite upset about being used against his will.
“If the mayor had just asked for my help, I would have happily come to her aid on my own,” a frustrated Palmer said, just now, into this very microphone.
Palmer alleges that Mayor Cardinal purchased him last year in an auction and has been using him as her personal protector. The Mayor has denied these charges, but, like the Night Vale constitution says, denying that you are guilty is a major sign of guilt.
The Secret Police had previously warned against approaching either Hiram or the Faceless Old Woman, as they’re both deadly. But the Secret Police have been so busy dealing with the worms today that they just can’t deal with everything on their own.
“Maybe you could help us out a bit, ya think?” a Secret Police spokesperson said as worms gripped his legs tighter. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. If you find either the eighteen-foot tall, five-headed dragon or the omnipresent, ethereal woman who you can’t quite ever see, go ahead and bring them down. Thanks for doing that. Big help. Big help,” the spokesperson said as the worm consumed, with one slimy gulp, the cutlass in his left hand.
The Secret Police added they received a tip from Night Vale human Frank Chen that he saw Hiram McDaniels flying far away to some other place and so, Chen said, Hiram is definitely not still in Night Vale.
“Hiram ain’t coming around here anymore. I’m sure of it,” Chen’s long gold head stated.
“I WILL BURN YOUR FRAIL USELESS CORPSE, HUMAN,” Chen’s scaly green head added.
“Stop calling people humans. We are human. Remember?” Chen’s blue head said.
“I—I mean—I am human, okay?” Chen’s grey head said.
“Knock it off, you guys,” Chen’s purple head grumbled from behind the other heads.
Speaking of the Faceless Old Woman . . . she knows a lot about this town. I bet I could ask her how to get into the Dog Park, how to get into that desert otherworld. I should ask her, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to find h——
FACELESS OLD WOMAN:Ask me what?
CECIL:Faceless Old Woman. You scared me.
FOW:I know. So, you want to go to the desert otherworld and visit your boyfriend?
CECIL:I—
FOW:You are upset that the mayor has been using you to protect her from those wonderful threats to her life and you’re frustrated by this town, and you just want some time away to clear your head and so you don’t have to always be saving the mayor from whatever great forces are trying to remove her from office.
CECIL:Well—
FOW:And by great I mean really incredible. Of course, who even knows who’s been doing all of this to the mayor? I mean I know. I know everything. But all of these delightful rumors and lies about me. And Hiram! I mean how can people report such rumors? They’re not totally untrue, I suppose. And how on earth could I even—
CECIL:Faceless Old Woman.
FOW:Yes. I’m sorry. I’m a bit distracted.
CECIL:You know how to get into the Dog Park?
FOW:I do. And I want to help you, because, well, I want you to be happy, Cecil. I will tell you how in a dream. You will be in a boat, which will sink, of course, and you will lose all of your teeth, and as you are trying to pick up your teeth, you will find an oil painting of a Victrola. You will then place the needle on the record and eat the entire painting. Your chest will open and dozens of red birds with gold ribbons in their talons will fly from you and the ribbons will lift your limp, open body, carrying you through the sea and dropping you onto a frantic eddy of pink fish near a pink reef. You must wake up immediately when you see the shadow of a young woman emerging from behind the coral. Do not look long at her.
When you awake, you will hear her whisper.
CECIL:And she will tell me how to get into the Dog Park.
FOW:I don’t know what she will tell you.
CECIL:Faceless Old Woman, I—
FOW:I have to go. I have to get back to keeping a distant eye on whatever it is that Chad is doing in that cursed home of his. You’ll be fine. Night Vale will be fine. The mayor will be . . . Take a nice long break, Cecil. You’ve earned it.
[hum of station management]
CECIL:Faceless Old Woman? Hello? She’s gone I think.
[hum is getting very loud]
Listeners, oh dear, I have made a bad mistake. I believe I have upset Station Management. I think my openly talking about the Dog Park has proved to be far too political a topic for this station’s old-fashioned values that believe in not questioning local, world, or secret reptilian governments, nor their parks.
I h
ave grown cavalier in my anxiousness to get out of town for a vacation, and this lack of care in my job perhaps will lead to my end. I do not like the color glowing around my studio door right now. I do not like the predatorial sniffing around the door’s edge. I do not like that hum nor the heat of my skin nor the cold of my heart.
I cannot face them, listeners. I cannot. I just want a vacation. I just want to see Carlos, for a week. A day. A—
[silence]
An envelope. Oh no. The noise and the lights are gone. All that is left is a black envelope, upon which is a single silver glyph, lightly afire. I do not recognize the language nor even the alphabet, of this burning symbol. But I know in my mind exactly what this says. I wish I did not know. I must have courage. I must open this frightful news.
Before I do, let me say I am sorry to station management, and to the city of Night Vale. I have betrayed your trust with my careless speech. If spared, I promise to never speak ill nor question the Dog Park again. But for now, I will take myself to my punishment, and I will take you to the weather.
WEATHER: “Little Black Star” by Hurray for the Riff Raff
So guess what! The envelope wasn’t about the Dog Park at all. I fell to my knees begging Station Management for forgiveness, but they silenced me immediately. They were simply letting me know that my vacation had finally been approved.
I was confused for a moment. I asked about the burning glyph on the outside of the envelope and what I thought it meant, which took some explaining, as I didn’t know how to describe that particular horrifying experience in English. They laughed and said no, that glyph is just the ancient abbreviation for Human Resources. They’re who approve the vacations around here.
Then they showed me the actual glyph that meant what I thought the other one meant, and I lost consciousness. I’m not sure for how long. When I woke I heard the whispered instructions from the woman in the coral. And then I heard laughter. Station Management was laughing.
And I laughed, too, and then they stopped laughing. Or growling. Perhaps it was growling they were doing. It’s very difficult to say what that noise is they make. Ooooh, wow, I think it was growling. Now I’m super embarrassed about laughing.
Anyway, the worms have backed down, thanks to a flamethrower and fierce rhetoric by the City Council, resulting in some sick burns, both metaphorically and literally. The worms have left, sure to return for us again someday, as all of nature eventually will.
Friends, listeners, all of Night Vale. I love you very much, but I need time away to be with Carlos, yes, and also some time to myself. To reflect. Also I got a message from an old—colleague? acquaintance? nemesis?—who lives there as well. You know, I don’t want to talk about it just yet.
Night Vale, we’ve had many great years together, and I won’t be gone long, but I’ve also grown weary.
Weary of some friends who are less than friends. Weary of fights that need not be fought. Weary of not being myself some of the time, which is something I strongly prefer to be all of the time. Weary, sometimes, of Night Vale itself, I think.
I’ll be back. Whenever. Refreshed. You’ll know when. It’ll be when you hear my voice again.
Stay tuned next for . . . I don’t know. Anyway, time for vacation!
Good night, Night Vale.
[sound of headphones coming off; maybe a mic bump]
[calling off mic; leaving the studio]
GOOD NIGHT! Woo hoo!
PROVERB:When you wish upon a star, your dreams come true, but—because of distance—not for millions of years.
Episode 67:
“[Best Of?]”
MAY 1, 2015
GUEST VOICE: JAMES URBANIAK (LEONARD BURTON)
I RECORDED MY LINES FOR THIS EPISODE ON APRIL 14, 2015, THE 150th anniversary of the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. (The episode’s themes of the mystic chords of memory and Leonard Burton’s own demise are purely coincidental.) My inspiration for Leonard’s broadcast style was Harry Shearer’s cadence on his public radio program “Le Show,” the way he . . . [pauses] and then EMPHASIZES and then . . . [pauses] again. For all I know Mr. Shearer modeled his approach, consciously or not, on the old broadcaster Paul Harvey, who had a similar vocal attack. At any rate, Leonard Burton is part of a broadcast tradition.
I did two takes, occasionally stumbling on words like outer-galaxy warlords and sparklingly. My understanding is Joseph and Jeffrey wrote the character with me in mind. I do enjoy wrapping sculpted phrases around my tongue and their writing has good mouthfeel. I recorded in L.A., edited out my mistakes and sent the file to New York.
The ease of podcast technology has spawned a revival of radio drama and a community of fans and creators. My own scripted podcast, Getting On with James Urbaniak, premiered in August 2012, two months after the Welcome to Night Vale pilot was posted. I was forty-eight at the time and podcast drama has become an essential and exhilarating new chapter in my creative life. It’s a joy to be part of this community, making original work on our own terms (often in the comfort of our own homes) and putting it out there. As of this writing I’m planning a new series of Getting On episodes (with my writing partner, Brie Williams, who has also written for Night Vale). I can’t imagine stopping at this point. I don’t imagine the Night Vale team will either.
—James Urbaniak
LEONARD BURTON: The sun is actually cold. It’s cold and empty and all is lost.
GREETINGS FROM NIGHT VALE
While your regular host, Cecil Palmer, is on vacation, we continue to bring you some of the highlights of his uncountable years here at Night Vale Community Radio, from lowly (but eager) intern filing reports from the field, to his tenure behind the desk at the greatest community radio station in America. Today I thought we’d start with a very special and rare clip: Cecil’s first ever broadcast on our airwaves. Let’s listen.
TEENAGE CECIL:Hi, it’s Cecil! Oh boy! Or, oh, I’m sorry. Let me try that again and it’ll be way more professional.
Hello listeners, Intern Cecil Palmer here, reporting live for host Leonard Burton. I’m way excited.
[gathers self]
I am standing in a vast stretch of desert in which no one has lived for hundreds of years. Neat right? But it’s not even the neatest! Because some new folks have moved into the area recently. They look like they’re from back east aways. This isn’t their land, but they’re going to set up here anyway. They’re saying “this is ours,” and pointing, ludicrously, at actual earth as though that were an ownable thing.
One of the arrivals, famous screen actor Lee Marvin, who just turned thirty today—oh hey, happy birthday, Mr. Marvin—said that they were immediately proceeding to found a town, a town they will call Night Vale, a home for themselves, complete with all the things a home needs: secrets, dread, omnipresent government, and areas that are forbidden. He then donned a soft meat crown as the other newcomers bowed to him.
And now, the community calendar.
Monday through Sunday, this will be a barren stretch of desert strewn with human debris shot out by a population explosion back east. These shiftless fellows will mope around and complain about the heat and lack of water. The shadows up on the hills will watch and watch but will come no closer. Squinting, the newcomers will see the shadows in the hills, and then they will squint further and further until their eyes are closed, and then they will hum until their minds are empty, and sit dreaming until their dreams are clean, and they will never look at the hills again. They will cease to believe in hills at all. Elevation will become a laughable thing. The sky, a starry stranger. The ground, a barren friend. The cliff dwellings are empty now, but their scattered children are manifest and filled with love and mirth and grief.
This has been the community calendar.
All right, back to you, Leonard . . . Mr. Burton, sir. Thanks for giving me this opportunity.
LEONARD:What fantastic old days those were. Everything old is wonderful. It is a shame anything had to change. I sure do dislike change. Th
e sun has moved in the sky, and I distrust it completely.
Here’s another early story Cecil reported as station intern. This was one of my favorites, a real turning point for our town and for America and for the world, but also (quite unfortunately) for the outer-galaxy warlords who wish to prolong the senseless Blood Space War.
EARLY-20s CECIL:Intern Cecil here on the scene.
All I see is devastation. Devastation that once was mere existence. People and buildings reduced to holes in space and time, gaps both concrete and metaphorical, losses that would be overwhelming if everything didn’t already proceed in a state of pre-loss, each thing defined in its existence by the nothing that will come after.
Devastation and ruins. Streamers and balloons.
So a happy big three-oh to immortal screen legend Lee Marvin, who is celebrating his special day by opening his Seventh Eye and incinerating onlookers by the wailing hundreds with his holy light. Happy birthday, Mr. Marvin!
And now the Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner.
I recently took a fantastic trip to Europe. I don’t have time right now, but one of these days I’ll tell all of you listeners out there some of the funny stories from my European vacation. In the meantime, we’re here about science, right? And from whom better to learn about science than a scientist, right? Well, on my trip I met a very smart, and very handsome scientist. His name is Guglielmo Marconi.
He showed me all sorts of things. All sorts of things. All sorts. But he also showed me a new device he’s working on called, get this, radio. As unlikely as it seems, Marconi thinks that soon shows just like this will be carried by invisible waves right to your ears. He showed me the blueprints for his invention, full of strange words like “receiver” and “transmitter” and “community radio” and “three commercial-free hours of alternative music” that all are part of how this strange new mechanism will function.