01/03/2016 10:26:16 ¶ ●

## Episode 83 - One Normal Town

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t breathe. Don’t breathe. Don’t breathe. Don’t breathe.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Our neighboring town of Desert Bluffs is no more. It has been swept from the map. Its borders, a bad memory. Its name, a forgotten joke.

Oh, listeners, I have long dreamed of saying these words, although the circumstances are different than I could have ever foreseen.

Mayor Cardinal announced today that – after months of extending loans and other budgetary aid to the struggling community – her and Mayor Cardozo of Desert Bluffs agreed that the path to financial stability lay in (I can’t believe I’m saying this) merging the two towns.

As of this week, Night Vale’s borders will extend to include the dumb buildings that used to belong to Desert Bluffs, and all the weirdos that for some reason chose to live there.

Dana said that she understood there would be some adjustment needed from everyone, and then went on to say some other stuff that didn’t really matter because apparently it’s fine that Desert Bluffs is now part of Night Vale, and no one has a problem with that, and that’s OK. It’s fine. It’s fine.

Our new sheriff, Sam, who has been an outspoken opponent to the monetary aid given to Desert Bluffs because of the strain it puts on law enforcement budgets, reacted as expected. At a press conference, they expressed their extreme displeasure in this development by singing selections from Richard Foreman’s Tony Award-winning Broadway musical, “Film Is Evil: Radio Is Good” while weeping copiously.

In response to follow-up questions from the attending journalists, Sam quietly said, “Listen. I just need this right now, okay?” before vowing that they would continue their strong opposition to the mayor’s plan for unification, and then softly crying a little more.

And now, traffic.

There once was a farmer who never much thought of leaving his land. He was comfortable where he was, and comfortable with only ever being merely comfortable.

He had no close friends, although a few people at the farmer’s market knew who he was.

“Yes, I know who he is,” one of them might have said, although none of them ever did. None of them were ever asked.

One night, as he was sitting down alone to dinner, he heard a loud party happening out in his field. Music, conversation, laughter. More confused than annoyed, he went out to see who could have set up a party in his remote field.

But there was no one there.

Instead, the party now sounded as though it were coming from his house. He ran back in, now afraid he was dealing with intruders.

But there was no one there.

The sound of the party was again coming from outside. Not from his fields, but from the empty stretch of road that led from nowhere much to his little farm (which was also nowhere much). He went out to the road.

But there was nothing.

The sound of the party was now just over a gentle slope in the road. He followed it.

Nothing.

Then it was just around the corner. Then, where those trees covered the road in shadow. He followed and followed the sound, each time finding that he was almost but not quite to its source.

And he never came back to his farm again.

“I have no idea what happened to him,” one of the folks at the Farmer’s Market might have said, although none of them ever did. None of them were ever asked.

This has been traffic.

The Ralph’s supermarket announced a small change to their sales structure, indicating that they will no longer be following the “bring food you want up to the cashier and pay for it” model that has been played out for years now, and instead will be structuring themselves as the world’s first auction supermarket.

Any citizen looking to buy food from Ralph’s will have to come to one of their daily scheduled auctions and bid on the kitchen staples and snacks as they are brought up for auction one by one.

For instance, Lot 402 might be a banana, while Lot 403 might be a bag of Sun Chips and a bottle of tomato juice.

Charlie Baer, new weekday shift manager at the Ralph’s, said, “We believe this will be a more exciting and fun way for consumers to get the food they need. And to pay more for it. A lot more,” he continued. “In competition with others, so that if you don’t get that peanut butter, somebody else will. And then they’ll have peanut butter and you won’t. Better open up those wallets and make sure you get the food you need.”

Fortunately for me, Carlos tends to do our shopping, since I personally have…a little trouble with auctions, due to some traumatic experiences in my past. I mean, I know that, as the saying goes, “past performance is not a predictor of future results,” but still…I think I’ll sit these auctions out.

As part of the launch event for the auction system, Ralph’s employees will stand on the supermarket’s roof, pelting passers-by with water balloons and expired produce, and drunkenly chanting the lyrics to every Cat Stevens song in unison, until they have run out of breath and, eyes locked with each other, with hunched-over panting silence, continue to mouth the lyrics they no longer have the breath to say.

Back now to the news.

The dissolve of Desert Bluffs into Night Vale continues. It’s not only new people, but new ways of life.

Dave Morales Cariño, a former Desert Bluffs resident, announced the founding of the first-ever Joyous Congregation of the Smiling God here in Night Vale, on an old industrial stretch of the eastern expressway.

Night Vale is a proud city of bloodstone worshipers, but certainly there are many in town who know of the…power of the Smiling God, and belief and worship in the Smiling God is not a new thing here. In fact, a few long-time Night Vale residents attended the inaugural service at the Joyous Congregation’s church, located in a storefront that used to sell leaf blowers and leaf blower accessories.

The City Council said that sales from their bloodstone factory have fallen by as much as one percent, and that this is totally not okay with them.

“We’re seeing someone now,” they said, in a high-pitched whiny voice. “And it’s just not a good time for us to be losing any income! Mayor Cardinal won’t let us devour the Joyous Congregation, but we urge you to stick to the traditional worship of bloodstone circles. Like your mother, and your grandmother, and the lizard people before her.”

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 don’t know. It. All of it. Or, some of it. The bad parts. 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 I see as red, is what you see as blue? What if color isn’t even real?” campaign.

More recently, he had joined the Air-Filled 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.

And now, a word from our sponsors.

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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?

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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…uh…I– 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.

[“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 home towns. But, if we’d 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:

Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.

Today’s proverb: Actually, it’s Property’s Brother.