06/06/2020 20:35:20 ¶ ●

## 169 - The Whittler

Let us go then, you and I
When the evening is spread out
Against the sky
And pick up some Dell Taco for dinner.
Welcome to Night Vale.

Beyond our town, past the Sand Wastes, in the Scrublands, sits the old general store. An oaken cabin style A-frame with boxed windows and a covered patio. On the porch there sits a swinging bench and upon that bench sits an elderly man, his face crumpled like a discarded letter, his eyes like tire tracks hidden beneath the shady brim of a straw cowboy hat.
The old man holds a block of Elmwood the size of a potato in his right hand, and in his left, a carving jack. He whittles away at the knot of food, shaving off small corners, making detailed lines and indentations. The wood is all his world. And this world is quiet in his lap, on his bench, on his patio, before his general store amid the Scrublands past the Sand Wastes, which curl about Night Vale like the gentle but calloused hands of a father holding a newborn.
As the old man whittles, he whistles sad songs with no words. But all those who hear the notes know they are bout loss. That they are about loneliness. But no one hears those notes. Not yet. No one sees the old whittler, nor his general store far out in an uninhabited stretch of desert. Not yet. If they did, they would wonder how an old general store, which was not there yesterday, was suddenly here today, a shop that by all accounts had weathered decades of abusive heat, wind, and isolation. They would hear his sad song, and the universal language of wistful sorrow would hide from them their understanding of time.

Let’s have a look now at sports.
This Saturday night, the Night Vale High School Scorpions basketball team begins the district tournament. The Scorpions, having finished the season 18-2, earned the number 1 seat this year, but face some tough competition in their bracket. In the first round, they must battle another basketball team. This is logical, because most basketball tournaments feature other basketball teams. But the other basketball team is considered weaker than the Night Vale Scorpions, because a series of accumulated numbers indicates this is so.
Should the Scorpions make it out of the first round and into the semi-finals, they would likely battle the number 4 seed, Nature. A tougher matchup to be sure, as Nature is unpredictable and ubiquitous. Nature’s style of play is best described as capricious and random, sometimes showcasing an array of flashy skills like sunny days, crystalline lakes, and otters. But Nature is a lockdown defensive force with effective momentum stoppers like lightning, quicksand, and poison ivy.

And in the finals, the favorites to compete for the title are Night Vale High School versus themselves, perhaps the toughest battle of them all, as each player must confront their harmful secrets, painful pasts, and darkest nightmares. Themselves are able to match the pace and power of Night Vale’s offensive and defensive sets, and we expect an excellent game.
Good luck, Scorpions!

Most days the Scrublands are absent of humans, unapproachable and hostile. Today is not most days, as a line of Night Vale citizens has formed outside of the general store to see the old whittler and his wood menagerie. Parents ask for photos of their children with his work, and he only whistles and nods nearly imperceptibly. It could almost be interpreted as a slight twitch of the neck, rather than an affirming nod, but interpretations grow liberal when want is high.

Fathers and mothers snap pictures on their phones of children accepting gifts of wood figurines from the old man. The kids stare into the thin black ellipses that pass for his eyes, searching for the charming smile of elderly approval. But instead, seeing every single constellation of the night sky inside slits as thin as thistles and as black as tar. The historic expansion of the universe cannot be fully understood in words or even human thought, but it can be comprehended in the eyes of the tanned, wrinkled stranger.

The old whittler does not charge a penny for any of his work. He does not smile nor accept the many thank-yous coaxed out of the young ones by their manner-minded handlers. Nor does he accept requests. Children have many mascots, heroes, and cartoons that they love to possess via keepsake totems, and they repeatedly ask the old man for whittled representations of their favorite things, like Pokemon characters or one of Pixar’s anthropomorphic cars, or even Ted Allen, host of Food Network’s long running cooking competition “Chopped”.
But the old whittler only carves what he carves. And he carves tiny horses, little cowboys, old-timey wagons, armadillos, tigers, tractors, almost anything you can think of. He finishes his sculpture of a koala bear and hands it to Amber Akinyi, who looks at her husband Wilson Levy, who is holding their sobbing, screaming 16-month-old baby Flora. The couple smiles together, never knowing that this balsa koala is everything they could have ever wanted beyond a loving family. Wilson begins to cry at the simple beauty of this craft. Amber begins to cry at the feeling of being understood, and young Flora stops crying as she fawns over the 6-inch tall antipodean marsupial, cartoonishly gnawing on a eucalyptus leaf.

The whittler also carves people. Small human figures, yes, like firefighters and ballerinas and clowns, but also actual people. Harrison Kip told the old man he wished to be happier in his own skin, and the old whittler grabbed Harrison’s cheeks and brought Harrison’s round, soft face before his own crinkled countenance, and Harrison screamed. He screamed in fear of what the old man was about to do. He also screamed in joyous anticipation, and the two screams were discordant like adjacent keys pressed simultaneously on a church organ.
The old whittler pressed his knife against Harrison’s chin and began to pull the blade back, using the force of his thumb and the trunk of his forefinger. He repeated throughout Harrison’s assenting and defiant shouts, and after a few moments, Harrison stopped yelling and stood. His jaw squarer, his nose thinner and longer, his shoulders broader. And Harrison smiled.

Soon, the whittler began carving houses, roads, and city buildings. They were larger than the koala, much larger, for they were full-sized renditions of these things. He sliced and sawed away at block after block of red oak, hackberry and peachwood, forming new arteries of city travel, whole blocks of residences, and even cultural landmarks and venues. And the town of Night Vale, in a single late morning, began to expand into the distant and uninhabitable Scrublands of our desert.

Let’s have a look now at horoscopes.
Gemini. Bury yourself in your work today, Gemini. Pile that garbage high and rest your weary head beneath its odorous, but comforting weight.
Cancer. No more Mr. Nice Guy, Cancer. Today you are Mrs. Disinterested Lady. Get out there and be uninvolved in everything.
Leo. You’re the talk of the town, Leo. Word after word is about you, and it is juicy! Like a rare steak, like a blood orange. Juicy like 2008 coutoure. Whew! You should hear what they’re saying.
Virgo. You are not what you seem to be, Virgo. You seem to be a blackberry shrub, overreaching and prickly. But really you are a human, squishy and small. Continue to be the thorny fruit-bearing bush, though.
Libra. You seek balance, Libra, but you are as lopsided as wealth disparity graph in an economist’s classroom. Share your worth, distribute your value fairly and compassionately, Libra, for the villagers are sharpening their tools.
Scorpio. Hey Steve, love you pal!

Sagittarius. Your (-) [0:10:42] in relationships is going to be your downfall, Sagittarius. You’re an obsidian monolith, towering over everyone, absorbing all light, except the faint reflection of those who want to know what glows inside your stony façade. You don’t have to be a diamond, Sagittarius, or even quartz. Just try for salt lick, OK? I think you can achieve that.

Capricorn. Oh the games you play, Capricorn, you wicked little sea goat! You naughty caprine ocean dweller with your horns and scales, vexing us with your riddles and labyrinthian logic! The stars offer no advice for you, Capricorn, only envious praise.
Aquarius. Put your money where your mouth is, but wash that money first, Aquarius. It’s been in so many other people’s mouths, ever since we added Jolly Ranchers as legal currency.
Pisces. You’re swimming upstream, Pisces. Figuratively speaking, of course. I mean you are a human who does not need to actually swim upstream for food or a mate. Get out of the metaphorical stream and avoid the damage you’re going to do to your body and soul. Except for you, Tim. You’re a woodchuck, who is literally swimming upstream. I don’t like you, Tim, because you are eating my tulips. You can drown.
Aries. Fake it til you pretend to make it, Aries.
Taurus. Don’t hide your feelings, Taurus! Frame them! Display them ostentatiously on the wall. Mount them on plinths behind velvet robed (-) [0:12:33]. Curate an exhibit of your feelings, Taurus. Charge admission.

And now the news.
The Night Vale City Council deliberated today on whether the old whittler in front of the old general store in the Scrublands was friend or foe to our town. Those voices arguing in favor of the old man celebrated the huge municipal expansion he was creating so quickly onto undeveloped land.

“This new infrastructure would have taken us dozens of years and millions of dollars to deploy, and he has accomplished it all in half day!” these voices said in unison. “Plus,” they added, “he whittled a little army man for my kid, a bracelet for my wife, and a sweater for our cat. It’s everything we ever wanted!”

The dissenting voices, and they were few, could only argue that he failed to acquire proper permits for any of this construction, let alone an outdoor vendor’s license which is mandatory even for giveaways. Excepting restaurant samples, marketing promotions, and military dispersion of chemtrails.
The many-voiced, uni-bodied creature that is the City Council, huffed in nearly unanimous support for this old man. His sad whistling, his prolific whittling, and his beneficence to our city.
“Did you see?” said there of the voices, “that inside the general store there’s everything you could ever need. Cans, boxes, shelves, counters! Walls. It’s amazing. Everything is craved from a single block of wood, and it’s all connected! No glue or bolts or rivets anywhere.”
“He’s a deft hand,” concurred four other voices.
“How does he even find single blocks of wood that huge?” wondered a solo voice aloud.
“Whatever!” the entire City Council roared in unison. “That old man is a superb whittler!”

And now financial news.
[hysterical laughter Ha ha hahahaha hahaha every-everything’s fine! It’s just dandy! Uh, thank you for asking.

And now back to our top story.
Out in the Scrublands, an entire wooden suburb has grown from the withered hands and sharp knife of the old whittler, who has for the first time today, moved from the porch of his general store. He stands now upon a stage, a round platform on the center of a great amphitheater, which he personally carved deep into the cracked, red rock of the desert floor.
The people of Night Vale gather and sit on wood plank rows, which curve in a semi-circle around the old man on the stage. Each person in attendance holds in their hands a whittled object given to them as they entered the audience space. The items are all different, esoteric, and unique, each item and unexpected gift of the whittler. Each item the very thing they have always wanted, even if it was never what they thought they wanted. They hold gently their presents, protecting them with their very lives.
The whittler, with his straw hat still shading his keyhole eyes and riverbend mouth, stands before the people of Night Vale who sit in an arena of his own making, each cradling a beloved statuette of his own making.
The old man reaches out and takes the hand of his bride. She, of course, is of his own making as well. She is craved of weeping cedar. Her veil, though entirely wood, is somehow translucent, and her sorrowful eyes are faintly visible behind the intricate work of the whittler’s blade.
The old man whistles once again, and the crowd whistles along with him. They know the song now. It lives in them like longing, like blood. Like a soul. They know every word of the wordless (-) [0:16:51], and the notes of loneliness spread across the Scrublands to the mountains’ edge and echo back in the key of hope, with a lilt of contentment and satisfaction. They will only be happy when he is happy and he is, indeed, happy.
As the whittler clutches the hand of his newly carved betrothed, the clouds part, revealing the happiest thing of all:
The weather.

[“Embroidery Stars” by Carrie Elkin http://carrieelkin.com/]

Into the Scrublands I went, myself already as happy as I could ever be for I was with my own true love, my husband. I journeyed to see the whittler for myself, as an effort of journalism, a chronicler of interesting events. I wanted for nothing. My happiness cannot be improved. Or so I believed.

When I arrived, the whittler more than 100 feet a way, and through a mass of thousands, greeted me with a nod so unobtrusive, I believed it to be a trick of the eye. But from the distance, I could see the whole of the universe in those dark eyes under dark shadow, behind the final violet of sunset. I knew he meant me.

Carlos and I stepped to the podium, and the old man opened his palm to reveal an original carving just for me. I had hoped it was a Nintendo Switch, but it was a [sea plane] [0:23:05]. Carlos, like a child on Santa’s lap, cooed and asked the old man for a superconductive supercollider. And the old whittler, his burlap cheeks heavy with gravity and history, reached into the breast pocket of his (-) shirt and handed Carlos a tiny wooden rose. Carlos hugged his rose to his chest, and I my (sea plane). The whittler took the hand again off his bride and gazed upon her, her veiled eyes met by his boundless stare. They stood like that for more than an hour, not speaking. The only sounds were the cicadas chirping and the crowd whistling.

But the tune faded, and soon only the cicadas cut through the silence of a still desert twilight. And one of us, Larry Leroy, stood and walked on to the stage. He touched the old man’s shoulder. The old man did not turn. He did not speak. He collapsed into black ash. Then his bride, then the seats beneath us, it all gave way to crumbling nothing. Then the buildings and roads and even the general store turned into ash. Finally, every one of our object dissipated, like Eurydice almost free from Hades. A gentle cool breeze arrived to sweep our hope away.

We returned home, wordless, with occasional whistles of the whittler’s tune, once again in a sad and lonesome key. Our cherished gifts, we told ourselves, were nothing more than baubles, ephemera, however blessed or magical. They were mere things, not love, not family, not true love, they were objects, toys. Props. Distractions. They were everything we have ever wanted, because we could hold them, see them, touch them. We can no longer do that, but we can remember what it was like. The rough of the wood against the soft of our hand.

Stay tuned next for our new game show:
“Name all the nouns!”

And as always,
good night,
Night Vale,
Good night.

Today’s proverb: Give a man and a fish and he’ll wonder what your deal is. Teach a man to fish and he’ll ask you once again to please leave him alone.

06/06/2020 20:42:24 ¶ ●

## How to Support the Struggle Against Police Brutality

The link from the description of ep 169. Help in any way you can.

17/06/2020 17:54:39 ¶ ●

## 170 - To the Family and Friends

Love the winner, hate the win.
Welcome to Night Vale.

I start today with sad news. I must inform you of the passing of Intern Victor. To the friends and family of Intern Victor, we extend our condolences.
Oh, that reminds me. Our intern program has a new open spot available. Hours are flexible, as is time itself. You must be fluent in at least three languages, although one of those can be your own dream language, and another can be a future language that doesn’t yet exist.
This is an entry level position. All applicants must have 30 years experience in the field of community radio, and have been the managing director of at least 2 radio stations, or equivalent unregistered stations broadcasting coded messages to our brave spies in the field.
This is a non-paying position, but we do give you 4 credits to the institutions of your choice.
Please apply in person by groveling before the Station Management door and crying: “Choose me! Choose me!” as their tendrils draw you slowly toward them.
I look forward to meeting whoever is hired. Always so fun when we get a new intern.

And now for a look at the day’s news.
The Night Vale Medical Association has ordered a review of the management of Night Vale Asylum, after a number of irregularities have cropped up involving a transdimensional missing plane and a pilot who could control people’s thoughts. “Honestly, we had a lot of cases like that back in the 60’s,” said Lonnie Chapman, chairman of the Medical Association. “Mental institutions used to be cruel places, where the fragile rift between dimensions was regularly breached and telekinetic powers were exploited. And people were treated as less than people, for the simple crime of having an illness that could not be found in the blood or the bile.”
Lonnie settled back into the sagging comfort of his old arm chair, sighed and rubbed his forehead.
“We endeavour to help, not to other,” he whispered. “It should be common sense, this kindness. Why is kindness not common sense?”
He said this last so quietly that no one heard him.
Dust motes circled tirelessly in the afternoon sun through the window. The Night Vale Medical Association is looking to shut down the outdated asylum and replace it with a brand new state of the art treatment center, located near Grove Park. More on this story as the story has more to it.

I guess I should get into a little more detail about how Intern Victor died, since some of you might be curious. You know, I think the story starts back in my very first days as host of this radio station. After the previous host, Leonard Burton, after – umm… ehhhh.. Once I took over as host of this radio station, Victor was one of my first interns. Eager and earnest and always helpful. He was first in the station in the morning and last one out at night. His research was impeccable.

“That’s not true,” he would say every time I said something that wasn’t true.
“That’s not true either,” he would say.
He would say stuff like that a lot. He was very diligent.
It kind of felt like we were starting this great adventure in radio broadcasting together. I thought that some day after I… after… ehhhhh.. ummm… once I was no longer host of this radio station, perhaps Victor would be the one to take over. “Some day, Victor,” I would murmur in the quietest hours of the night shift, “Some day maybe you will be where I am now.”
“Maybe, Cecil,” he would say back into the intercom from the producer’s booth, “But for now, please stop murmuring that into the mic. We’re live right now.
Then one day he told me he was leaving. That he appreciated all the time he had spent as an intern, that he had learned a lot, but that he felt his place in the world was not with radio after all.
[sputters] “Not with radio?!” I sputtered. I simply did not understand the concept.
“If there is not community radio, then what is there? What is there besides that? Will someone tell me what else there is?”
“Thank you for our time together,” he said gently, and then he left. It would be the last time I saw him for many years.

And now a word from our sponsors. Today’s sponsor is White Claw’s new line of non-alcoholic alcoholic Seltzer beverages.
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Flavors include blackberry, wild nettle, wet stone, and one we’re just calling “Tumbleweed Crush”. Even we aren’t completely clear on what that one tastes like, but hey, it’s water and it’ll make you burp without making you drunk.
White Claw’s new line of non-alcoholic alcoholic Seltzer beverages. Available wherever you buy your alcoholic Seltzer beverages.
This has been a word from our sponsors.

I didn’t finish with the story of how Intern Victor died, I guess. Ummm, let me quickly wrap that up.
So, a few years after he left, he came back again. He was older than me now with salt and pepper hair and a stiffness to his walk. When he had left, he had been several years younger than me, but time changes us all, I suppose.
“Cecil! I didn’t know if you’d still be here,” he said.
I bristled at this, hearing a perceived implication that I should have gone on to something larger, that by staying put I had allowed him to be pull ahead of me in some intangible way. So I responded with manic friendliness to compensate.
“Still here!” I shouted. “Great to see ya, buddy wo-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-how! What have you been up to?”
He told me that he had left Night Vale, gotten an apartment just outside of somewhere called Fresno, that it was difficult at first, and that he felt lonely much of the time. But that he had slowly made friends, so many friends, and had found a job that became a career that became part of his life. He worked with teenagers who were going through a tough time, seeing them through to better times. He was very well liked for what he did, and he was very good at it.
“But I’ve decided to retire,” he said. “I’m getting up in the years, you know? But wow, you don’t look like you’ve aged a day.”
“I haven’t,” I said. He was so much older than me then. I wondered where the years had gone and what I might have accomplished, if I had aged as well.
He had retired to Night Vale to be with his family and friends and the people who knew and loved him best, and relax into the soft years of his latter life. So that… wait. Well, that’s not how he died, but I have to get to this next report. I’ll finish it in a second.

And now traffic.
There was a song once sung by sailors of an island in the west,
where the sun would shine forever and not a minute less.
They say that on that island a sailor could find their rest,
finally let slip shut their eyelids on that island in the west.
But I’ve been searching, and been searching all my life, as though some cruel test,
and have never found my way to that island in the west.
There was a song once sung by sailors and I believed it, I confess.
A foul lie I still believe in, my sweet island in the west.
This has been traffic.

Intern Victor lived in Night Vale for many years more. He was active in charities and volunteer groups, continuing to offer counseling to students at the local high school. He lived in the Hefty Sycamore Trailer Park, watering a garden of flowers that he kept in pots around his trailer. It seemed that Victor was even more busy in retirement than he had been in his long career. Returning to his community seemed to invigorate him.
He helped Carlos with experiments at the labs, donning goggles and lab coats and writing down numbers with hearts around them, all of that science stuff. Carlos said he was surprisingly good at it for someone without training.
He worked with Dana at City Hall, creating the No More Pit initiative, which strove to keep one teen a year from entering that pit on Clement Street and disappearing forever. Now, the initiative was unsuccessful and the pit continues to devour but they, it was the attempt that matters.
He acted as a volunteer lifeguard at the Waterfront Recreation Area, at which he saved a record five people in one day from drowning! A truly astounding record when you consider that there is no water at the Waterfront Recreation Area, Night Vale having an entirely arid climate.

Yes, Intern Victor was accomplished and well liked. He would have made a fine host at this radio station some day, but he never showed much interest, which is a pity. Because after I… After, well… Who will take up that mantle? Not Victor, not anymore.
Well, I guess I still haven’t told the story of how he died.

Uh, let me do that just
After the weather.

[A List for Spring” by Joseph Fink https://josephfink.bandcamp.com/]

Victor was in bed. The curatin over the window shifted slightly in the breeze, so the sun flickered in the room, shadow and bright, like a message from the world outside that he would never live to understand.
His breath felt like a finite quantity, slowly drawn out of his chest. He knew that the last of it was coming soon. He wanted to use the drags of his breath for words that would sum up his life, but he couldn’t think of any. He could only think of “I am tired”. He could only think of “Thank you for being here.” He could only think of “I wish I had more time”, although eh didn’t know what he would have done with that time if he had any.

Around his bed were the people who had known him throughout his life. There was his sister Carly, and his brother Herman, and his aunt Ronnie, ancient and brittle but apparently destined to outlive him. There was his friend from college, Norm, whose hands shook as he looked into Victor’s eyes. There was former mayor Dana and her brother, leaning into each other in sorrow, keeping each other upright as a family creature of grief. There was Carlos in an understated lab coat, frowning. There was nothing more scientific than death, and yet Carlos hated the fact of it. And he wrestled with the contradiction within himself.
Some natural processes feel unnatural, no matter how many times they occur to us, they are a surprise that our whole life spends telegraphing.

In the corner was Rosario, one of the teenagers Victor had worked with back in Fresno, who had eventually moved to Night Vale after getting lost in the shelves of a strange antique shop and waking up in the vacant lot out back of the Ralphs. She was middle-aged now, her face glistened with tears.
“Everything I am is because of you,” she said.
Victor snorted. “Don’t blame me,” he said with one of those last precious breaths. And she grinned despite herself.
“You were the first person that cared about who I was,” she said. “I’ll never forget you.”
“Already I’m in past tense,” he said, but he grabbed her hand and clasped it in a fervent silent thank you. Because she was testament that he had been useful, and there was nothing more important in a human life than to be useful to other people.

I was there too, and I stepped forward.
“You were the best intern I ever had,” I said.
“I know,” he said, and he winked.

It can be… strange when we first meet someone when they are young and just started out, and are in the entry positions in the career they want, to realize they have the potential for an entire life. Victor ended up a great man. A man with deep roots in the community. A man who went from 10 years younger than me to several decades older than me. And I… well, I still think of him as an intern, and I suppose I always will, but his potential was realized upon the lives of everyone in that room, and many other lives still.

A strong breeze came through the window and the flickering of light increased, as though that incoherent messenger was getting more frantic to be understood. Victor knew that his finite breaths had reached their last few. And he did not use them to say anything at all. He smiled, and met each of our eyes, and then…
And then after…

To the family and friends of Intern Victor.
To the family.
To our families, blood or chosen.
They are the net on which we can fall again and again.
To the friends, to our friends.
The people who make life worth living. Who help us when we need help. Who we help when we need to help.

Intern Victor was a good intern. He was a good person.
He is gone. We are here.
Let’s make ourselves useful.
To all families. To all friends.

Stay tuned next for a tall glass of water greedily, drunk by a person who did not realize they were thirsty until the liquid hit their lips.

Good night,
Night Vale,
Good night.

Today’s proverb: Earth is technically a sandwich, where the upper bread is stars and the lower bread is stars and the filling is rock and lava and a few incidental humans.