Episode 75 - Through the Narrow Place
It’s not the destination, it’s the
endless exhausting journey.
Welcome to Night Vale.
What an exciting day for amateur
athletes, or just anyone who enjoys moving their body (for whatever
reason someone would want to do that). Today is the annual marathon
through the Narrow Place. This yearly marathon is a family-friendly
charity race that takes people on a beautiful 26 mile or so course
along the Crooked Path, down into The Deepening, and ultimately,
through the Narrow Place.
Race organizers say that this will be
the biggest marathon yet, with all the town forced to take part by
the terrifying Harbingers of the Distant Prince, and that all
participants will be devoured by the Narrow Place.
Race board president, Susan Wilman,
added, “That sounds a lot more dramatic than it is. Sorry, you know
how when you talk mostly with a small group of friends, you end up
developing a shared way of speaking that can be misleading, or
misunderstood when heard by outside ears. We just like to say that
‘the Narrow Place will devour them’ because what will happen is that
the Narrow Place will consume
them with an unfeeling hunger, and they will dissipate.”
Susan
laughed, continuing, “Oh-ho-ho, there it is again! That sounds so
frightening when I say it that way, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it sound
frightening?”
She
laughed.
Susan
laughed.
She
laughed.
Her
mouth was black and featureless inside.
She
laughed.
The
marathon is this afternoon, and will be the end of us all. More on
this soon, but first let’s get into some news.
The
Desert Bluffs City Council and Desert Bluffs Mayor Dan Cardozo
announced this week (via a golden press release hidden in one lucky
Sulfur Crunch candy bar) that, due to an extreme deficit in municipal
funding, they would have to shut down certain city services including
trash pickup, road maintenance, and tree monitoring.
Starting
this Monday, citizens will have to drive their own trash to the dump,
roads will gradually start to deteriorate under the erosion of
particulate desert wind, and the movements of trees will go entirely
unwatched and unrecorded.
The
City Council and Mayor Cardozo indicated that they had done
everything in their
power to prevent this shutdown – including requesting federal
assistance, selling off city property, and making offerings of food
and wine to the ancient sandstone idols out in the dunes – but that
the catastrophic loss of employment and tax dollars (after StrexCorp
shut down operations in town) were too much for even those measures
to make up for.
StrexCorp
Synernists, Inc., of course, was the former employer of every single
person in Desert Bluffs, until the company’s rapid expansion plans
into…nearby towns….led to their downfall and subsequent hostile
takeover by beings who are definitely
not angels. The not-at-all-angels closed down almost every Strex
office, and laid off (or, as they put it, “liberated”) all former
Strex employees, and at this point are mostly liquidating Strex
resources in order to fund operas here in Night Vale.
Listeners,
I feel for Desert Bluffs in their time of need. Mostly, I feel scorn
and triumph. More on this never, as I don’t ever want to talk about
Desert Bluffs again.
And
now, a much more important story: Khoshekh, the cat floating exactly
four feet off the ground in the men’s room here at the station.
We’ve
received all sorts of calls and emails and distress signals and
emergency flares and Morse code spelling out “HELP US! HELP US! WE
HAVE BEEN HERE FOR WEEKS! GOD SAVE OUR SOULS!” – which I can only
assume are all signs of the public’s insatiable desire to hear more
cute kitty news. And what cute kitty news we have!
Khoshekh
is reaching that time in a cat’s life when his skull is completely
visible, and I have been taking adorable photo after adorable photo
and putting them on Snapchat, with captions like “Who’s a good
kitty?” and “Behold, my skull of terror!”
Whenever
I get stressed at work, I just put on protective gear and inject
myself with a number of preemptive antitoxins, and I go pet Khoshekh
for a bit and listen to the low gurgling rumble of his purr.
His
kittens are doing as well as their daddy, and some of them are
getting nearly as big as Khoshekh was when I first found him. My
favorite of the kittens is named Mixtape, and his anterior spines are
coming in fast. He’s going to be a really big kitten when he’s fully
grown – unmanageably huge. Oh, it’ll be adorable!
That’s
about it for cat news. If there’s any more cat news, like Khoshekh
doing something cute, or just looking cute in any way, we will
immediately break into whatever ongoing news story it is that we are
reporting, and let you know.
All
right! Let’s do another round of my popular advice segment, “Hey
There, Cecil!”
“Hey there, Cecil. My husband and
I have a bet, and we were wondering if you could settle it. I think
that the sky is made of gas and distance, while he
thinks that the sky is hastily-painted plywood about 30 feet above
the ground, built to hide us from the terrible truth of what is
actually above us. That’s unrelated to the bet, which is: which of us
wears this summoning cloak better? Pictures attached. Signed,
Insecure Summoners in Cactus Bloom.”
Hey
there, Insecure! Ooh, wow! OK. I’d say it’s a dead tie. It’s almost
impossible to look bad in a summoning cloak. But more importantly,
instead of arguing about who looks better in a cloak, you should
appreciate how you each interact with
the cloak in your own unique way. Cherish each other. Celebrate your
summoning cloak styles, and save your arguments for that difficult
and unsettling matter about the sky.
“Hey there, Cecil! My teenage son,
like many children his age, can’t decide what kind of person he is.
For instance, sometimes he is a kettle, and sometimes he is a bear,
and sometimes he is a puddle of water. Many of these forms are
difficult to drive to school, and I especially
worry about his safety when he takes a form that can fly. 'No flying
outside,’ I always tell him, but I worry that he doesn’t listen. What
can I do to help my son through this difficult time? Signed, Worried
Mom in Downtown.”
Hey
there, Worried. You would think that we would all be able to easily
understand a teenager’s struggle, most of us having been teenagers at
one point. Well, except obviously those of us who age backwards. But,
outside of the context of a young mind, the teenage experience does
not have the same immediate, painful urgency that it does for those
who are currently living through it. It sounds like your son is
trying on new physical forms to see which ones work for him. Maybe
he’s just searching for a physical form that other kids at school
will think is cool. Whatever the issue, support him. Have sympathy
for him, and most of all, keep him safe from others, and from
himself. It’s his job to make bad decisions; it’s your
job to make sure they’re not bad enough to cause real damage. Good
luck!
Last
letter:
“Hey there, Cecil! I have made a
terrible mistake, and it consumes me. My life was once a life, and
now it is an uncorrectable error. The arrival wakes each day, and
feeds. It gives, and it takes. And it takes, and it takes…I would
cry, but I don’t think there’s enough of me left anymore to make
tears. What do I do? What do I do? Signed, Terrified in Shambling
Orphan.”
Hey
there, Terrified! It’s important to be able to forgive yourself for
mistakes – even real doozies. Just do your best to make things
right and move on, I say. Although, your mistake sounds…well, it
does sound terrifying.
I hope to hear nothing more about it.
That’s
all the time we have today for “Hey There, Cecil!” Keep your
calls and letters and psychic pleas coming in.
Listeners,
it looks like the marathon through the Narrow Place is almost ready
to go. Everyone in town is gathering at the starting line, with the
help of the Towering Harbingers of the Distant Prince, who are using
their toothy beaks and meaningful glances from their stomach eyes to
indicate where people should stand.
It’s
looking to be a fun race, and everyone is weeping.
Larry
Leroy, out on the edge of town, playfully tried to hide, but the
Harbingers beat him at his own game, and the fun continued when they
dragged him screaming to the starting line.
Even
the City Council is in on the festivities, their ghastly powers being
no match for the placid, unyielding might of the Harbingers.
I’m
here, too – don’t think old Cecil is exempt! Me and Carlos are
right here in matching Lycra shorts. He’s wearing his running lab
coat, and the Harbingers allowed me to bring the mobile broadcasting
equipment so I could continue to do this radio show, even though
everyone can hear me talking live, because I’m right here with them.
Oh!
And there’s Mayor Dana Cardinal, inaugurating the race by nervously
chewing on a fistful of dirt. It won’t be long now before we are all
surging forward, panicked, the Harbingers looming behind us until we
are all forced through the Narrow Place. What good exercise that will
be!
But,
while we wait, let’s have a message from our sponsors.
Today’s
sponsor is that gut feeling that you did something wrong, but you
can’t think of what it could be. What was it? You feel so guilty, but
your guilt has no target. It circles, and circles, but cannot land.
You think back through the day, trying to find the source of the
gnawing guilt, but there is nothing. And you realize that there never
was a specific cause. It’s just a part of you.
You
are the guilt. You are
the shame.
And
this only makes you feel more guilty, more ashamed, that these
emotions are somehow tied into your very being.
As
Albert Einstein famously said after he died, “The call is coming
from inside the house.”
That
gut feeling that you did something wrong, but you can’t think about
what it could be. Try it today. And tomorrow, and tomorrow, and
tomorrow.
This
has been a word from our sponsors.
Finally,
I think we just have time for this week’s horoscopes before the race.
Virgo:
You should check under your bed before you go to sleep. That way the
thing hiding in your closet will think you haven’t realized where it
is yet.
Libra:
All eyes are on you. Gross! Give them back!
Scorpio:
Mars is intersecting with Mercury, which means your head is weirdly
big for your body, and no one wants to tell you because they don’t
want you to have the grace of self awareness. Ugh!
Scorpios.
Sagittarius:
You worry too much about earthquakes and plane crashes. You’re going
to die of heart disease or cancer, just like everybody else.
Capricorn:
Stop throwing your money away on expensive cars and nice clothes. The
owners of those cars and outfits do not appreciate the crumpled
dollar bills you keep throwing on them! And anyway, if you want to
throw something away, that’s what garbage cans are for.
Aquarius:
You’ve been so stressed lately. Why not just sit outside tonight,
relax, look up at the stars, and know basically nothing about the
world you live in.
Pieces:
Scorpions are not as dangerous as everyone thinks. Try to concentrate
on that. It’ll help you feel a little calmer tomorrow.
Aries:
I know this is a hard time for you, Aries, but remember: 'tis better
to have loved and lost. It’s really great, just the best.
Taurus:
Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. Pick up the phone, break
your mother’s tailbone. Take your coffee with creamer, break your
mother’s femur. The wizard’s spell has gone terribly wrong, and you
must not move at all until it is reversed.
Gemini:
You will meet a tall, handsome stranger. He will introduce himself,
you will come to know him well, and he will know you
well. He will grow older. His skin will sag and thin. He will no
longer be handsome. He will no longer be a stranger. He will no
longer be most of the things he once was. He will
be a close friend, an old friend, one you’ve known for years, and
with whom you are settling down into that final stretch of life. But
he will always be tall. So tall. Very, very tall.
Cancer:
I’m not saying this is bad
news, but the stars just say “Aaaaaaaaaaaggggghhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!”
I mean, maybe that’s a good
sign, right? Right? It’s a very inexact science.
Leo:
Today is your lucky day! Which is good news, because tonight is your
unlucky night. But
enjoy this lucky day until the sun goes down. Until the very second
the sun goes down. And then…and then…
That
has been this week’s horoscopes.
Oh!
And…here we go!
Uh,
there are the starting guns, pointing at all of us, ready to fire in
case we decide not to run. Looks like the race has begun. Well,
everyone, if we end up devoured by the Narrow Place, then at least we
went out with one last fun family-friendly community event!
In any
case, while we all get moving, let’s get the latest on the weather.
[“Black
Eyes” by David
Wirsig]
We
went along the Crooked Path, down into the Deepening. And then we
all, whether we wanted to or not, we went through the Narrow Place.
We went through, and on to the other side.
There
is no other side.
We
went there. We sent
messages in Morse code to the people we once had been, asking for
help, but they could not help us. They were outside of the Narrow
Place.
The
Distant Prince was pleased. He gathered his Harbingers to him for the
celebration. They cooed, and merged in and out with each other,
taking startling forms.
We
screamed.
They
cooed.
We
wore black coats and had never existed.
The
Distant Prince wore a golden coat, and had always existed.
All
darkness is just a thickness of birds. There is rustling in every
shadow, every surface is alive!
We
wore black coats and we went through it. We went through the Narrow
Place.
So, it
was another great
marathon! I’m glad that our city government continues to encourage
physical activity with fun events like this, and I’m proud of all of
us for taking part. We will never
be the same again.
But
here’s a little secret for you: no one is ever the same thing again
after anything. You are never the same twice, and much of your
unhappiness comes from trying to pretend that you are. Accept that
you are different each day, and do so joyfully, recognizing it for
the gift it is. Work within the desires and goals of the person you
are currently, until you aren’t that person anymore, and everything
changes once again.
Stay
tuned next for a different you, and a different you, and a different
you again, each “you” denying their multiple nature.
And
from the Narrow Place, where we wear black coats and have never
existed, goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.
Today’s proverb: Drake would like to
add you to his professional network on LinkedIn.
Episode 76 - An Epilogue
In just a few days, the whole story
will be known. This is what happens after.
Welcome to Night Vale.
The last couple weeks, as we all
know, have been eventful ones. I’m not going to go over everything
again – we all know what happened. We are well read, well informed
people who have paid attention to the whole recent “KING CITY”
affair. We know about the terrible ordeals that Diane Crayton and
Jackie Fierro endured. We know how their troubles all ended up. And
we know the truth about The Man in the Tan Jacket. We know all
about him now, because of what Diane and Jackie found out. So I won’t
go over all of that.
Instead, I’ll talk about the Barista
District, which is experiencing a severe population spike, also as a
result of that whole “KING CITY” thing. There are just so many
helpful people wandering town, asking us if we want nonfat or 2%, and
if they can get us a blueberry scone with that. You can’t open a hall
closet or tunnel under your own lawn without a barista jumping out at
you, asking if you want a tray for all of the coffee they’re going to
give you.
So much coffee.
Whether you want it or not.
“Here it
comes! A crushing amount of coffee. Don’t run. You’ll never escape.
Do you want a tray with that?”
More on this
ongoing aftermath in a moment. But first, the news.
The
government released a statement Friday, disavowing knowledge of any
events which resulted from a recent gardening supplies sale that they
may or may not
have been involved with. A representative of the U.S. government, in
association with the world government, the shadow government, the
lizard people, and the watchers from beyond the stars, wrapped in a
burlap cloak and speaking in a low croaking voice, said, “So, yeah,
we recently sold surplus and used materials from a variety of secret
government projects and experiments, all disguised as gardening
supplies. And, yes, the resulting effects on human life and on the
very nature of time were unfortunate, and yes, people died in ways
that we did not previously think were even possible in this
particular universe, but…basically, it comes down to this: America.
Love it or leave it.”
When asked about
any efforts that were being made to provide aid to those who were
dislodged from the natural laws of the universe as the result of
dangerous experimental materials sold in Night Vale under the guise
of simple home goods and gardening wares, the representative only
repeated, “America. Love it or leave it” – each iteration a
little rounder, a little more abstracted, from human communication,
until it was only a series of guttural sounds in the vague shape of
what used to be words, as the representative retreated further and
further into their burlap cloak until it collapsed, empty, upon the
podium, smelling of compost and grain alcohol.
All in all, a
pretty typical statement from the government, and hopefully this
clears up that whole thing with the flamingos.
Due to the
recent events we all have read about, the librarians have been more
active than usual. Witnesses, who were paid to go witness by others
who were afraid to get close enough to see, report that there is
steam and sparks flying out of the Public Library’s many chimneys.
Howling can be heard, both inside the building and from the mouths of
the witnesses as, through the windows, they glimpse the terrible
physical forms of the librarians.
There is even a
few unconfirmed reports that, in the confusion of recent events, and
the resulting damage done to the library building, one of the
librarians may have escaped.
Of
course, a disaster of that magnitude hasn’t happened since…oh, uh,
I guess it would have been…last year? So, that doesn’t seem likely.
Truly, it would be awful if it did, though. We lost so
many
people from so many different places the last time a librarian
escaped.
One of the witnesses, James Patterson (oh – no relation to the
famous local dairy farmer James Patterson) reported that perhaps the
librarians have developed the power to mentally influence those
around them, since the closer he got to the library, the more
strongly he felt the urge to read books.
“Are there any good novels coming out soon?” he began foolishly
asking, blind to the dangers that books present. “Oh, man, I could
really use a new novel!” he babbled – the poor thing, not even
understanding the ghastly words spewing from his mouth.
We
have no idea if this event was an aberration or if librarians have
truly developed the terrifying ability to make people want to
actually read books. But all citizens would be well advised to stay
clear of libraries, and any dangerous books they may see in
bookstores everywhere quite soon. I mean, you should always
avoid books and libraries, but now it might be worth taking extra
precautionary measures, like scooping your eyes out with grapefruit
spoons and triple-bolting your door.
And now, back to today’s epilogue.
The baristas are continuing to multiply. All over town, businesses
that were recently useful, normal things (like gas stations, and
antiques malls, and screaming sheds) are now suddenly coffee shops,
full of identical baristas demonstrating their ability to illustrate,
using steamed milk on coffee, the exact moment of your death.
This crisis makes me think of the Man in the Tan Jacket, who was with
us in so many crises through our town’s recent history. What would he
have done with this situation?
Perhaps, it would help to start at the beginning. The beginning is
usually an awfully convenient place to start, right? But trying to
find a beginning means grappling with the question of time.
Scientists have a game where they try to explain time to each other
without laughing. No one has ever won.
The Man came to us first almost three years ago, a newcomer in a Tan
Jacket. I remember him standing by the side of the road in the small
puddle of light cast from a burning refrigerator.
And
that is the thing – the remembering. When he was here, we did not
remember him. We forgot him constantly, a Specter in a Tan Jacket.
Now he is not
here, and we remember him perfectly. Years of stories and experience
come flooding back to us.
We remember him scampering over the walls of the Dog Park. We
remember him showing us a map to a place very far from here, a place
we did not understand at all. We remember him passing out pieces of
paper – the content of which was a mystery, the physical properties
of which were a nuisance.
But here, again, I cover a story we already know, because we all so
recently experienced it.
Old Woman Josie released a statement to me, in person, as part of a
conversation we were having privately – without her saying it was a
statement. It was just a – a thing she said to me during a
conversation. Anyway, here it is:
She
said, “I always liked that Man in the Tan Jacket. Even when I was
afraid of him and suspicious of him. Even when he showed up at my
door in the middle of the night with that suitcase of his, the
suitcase that constantly buzzed, knocking on my door and babbling
about how he needed help desperately, how we had to help save his
home…even then, as I was ignoring him in his hour of need, I liked
him. Even when I forgot him completely, and had no idea he even
existed, I liked him. You know, this fruit salad Carlos made is just
delicious!”
And
I agree with Josie’s statement. The fruit salad we were having at our
lunch together was super
good, and I wolfed it down, even though I’ve been trying to cut back
on my meat consumption lately.
I got a little sidetracked there.
To get back to the point, we’re all likely going to be destroyed by
an endless stream of baristas. Which is, of course, a direct result
of the recent events involving Jackie and Diane.
So…there’s that.
Listeners, looks like we’re in need of a new intern. Intern Danielle
has stopped coming to the office. I mean, Danielle had all these
crazy conspiracy theories about how radio interns are “doomed,”
so she wanted to stay inside and focus only on computer work. She
steadfastly refused any field reporting assignments.
So
I complied with her wishes, and let her run our social media accounts
– which I thought would make her happy. But a few weeks ago, after
giving her the simple and fun
job of taking pictures of Khoshekh, our radio station’s live-in cat,
for our official station MySpace as well as to my personal Google+
and Snapchat accounts, she just…stopped coming to work. I guess she
just didn’t have it in her anymore.
But
listen, if you’re more motivated to learn about a career in radio
than Danielle, we’d love to have you come intern here at the station.
All you need to do to become a community radio intern is not
run away when station management surrounds you outside your home
shouting, “This one is next! This one is next!”
And now, a word from our sponsors.
(Um,
personally? I find the content of this ad…distasteful,
given my earlier warning, but I’m informed by station management that
I have to read it as written.)
Here goes.
Many of us like books. None of us like to admit it. We know that
reading makes us deviants, perverts, freaks. Many of us might say –
on the radio for instance – that books are dangerous and should be
avoided. Even thinking the words “I like books” to ourselves
makes us shudder with a secret shame.
We know that we should only be reading government pamphlets, and the
prophecies on the back of cereal boxes…but again and again, we find
ourselves returning to the dark sickness of literary language.
Who
among us can say that they do not have, buried in a box of linens
under their bed, a well-read copy of Brand
New Ancients by Kate Tempest, or a collection of Annie Baker’s
Vermont
Plays?
Given all this, should we band together, deviant with deviant? A
deviance so natural that it is no deviance at all, but an ingrained
motion of the heart, a secret desire so common, that it is no more
secret than the sun? Should we begin to admit, together, that we all
sometimes like to touch and read books?
No! Of course not! We should be ashamed and hide our love of books
from each other, heaping scorn and hypocritical anger upon anyone who
dares to reveal that they have the same desires we do.
Harper
Perennial. All of our literature is shipped to you in unmarked brown
paper wrappings. Charges will appear on your credit card statement as
DEFINITELY
**NOT** BOOKS.
No one has to know you are a book reading freak.
This has been a message from our sponsors.
Ugh.
Books.
The population of the Barista District continues to grow, doubling
almost every hour, through no means known to modern science, antique
science, or reverse science.
Carlos is working on a solution, but in the meantime, townspeople are
overwhelmed and scared by the coffee options suddenly available to
them. They are screaming. They are screaming and running away.
Larry Leroy, out on the edge of town, told me that he can see them
now, the baristas, and that they are beautiful and surging.
“There
are so many hands holding so much coffee! They are all so
helpful!
This might be it,” Larry is saying.
“Anything could be it,” he is continuing.
“Any moment could be the last one. We should always be prepared for
the eventuality of no more eventualities. We all live on the narrow
precipice, but also yeah! This barista thing is really going off,
huh?” he concluded.
Perhaps
if the Man in the Tan Jacket were here, he would have some idea, some
solution, or even would just be there to add a comforting forgettable
presence to this ongoing disaster. But of course, he is not
here, and we all know why. We all know who he really is now.
Oh. Oh! Carlos is texting me. He…oh. OK.
He says that he has a solution to this whole barista thing.
Oh, hey! That’s quite clever!
And
it also takes care of that…other
problem. You know, the one I don’t even have to explain to you right
now, because it was so frightful and all-consuming and fresh in our
memories?
OK. While Carlos does his clever plan, I’ll do a clever pan of my own
– which is taking you to the weather.
[“Endless
Dream” by God
Is An Astronaut]
And
now, here we are, in the after.
Carlos’ plan…well, we read about what it was and how it turned out.
No need to summarize here.
What
do we do after such huge events have transpired? After the ones in
danger no longer are (meaning either that they no longer are in
danger, or that – in an existential sense – they just…no longer
are)?
Well,
I’ll tell you what I’ll
do. I’m going to go bowling with Carlos. League Night is tonight, and
we’ve gotten the team back together with Old Woman Josie. Of course,
she can use her left hand again now, now that this affair we’ve been
talking about is all over, so our scores should be up.
And…what else? The sky, of course, always that.
Let’s
start there, and work our way down to Earth. Other cities, other
places…this
city. This
place.
I imagine that soon, this town will settle back into the routine of
its existence, until a new peril arises again soon. Like a heartbeat:
a sudden, violent movement – and in between, a lull. In itself, a
rhythm. A counterpart. A silence between the beats.
Night
Vale in a lull: the doctors at the hospital going about their
mysterious routines; the pawn shop (its name changed now, of course,
after what happened recently); the Office District, and…oh? It
looks like there is a large family of tarantulas heading there now,
and they do not
look happy. I would hate to be whoever it is that they’re looking
for.
The
Moonlite All-Nite Diner, where I’m sure Steve Carlsberg is going to
stop by on his way home for a slice of invisible pie; our mayor,
Dana, getting ready to finish her work; Carlos’ lab, where he is also
finishing up his work (see you soon, Carlos!); and…and something
else.
Over a housing tract, across town, I can see a dot in the sky,
floating high above one of the houses, twirling and soaring higher. I
can’t quite see what it is…but it’s lovely.
In
any case, an entire town swinging back to the normal, getting on with
life in the after.
After all of the things that we all now know happened. All of us.
Except,
of course, one person. A person missing. A person who we all missed.
A person impossible to remember. A person now
impossible to forget.
A Man in the Tan Jacket.
And what next?
Well, I think there may be other people, other stories to tell. We
are, each of us, a vast story waiting for someone to tell it.
Stay
tuned, in just a few days (or, depending on where you are in time,
any day you decide to get around to it), for a four-hundred-and-one
page factual report about the events that led to this epilogue –
available
in hardcover, eBook, or audio book from your favorite factual
report retailer.
In the meantime, from after the whole of what you haven’t yet read,
goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.
Today’s
proverb: “Late capitalism” is such a sweetly optimistic phrase.
