by Joseph Fink
So just watch out for librarians, okay?
And now, let’s have a look at traffic.
Here is a man with a new job. Here is a man. He has a new job. So new that he hasn’t actually gone to it yet. He is now only in the process of going to it. It is his first day. Not as a human, but at this job. It is approximately his ten thousandth day as a human. And yet, for all his days, he is not yet very good at being a human. He still makes a lot of mistakes. All that time and he still is unsure of himself.
He drives to his job. His car is nice. Nicer than he can afford, but just as nice as he hopes he can soon afford. His car is aspirational. His gray pin-striped suit, his smile, his silver watch, the way he walks, these are all also aspirational. He doesn’t think of himself as the him that exists in this moment but as the him that will exist soon. He is not far away from the him that he really is. He will be that version of himself very soon.
But then he sees something. It doesn’t matter what. It’s someone dying. It’s sudden and not anyone’s fault, but also could have been prevented. He is sitting in his nice car and he sees this death. And he does not go to his new job. He never does. In fact, since he never actually goes to it, it is not accurate to call it his new job. It is the job he never had. It is a future that, like most futures, never happened.
This has been traffic.
New statistics by the community activist group Citizens for a Transparent Government say that it is as difficult as it has ever been to get through City Hall alive and speak to Mayor Cardinal, that over half of citizens who have appeared before the City Council have been eaten by the council, and that the government is still not transparent.
“I can still totally see them,” said Frankie Ramon, spokesperson for the group. “They’re not even faint outlines in the air, they’re still totally visible, totally opaque. It’s like they’re not even trying.”
Next: a sudden loss of consciousness followed by a waking as a new person, living a new life, but with all the same old questions unanswered. Starting in one, two,
16
Jackie dropped off Erika across the street from City Hall. It wasn’t safe for Erika to exist in such close proximity to the source of city law.
“Thanks,” Erika said as they opened the car door.
“Hey,” said Jackie. “Don’t worry about it. Thanks for the cash.”
“You’re a good one, Jackie Fierro,” they said. “And that makes the world a dangerous place for you.”
There was that flutter of wings again, and a dark haze filled the air behind Erika. Once they had unfolded themselves from the car, they stood over seven feet tall, much more than could have fit in Jackie’s compact.
“Be well,” they said, as their feet and then the rest of their body melted down into the sidewalk. “Failing that, Jackie, simply be. Simply continue to be.”
And they were gone into the earth.
“Why did you need a ride if you could do that?” Jackie sighed.
She pulled the car across the street and parked it in the small lot reserved for those visiting the mayor or looking to throw themselves on the terrible whims and absent mercy of the City Council.
City Hall was a majestic building when it was fully uncovered from the black velvet that shrouded it each night. When not covering the building, the velvet sat bunched up on the yellowing lawn. Jackie headed through the arched entrance, not bothering to check in with the guard by the door. The guard wore a mask that blocked all sound and sight, so that he would not see anything he was not supposed to see. Even if she had tried to check in, it would have just added minutes more of frustration to an already frustrating day.
The only way to the mayor’s office was past the doorway to the City Council. She took that trip as quickly as her body could take it, scrunching the slip of paper in her hand. The doors were open, and she could see the misshapen forms and hear the predatory shrieking of the City Council at work. The hall smelled of chalk and burnt hair.
A new law had recently made a visit to the City Council the only possible way to petition a speeding ticket, and, as a result, citizens had taken to accepting speeding tickets given to them when they weren’t even in a car, when they were sitting still on a bench, or sleeping in their own bed. Better to pay than to Pay was the general feeling.
She imagined running into the council chambers just then. Who can fathom the danger and pain of a visit to the City Council? Of course, who can fathom an inextricable paper that binds to one’s hand and unhinges one’s concentration and maybe one’s life? Would the City Council solve the problem for her, one way or another? Would that be better, after all?
From somewhere on the meeting room table, amid the chaos of council members in mid-meeting, Jackie heard a soft whimper and a loud snap and decided to keep walking quickly.
The mayor’s office was upstairs, in an area of the building that was decorated with a great deal of wood paneling and framed photos of lighthouses. The mayor’s receptionist was an elderly man who nodded with a smile when she explained what she needed, and gestured at one of the plush club chairs lining the wall.
Perhaps at last she had come to the place that could help her. The elderly man behind the desk gestured toward the door, and then held up five fingers, and nodded again.
“No problem, I’ll wait.”
She picked up a magazine from the table in front of her. “Ten Ways to Redecorate Your Bloodstone Circle.” “How to Lose Weight Without Losing Sight of Your Own Mortality.” “A Cake Recipe That Only People Who Hate Our Government Will Want to Try So Mail Us Your Best Pictures of Making It and We Will Take You Away.” Boring stuff like that, but diverting in the few minutes it took the mayor to be ready for her.
The elderly man rapped softly on his desk to get her attention and then gestured with an open palm toward the door.
“Thanks, man. You’re my favorite person I’ve talked to all day.”
He shrugged, turning back to the stairs and leaving her to the business of opening the door, which was tricky. It was one of those ones that required some mild bleeding.
“Ugh,” she said as she entered the office. “There I am like an idiot thinking Push. No, pull. And I forgot entirely to just Bleed. There should be a sign or something.”
The mayor, Dana Cardinal, was sitting in a portrait of official grandeur that had to be posed, her silhouette against the picture windows, and the light falling on the desk, and the papers spread out amid light and shadow. It was all perfectly staged to present her authority.
“I happen to agree, but try to get anything done in this building,” said the mayor.
“Sure, yeah. Didn’t mean you were doing anything wrong.”
“Yes you did. It’s perfectly fine. If we cannot be judged on our actions, then we cannot be judged. And let me tell you.” The mayor turned to face her and leaned her elbows upon the desk. “We can be judged. We definitely can. So, Jackie, you came to see me. Is something troubling you?”
Jackie sat down in the chair across the desk from the mayor and did the trick with the paper. On the floor. Back in her hand. Torn to pieces. Back in her hand. Mentally willed into flames. Back in her hand. The mayor nodded gravely, not appearing surprised.
“Yeah. So,” Jackie said. “But that’s just part of it. Here’s something else: I’m not sure I’ve ever been to my mother’s house. She asked me if I remember my childhood and I don’t. I don’t, Dana.”
Jackie threw the paper in the hand-carved oak wastebasket next to the mayor’s desk. The paper wad caught the rim and then rolled in. Jackie laid the paper in her hand down on the desk. “I can’t write anything but ‘KING CITY.’ I can’t think of anything else,” she said. “Guess I gotta go there, but no one seems to think I should or even would be able to do that.”
The mayor smiled a smile of comfort, not happiness. She looked out the window at the rapidly diminishing day.
“Jackie, those all are serious problems. I don’t want to tell you those problems aren’t se
rious. But I apologize if there’s only so much I can do. It’s a little bit hectic here, as you can see.”
She waved her hand to indicate the absolute still of the office.
“My brother’s sick. We’re not sure what’s wrong with him. I’d love to be home taking care of him, but I have to be at City Hall. We’re not sure what happens if I don’t go every day, but we think that whatever it is that protects us from the full wrath of the City Council involves the mayor being at City Hall every single day. So here I am. For my city. My brother has a fever and chills. He says he sees lights out in the desert. I told him we all see lights in the desert. He says, no, different lights. Not the same ones we usually see. Low bubbles of light coming and going. I don’t know what to say to that.”
“Low bubbles of light? Because I’ve—”
“He clutches this piece of paper to his chest. Won’t show it to us. Says he doesn’t want us to catch what he has. Always thinking of others even as he slips away. He’s slipping away from us, Jackie. Also the big job fair is coming up. Tents to set up. All sorts of mysterious organizations that want the best booth placement so they can trick the young people of Night Vale into disappearing or incriminating themselves or at best becoming part of a mysterious organization.”
“Your brother has a pap——”
“I’m sorry, Jackie. I didn’t mean to complain.” The mayor shook her head, and then nodded, and then shook her head again. “No, yes, I did mean to complain. I don’t have anyone else to complain to. I’m young, Jackie. Did you know that about me?”
“Sure.”
“I am. I’m young. And this job is hard. I don’t know if I can help you because, and I’ll be honest here, I’m struggling a bit to keep this all together. But it’s my job too. I was chosen to be mayor. I was chosen and so I will serve my city the best way I can. And that means helping people like you when they come to me for help. I’m sorry, Jackie, I’m being a bad mayor.”
“Oh, nah.” Jackie paused slightly. “No, you’re doing great.” She leaned across the desk and held out a hand. The mayor did not take it. She continued to look out the window for a moment, her humanity and thoughtfulness tucked away inside a tight frown, an honest brushstroke in a boring painting. The mayor caught herself and set her face into something more official, less herself: a perfectly slight smile.
“Let’s start again. Jackie, I will do my best to help you. I may not be able to help you. More often than not I can’t. But I always try.”
“That’s great, dude, thanks.”
The mayor rubbed her hands together.
“King City is becoming a problem for Night Vale. I know there are papers in hands and there is confusion and frustration and fear. No, not fear. Concern. There is concern.”
“I’m not afraid and I’m not concerned. I’m ruined.” Jackie tried the word on her tongue and found that it felt right, so she said it again. “I’m ruined.”
“I don’t know why King City has connected to Night Vale. Sometimes other places have a mysterious connection to our own. A little fishing town in Russia. Our unfriendly neighbor, Desert Bluffs. That desert otherworld which trapped me for months. We cannot always keep the outside world on the outside.”
“So I should go to King City?”
“Sure.”
“You think so?” Jackie was glad for an authority that would finally tell her what she should do.
“Probably not. I’m not even sure if it’s a real place. It could just be an idea on paper.”
“But I spoke with—”
“I don’t know what a King City is,” the mayor continued, yawning. “I don’t know a lot of things. I do know there will always be problems for Night Vale. There are so many. Usually they pass. Often they kill many people, but what are people but deaths that haven’t happened yet?”
“Births that already happened?” Jackie said without thinking.
The mayor laughed. She looked different when she laughed, and then she stopped laughing and she did not look different anymore.
“Thank you, Jackie. I needed that. As for you. Well. I know you came here hoping that I would have an answer or a piece of advice that would fix things.”
“So—”
The mayor stood, a wordless pre-good-bye. Jackie stood too, a wordless capitulation.
“You say your life is unraveling. Your life cannot unravel. Your life is your life. You haven’t lost it. It’s just different now.”
“Do you feel the same thing about your brother? That his life cannot unravel? That it is just different now?”
Dana blinked. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose I do.”
“Fair enough, man, but I want my old life back, whatever my old life was.”
Dana shook her head.
“You know, Jackie, before I was mayor, I was an intern at the community radio station. One of the only interns to survive that program. Being an intern at the radio station is dangerous and terrible work. But there are days, sitting in this office, with responsibility past my years, working in a system I barely understand, that I miss my time as an intern. At least I was allowed to be young. At least I was allowed to be Dana, not Mayor Cardinal.”
“I hope your brother will be okay,” Jackie said.
“He’ll be what he’ll be. And we’ll all learn to be okay with whatever that is.”
Jackie said good-bye with her eyes.
“Good-bye, Jackie,” the mayor said with her mouth.
Jackie pulled on the door. It did not move. She pushed on the door. It did not move.
“Oh, right. Jesus. There really should be a sign,” she said, bleeding.
Back out in the wood-paneled waiting room there was a blond man with a big smile sitting at the desk.
“Hey?” she said.
“Yes?” he said, his voice all customer-service politeness.
It was not the same man as when she arrived. She did not know where she had seen him before, but the sight of him made her uneasy.
“Wasn’t there someone else here before? This old guy who didn’t talk?”
“Oh, oh no,” he said. His smile did not waver. “It’s always just been me here. You have a good day, okay?”
“Sure. Okay,” she said.
As she walked down the stairs, he pulled out some forms, picked up a pen, and silently smiled at the forms, writing nothing. Jackie did not even flinch passing the City Council doors this time. Nothing, not even the terrible council, was more frightening than the fact that no one seemed able to help her, least of all herself.
17
“You didn’t come home last night.”
Josh said this from the couch, book open across his legs. He had red claws and antennae. He was wearing baggy jeans and a Mountain Goats T-shirt, which Josh had once been kicked out of school for wearing, because of its strong political message siding with those who believe in mountains.
Diane stopped short of the kitchen. She hadn’t expected Josh to be up already. She was running on three hours’ sleep and had hoped to be up and out before him.
“I’m here now. I hate it when you wear that shirt.”
“Mountains are real, Mom.”
“I believe in mountains, Josh. It just reminds me of how I had to come pick you up from school and wait in the front office while the vice principal gave me a lecture about how inappropriate it is to raise a child to believe such nonsense. It was embarrassing.”
“Well, I’m not embarrassed by my beliefs.”
“I’m embarrassed to be told I’m a bad parent.”
“You aren’t home a lot these days.” It was a swerve, not a response. He wasn’t looking at her or his book. It was difficult to tell where he was looking because of the solid black eyes drooping from the ends of long, curved stalks atop his head.
Diane walked past him into the kitchen and started the process of making coffee. She always ground her own beans. She did not feel that her coffee tasted better because of this, she simply liked the process of grinding beans: the
cool crumple of the bag from the freezer, the gentle rattle of beans across the countertop, the therapeutic release of pounding them into grounds with a hammer for several minutes.
As she removed her safety goggles and washed her hands, she called to the living room, “How’s school?”
“You didn’t come home last night.”
She dried her hands. “I came home late last night.”
“From what?”
“Work.”
“You never work late.”
“I did last night?”
She hated the question in her own voice but had never been good at lying.
“Doing what? What were you doing that you didn’t get home until early morning and that you didn’t answer my texts and that you didn’t reply to my e-mails?”
“My phone was off.”
“Okay. Why?”
She came back into the living room, and Josh stood to face her. He was tall, his jeans draping in baggy folds over his hooves.
Diane wished she knew what Josh looked like. She wished there was a single thing she could assume about her son. She wished Josh had a second parent to be ballast. Josh wished all of those things, too.
“I was on a date.”
Josh didn’t respond, so Diane nervously filled the pause.
“My phone died, and I was. Um.”
“You just said you were at work.”
Josh tried to fold his arms, but the claws snagged on each other, and so he awkwardly clasped them in front of him.
“Yes, I’ve been seeing someone. I know we don’t talk about dating much. Mom and son, you know. It’s . . . awkward. Right?”
“No, Mom, no. That’s really cool. What’s their name?”
A good lie requires two things: (1) assertiveness in delivery, and (2) narrative logic that cannot be unhinged by actual truth.
“Dawn,” Diane said assertively, achieving one of those two things.
“Don?”
“Yes, Dawn.”
