by Joseph Fink
LAUREN: You’re so cold.
KEVIN: And now you’ve pulled your arms entirely into your shirt trying to maximize the body heat of skin contact. You’ve pulled in your arms and you’re rocking your body forward and back.
LAUREN: What about your ears and nose? So very very cold.
KEVIN: Ask a friend to borrow a sweater. Try that. Go on. No one is around? Uh oh. You don’t actually know a single person do you?
LAUREN: Your life may be a total lie.
KEVIN: Well, at best a fever dream.
LAUREN: Or someone else’s night terror.
KEVIN: That’s probably it.
LAUREN: You’re very cold.
KEVIN: And no one to help you or hear you. Look around. All gray, windowless walls, right?
LAUREN: Not even a door.
KEVIN: How much air do you have left? How are you even breathing?
LAUREN: There can’t be much air left.
KEVIN: This message brought to you by Best Buy.
LAUREN: Best Buy: Conserve your oxygen.
Listeners, the renovations have brought so much joy here to the radio station that we thought we’d extend the fun throughout the town of Night Vale. We’ve sent our contractors all over the city to tear down other things too, like the abandoned missile silo outside of town, several active but low-achieving elementary schools, and that weird forest along the eastern edge of Night Vale.
KEVIN: Oh, I know that forest. It’s a really nice forest. It complimented my outfit as I drove past it the other day. It whispered: “That vest fits you well, Kevin.” It also whispered: “You have a clever and colorful fashion sense. You are a delight to be near.”
LAUREN: That forest never whispers anything at me.
KEVIN: I actually stopped my car along the side of the road, because I was feeling welcomed, even beckoned by such a nice community of trees. But as I approached it whispered: “No! Your eyes. No, please go. Please, leave us be.” And I did, because I have such a healthy respect for nature.
LAUREN: I know you do. Vile, vile nature. Anyway, we’re tearing that forest down to build a new corporate training facility.
KEVIN: Great!
LAUREN: We’ve also hired the small civilization living under lane five of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex. Since building owner Teddy Williams is busy at the Company Picnic and hasn’t paid his lease, the small army of tiny people are using the building as a headquarters. They’ve renamed it The Cathedral of Huntokar, after their god.
KEVIN: They’ve also torn down the Arby’s and put in a contemporary sculpture, which is a one-to-one scale model replica of the Arby’s they just tore down.
LAUREN: It feels so good to redecorate.
KEVIN: Does it? I rarely feel anything. I rarely feel anything at all.
Let’s have a look at financial news.
LAUREN: The markets are really fantastic today.
KEVIN: Counterpoint: YOU’RE really fantastic today.
LAUREN: You’re too kind!
KEVIN: I’m kind because everything looks good in the financial markets.
LAUREN: Would you be less kind if the markets were doing poorly?
KEVIN: I would. Down markets mean people aren’t working hard. And if people aren’t working hard, that must mean they’re sad and lazy. And when people are sad and lazy, I become less kind.
LAUREN: Interesting.
KEVIN: What are you doing?
LAUREN: Hang on.
KEVIN: Listeners, Lauren is doing something on her phone.
LAUREN: Annnnd done. Let’s see if that . . . yep. Yes, it seems to be. Wonderful!
KEVIN: What did you do?
LAUREN: I just liquidated nearly all of my domestic stock, and the market is reacting quickly to it. Stock prices are plummeting. The markets are really terrible today.
KEVIN: That’s awful news. It’s a shame how people just don’t value hard work like they use to. You shouldn’t let your sadness and laziness destroy our economic future. Cheer up!
LAUREN: Wow, I think you were wrong. You didn’t become less kind at all.
KEVIN: I didn’t?
LAUREN: No, you became more helpful!
KEVIN: You’re right! I did! Telling sad people to cheer up is like an extra level of kindness.
LAUREN: It totally is! That was a very informative financial report we just had. The markets are still terrible now though. There might have to be layoffs or disappearances, but I think it was worth it.
KEVIN: Lauren: I just noticed all these new framed pictures of human teeth on the studio wall.
LAUREN: They’re lovely, right?
KEVIN: Yes. Very. But that one. I don’t remember that picture. I don’t recall choosing to put a picture of a lighthouse in my radio studio. I would only choose pleasant images to look at. It is a very unpleasant image.
LAUREN: I agree. I do not like it one bit. Let us try for a moment to not look at it.
[Pause]
KEVIN: I can’t stop looking at it.
LAUREN: Ugh, me neither. I’ll ask Daniel to take care of it when he’s done photographing those doomed floating cats in the bathroom.
KEVIN: Good plan. We’re receiving word from downtown that there’s a slow-down in our renovations. Our demolition crews have been stalled outside the empty lot across the street from the Rec Center, the lot with the sign that says FUTURE HOME OF THE OLD NIGHT VALE OPERA HOUSE.
It seems the outgoing mayor of Night Vale, Pamela Winchell, some old lady, and a line of impossibly tall people with long heads and wings have escaped—or . . . um, skipped out early from the Company Picnic and are blocking our contractors from building the town’s third Sharper Image.
LAUREN: But that’s impossible. We invoked eminent domain.
KEVIN: I’m getting word that the mayor has veto power over both eminent domain and Sharper Image.
LAUREN: How is she still mayor even? Daniel! Daniel, where are you?
I’m going to find Daniel. I’m going to have him drive me downtown and I’m going to deal with this directly. I’m tired of messing around with— What was that?
KEVIN: Listeners, the lights just went out in the studio.
LAUREN: [Quiet] Daniel? Kevin, why has Daniel not come back from taking pictures of the cats? That should not have taken this long. He’s very efficient.
KEVIN: Sshhhh. There’s someone here, Lauren. There’s someone else in this room. Listeners, there is a bright, black glowing coming from the middle of our studio. It is glowing around the shape of someone neither man nor woman—tall, long, with great black wings, beating softly though filtered and recirculated seventy-one-degree air.
It is holding something. Something small and round. Listeners, it is holding a lightbulb.
It’s moving now. The person, the what, the angel? Angels are, of course, real and very dangerous. This dangerous being is walking to the wall, to that new piece of art. The art that, unlike any other art in history, is not depicting teeth.
LAUREN: Oh, smiling god, that picture. Kevin that picture. It’s different now.
KEVIN: The lighthouse. Moments ago the picture was of a lighthouse on a desert mountain in the clean light of midday. Now the photo is a lighthouse at desert’s dusk, purple orange sky and a blinking red light atop the mountain. The light in the photo is actually blinking. There is a door at the foot of the stone tower, and that door is opening, a deep purple glow slowly silhouetting a man. It looks like a man. I cannot tell if he is tall or if he is short. He is holding something. I cannot tell what it is, but it moves in his arms.
The man is . . . he is entering the lighthouse. He—
LAUREN: Kevin, the door. Our studio door. Daniel? Is that you? Are the kittens dealt with?
KEVIN: I see only the intruder’s shadow, in that deep purple glow. It is . . . it is the man from the lighthouse. He is holding something. The dangerous, dangerous angel is with him. The man is holding something.
LAUREN: No! How did you?
&nb
sp; KEVIN: He is holding . . .
LAUREN: Don’t come any nearer!
KEVIN: He is holding a cat.
CECIL: Thank you for bringing me here, Erika. And while whatever happens next happens, I take you, Night Vale, to the weather.
WEATHER: “High Tide Rising” by Fox
Listeners, it is good to be back after so long away in such a terrible terrible place. Let us never fall again for the wicked ruse of the Company Picnic, no matter how many badminton tournaments or chili-cook-offs the flyers and masked Picnic Captains advertise.
There was one escape attempt during the unending, deadly horror that was the staff softball game, but there were helicopters everywhere, and we were captured trying to dig a tunnel under second base with staple-pullers.
But last night, just when, as all picnic-goers eventually do, we had given up all hope of someday being free, former intern Dana appeared to me. There was an old oak door, which I swear had not been in the heavily electrified volleyball nets before. Or no, no more euphemisms. No more talking around it. They were high-voltage electric fences, fatal to any who touched them. The door in the fence opened and she stepped out, and, taking me by my hand, led me with her into whatever strange otherworld she had been trapped in for so long.
She brought me to the lighthouse in her strange desert that is like our own but is not our own. She introduced me to an army of men and women who have taken great care of her, and introduced me to several tall, winged creatures, each named Erika (with a K). Dana said they were angels. I informed each of them that angels are not real, and that’s ridiculous. I might have howled this while covering my eyes.
Dana took me to the peak of the mountain, which is also not real. From atop this monstrosity of rock and earth and lies, we looked out across an empty pink desert, past the lighthouse, over the army, to a curved horizon under a placid ocean of cloudless forever. And I saw for myself, on that horizon, the terrible light rushing toward us.
Former intern Maureen is the one who showed everyone it was possible to pass fully back and forth, with her disappearing and reappearing. And it was John Peters, you know, the farmer?, who stumbled on how to open the old oak doors that lead to so many places, but also to here, this one, beautiful place in space and time. Old Woman Josie and her definitely not angelic companions are in that other world too. So many have fled. But we will not flee anymore.
I have returned Khoshekh to his home here at the station, floating four feet off the ground in the men’s restroom. I found Strexcorp’s former radio producer, Daniel, lying dead or perhaps inoperative—I do not know if Daniel identified as organic or not—outside the restrooms. Apparently no one ever told him the deadly consequences of taking photos of cats.
Listeners, all is not well. Most is not well. Strexcorp still owns all that can be owned here, and so much also that cannot be owned. Many of you are still trapped in the Company Picnic. Others of you are trapped in mistaken impressions of how your life should supposedly be, but that started long before this whole Strex thing. That’s something only you can fix, through reflection and laughter and acceptance. Lauren and Kevin ran away when faced with whatever you call Erika, but I do not think they will be gone for long. And then there is Dana and her army of masked warriors, standing in the path of that deep, rumbling light. That searing, blinding hum. That smiling god.
And I’ll be honest. I don’t know exactly where Carlos is. They captured his scientists, but they did not capture him. I’m sure he is fine. A scientist is always fine.
Listeners, so much is wrong. Here is what’s right. Night Vale Community Radio is ours again.
We are the only thing in Night Vale not owned by Strex, and I swear . . . I swear . . . we will stay that way. And soon this whole town will be as this station is now. Not without struggle. Not without loss. Not without grave injury and a lifetime of what-ifs. But we will do it.
We may be controlled by the City Council, and the vague yet menacing government agency, and chemtrails, the secret order of reptile kings, and the mysterious lights that hover above us. But we will not be controlled by a smiling god. We are Night Vale. And we are, in our own way, free.
We must continue to fight and resist. We must be the heroes we look for in others. We must no longer speak in code, but in action.
Return to your homes, if you can, but do not lock your doors tonight. Do not hide yourselves away from danger. Be brave. Be truly brave.
I mean don’t get carried away. Stay out of the Dog Park, and don’t run with knives, and for crying out loud, don’t cry out loud. You’ll upset the bears, which are emotionally fragile animals that are already very uncomfortable with themselves.
Stay tuned next for that nagging feeling that you left the coffeepot on. Surely it’s no big deal. But, oh geez, what if it is a big deal? Oh no. I can’t believe you left the coffeepot on.
And as always, Good night, Night Vale. Good night.
PROVERB: Feeling lost? Like you have no goal in life? Like you’re covered in dirt and wet leaves? Like you’re an earthworm? Are you an earthworm? Kinda sounds like you’re an earthworm, actually.
EPISODE 49:
“OLD OAK DOORS”
JUNE 15, 2014
RECORDED LIVE AT TOWN HALL, NEW YORK CITY, ON JUNE 4, 2014
GUEST VOICES: MEG BASHWINER, KEVIN R. FREE, MARK GAGLIARDI, MAUREEN JOHNSON, HAL LUBLIN, DYLAN MARRON, JASIKA NICOLE, JACKSON PUBLICK, SYMPHONY SANDERS, LAUREN SHARPE, MARA WILSON
THERE’S A LOT OF OTHER PEOPLE TO INTRODUCE THIS EPISODE WITH DETAILS of the planning and writing and performance of this one-off live anniversary episode. I’ll just say this. We celebrated the one-year anniversary of the show in a bar space a fan got us for free on an off night, to a crowd of about 115 people. Our two-year anniversary was two shows in a midtown theater totaling over 2,000 tickets. It was a weird and amazing year between those two shows.
—Joseph Fink
There’s a snapshot moment that I remember most about the evening Night Vale performed this show at Town Hall in New York. It was after the performances were over, after all the autographs were signed and photos taken. There were rumblings of going to a bar around the corner to celebrate since we had such an amazing cast for this onetime event; and I told everyone I would meet them in a bit, just as soon as I got out of my suit and tie.
I was in a dressing room on the highest floor of the theater, tucked out of the way from the excited, frenetic energy of the green room and stage. My suit hung up behind the door, my dress shoes kicked off on the floor (because even the most comfortable shoes start to pinch when you’ve been standing on stage for the better part of five hours). I wanted to head out, but I just needed a few minutes of sitting in a chair and resting. One of the cleaning staff came in, thinking everyone else had left the theater, found me in my socks and underwear, and I told them I knew it was late and wouldn’t be more than five minutes. They nodded and went back downstairs.
As I was packing up, it hit me just how improbable this whole situation was—of actually making a living being an actor in New York City, of performing in a theater just off Times Square, of making golden-age radio plays “cool” again, of creating a gay character with dignity and joy, of being some kind of cult success in a mainstream-obsessed society, of doing something so simple as telling macabre stories that were a balm to a life which is unpredictable and, ultimately, inescapable. Of being able to say, “I was here. I did this. Maybe when I go, I will be remembered fondly.” All of that seemed so unlikely and so absurd it could hardly be believed . . . and that it had all happened in the span of two years. But there I was, packing up my belongings, a long and rewarding night’s work complete.
And then it was out the stage door, out onto the streets of Manhattan, just one more person on the sidewalk going to meet friends and celebrate being together.
—Cecil Baldwin, Voice of Cecil Palmer
Sometimes Night Vale comes for you.
You don’t believe it? Well, friend, it happened to me. L
isten to a story . . .
So there’s me, minding my own business one day. I’m a writer. I like podcasts. I’ve got Night Vale coming in my earways through the headphones. I’m into it. Where am I? Oh, that’s not important. I move through various locations. I’m not a fixed being.
BUILD THIS PICTURE IN YOUR MIND.
Maybe in some respects it sounds like you. It doesn’t have to be all respects. We’re more alike than we are different. All of a sudden, Cecil starts talking about this Intern Maureen. MY name is Maureen. This Maureen had a puppy. I have a puppy.
Oh, you think it was a coincidence? That there are many Maureens with many puppies? Think again, chumps! Because I checked it out. I asked around about “Joseph Fink” and “Jeffrey Cranor.” Turns out, they’re real. Surprise number one. Surprise number two: They verified that they had inserted me right into Night Vale.
Imagine that happening to you. You’re just living your life and then all of a sudden you work for Night Vale Community Radio.
And then, you drink some orange juice and end up in a parallel dimension.
Oh no. No no no no no no. I found those J-fellows and I told them that if I was doing this internship, I WAS GOING TO DO THIS INTERNSHIP. Even if it meant working for Cecil. Don’t extract me from my life and then juice me out of town.
You better believe they heard that. Who’s back in this episode, the one you’re about to read?
(Points several thumbs at self)
That’s right. Intern Maureen. I even appeared ON STAGE, in an ACTUAL HUMAN THEATER, performing in this episode you’re about to read.
Did I spend that night learning that the cast and crew of Night Vale are the best people around? Maybe. Did I tear up at the loveliness and dedication of Night Vale fans? Some reports say so. Was the microphone too high but I was afraid that if I touched it to adjust it I would knock it over and it would catch on fire and the whole theater would go up in flames and Night Vale fans would run screaming and burning into the night? Perhaps. So did someone have to help me adjust it because no one could hear me because I was standing on my toes to try to reach it?
