by Joseph Fink
So in an effort to exterminate the earworm, I wrote an episode about it.
Also, there’s a joke in this episode about David Mamet’s Oleanna. I don’t recommend reading or viewing or (please, god, no) staging this play. If you enjoy reading or listening to Welcome to Night Vale, I’ll tell you that Oleanna is the opposite of that.
It’s fast-paced, dialogue-heavy, and it never savors the funny, the divine, or the gentle.
I watched a touring production of that play in college in the late 1990s. It’s about sexual harassment, abuse of power, and the whole he-said/she-said approach to storytelling. It’s a two-hander featuring only a female university student and a middle-aged male professor.
Spoiler alert, it doesn’t really hold up to 2019 criticism. I didn’t think it held up to 1997 examination well either, to be honest. Anyway, in this episode, I describe a much better version of the play, because I can do that. I don’t mean to be flippant about our conversations around consent, power, and sexual assault. I do, however, mean to be flippant about David Mamet’s conversations around those issues.
Anyway, let’s all enjoy a bit more juggling and a lot less shouty, interrupted dialogue between wholly unlikable characters.
—Jeffrey Cranor
Kill it with kindness. And if that fails, kill it with sharp sticks or knives.
WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE
I didn’t sleep well last night. I imagine none of you slept well last night, what with all the chanting and stomping. I could see from my window a stark white V opening skyward just to the south of our apartment. Within its inverted cone, long shadows cutting in and out, a vertical static. I could hear a distant, repeated chant. Bum bum BUM. Bum bum BUM. Something like that.
Again, that’s not so unusual. When you live in a city long enough, you get used to the nighttime noise of car alarms, or howls of stray cats, or the occasional carolers crouching by your front door singing about some new god they invented in a nightclub. It’s basic urban life.
But this chant was different. I first heard only the shouts of one or two people. Bah dah BAH. Bah dah BAH. Whatever the chant was. I figured they were simply college kids who discovered some dinosaur bones, which I understand is a thing college kids are all into these days.
Carlos was able to sleep through the sounds. (He can sleep through anything—alarm clocks, heavy construction, even that godawful screeching the sunrise makes.) But I was in and out of light sleep all night. By just before dawn the handful of chanters had grown to a large crowd. What was that chant? Wah wah WAH. Wah wah WAH. I couldn’t tell, but there must have been dozens of them.
Well, hopefully they keep it down tonight. Let’s have a look now at the community calendar.
Wednesday night, the staff of Dark Owl Records will be holding a séance to try to reach the ghost of Taylor Swift. They’ll be lighting candles and holding hands and playing Swift’s newest album, 1879, which was named after the year she was born into a human body for the fifteenth time.
Record shop owner Michelle Nguyen said it’s important that they get hold of Swift’s ghost so they can ask her detailed questions about what kind of music she was into back then because the Dark Owl staff is running out of music that no one else has heard of. They want to find music that no longer exists so they can get into that.
Nguyen also wants to trash-talk Emile Berliner, who was Swift’s ex-boyfriend and who totally stole Swift’s idea to invent the gramophone. “He hated music,” Nguyen said. “He had some pretty fly ties, so, like, I could see him inventing a pocket square. But not a turntable. Ugh. Did I just use the word fly?” Nguyen added.
The séance will be from 10:00 P.M. to 2:00 A.M. and there will be a live DJ, snacks, whispering, and darkness.
Thursday afternoon, the Night Vale Community Players will hold auditions for their fall production of David Mamet’s Oleanna. Director Shaundra Richardson wants to take a fresh approach to this controversial play, stating that she plans on removing all of the words and stage directions, instead simply presenting a stage full of actors juggling and/or eating things like candles and fruit and rodents.
Richardson says that the original 1992 play took a literal approach to the broad topics of gender and power, and she wants to find a more challenging, metaphorical approach to this difficult material. “Talking in English directly about a subject is a very 1990s thing to do. I think we can update this story by stripping it of language and narrative and just juggling and eating things,” Richardson said.
Hopeful actors should meet at 2:00 P.M. at the Rec Center and bring their own candles and rodents. Fruit will be provided. No previous acting experience or understanding of any specific language is necessary.
Friday night is the Night Vale Alive! Fireworks Spectacular put on each month by a vague yet menacing government agency. Representatives for the event, speaking through other representatives who we met in disguise using code names in an undisclosed location, said this month’s Fireworks Spectacular promises to be the largest and most exciting of the year. You won’t want to miss it, the representative whispered from behind a granite-colored Dodge Grand Caravan. But unfortunately, the representative added, you will have to miss it because it is a covert and secret fireworks show. Everyone must stay inside and close all doors and window coverings.
So prepare a picnic and gather the family into the panic room this Friday night.
Saturday is already over before it’s even begun. Where does the time go? That’s not even a metaphor. This coming Saturday ended weeks ago, and no one knows where it went or why.
An update on last evening’s weird lights and chanting, I’m getting word that the gathering of chanters was down by the old well in the south of town. Of course, we all know the old well. It’s that well that inexplicably appeared a few days ago. We call it the old well, because it’s been a really long week this week, what with getting back from vacation and returning to work and school. Plus it’s been superhot here this August. We’re all just kind of over it. So, like two or three days, feels like ages. That well’s been there basically forever.
Apparently a couple of people noticed that after sunset, the well emanates a bright light. As they approached the well, their eyes and hair disappeared and they began whispering “Well of Night” to passersby. They kept repeating the whisper “Well of Night” to anyone who would listen, but given that it is bad luck to acknowledge a stranger, most people hurried by without paying too close attention.
Eventually, someone pulled their car over near the well and asked the whisperers for directions to Chipotle. The whisperers replied “Well of Night,” and in a blink, the car was gone and the driver was standing next to the two whisperers, equally eyeless, equally hairless. All three of them shouting “Well of Life! Well of Life!” The three of them then did a series of moderate calisthenics, where they took large skipping steps, bringing their knees up to their chests and twirling their arms as straight sticks in conflicting circles above their heads.
Or maybe this wasn’t calisthenics but ritual dancing. I’m not sure. Both are important parts of a solid daily health regimen.
More on this as it develops but first a look at today’s traffic.
There’s an accident on Galloway Road beneath the overpass of Route 800. Everyone is very sorry about what happened. They didn’t mean for it to turn out like this. They didn’t mean for anything to turn out like it did. It was totally an accident and everyone apologizes profusely. Can you try to understand how something like this could happen to anyone? Can you try to forgive them? Can you?
Emergency crews are on hand to help clear debris and to offer hugs and empathy to all those affected, directly and indirectly.
Moving on, there’s congestion in downtown right now because of construction, narrowing Somerset down to a single lane. The Sheriff’s Secret Police has sent traffic cops down there to shout and scowl and point, which has helped considerably. It’s actually made the traffic worse, but everyone in the traffic feels stronger,
more emotionally prepared to deal with adversity than they were before getting in their cars.
Tunnels and bridges are completely clear this hour, as they are most hours, because they’re either totally secret or off-limits to public use. But today they’re especially clear of even the black sedans, armored vehicles, and windowless vans that normally clog those roadways.
Listeners, the Night Vale Highway Department would like to remind you to buckle up. Then to hunker down. Then to forget everything. Then to remember everything. Then to open your eyes to what’s really going on. Don’t you see what’s really going on? The Highway Department would like to call you all sheeple. Sheeple, they scowl as they roll their eyes. This has been a public service announcement from the Night Vale Highway Department.
Here now with a message from today’s sponsor is Deb, a sentient patch of haze. Hi, Deb.
DEB: Hi, human broadcaster. Hello, mortal listeners. It’s back-to-school time again, and the kids still need new clothes, bags, lunches, falconry gear, rappelling equipment, and other basic school supplies. So much stuff. Where will you find time to go to all of those stores? Well you don’t have to go to a bunch of different stores. You only need one store: Joann Fabrics.
CECIL: Cool, I thought Joann Fabrics only sold fabrics.
DEB: That’s simply untrue. Why would you even say that?
CECIL: Well, I just assumed from the name that Joann Fab——
DEB: Stop talking.
[pause]
Joann Fabrics welcomes any parent too overwhelmed by school or life or parenthood or whatever. Anything. Maybe you’re afraid of flying and you have to get on a plane soon. The threat is real, you know.
CECIL: I think planes are actually much safer—
DEB: Oh my god, Cecil. Can we have a conversation for once?
CECIL: You’re right. I’m sorry, Deb. I mean the thing is Joann Fabrics does fabrics better than anyone. So a creative person could make clothes and bags and all kinds of stuff for their kids.
DEB: You’re obsessed with fabrics.
CECIL: Well—
DEB: Fine. Go on about your fabrics. What do I care about petty human concerns?
CECIL: Carlos bought a nice batik at Joann recently. It’s got . . . um.
DEB: You don’t know what a batik is.
CECIL: I don’t.
BOOMING VOICE: Joann Fabrics.
DEB: Aah! Who the heck is that?
CECIL: I don’t know. I’ve never heard that voice before.
BOOMING VOICE: For all your back-to-school needs.
DEB: Oh my god. That’s really weird.
CECIL: It is.
BOOMING VOICE: Jooooaaaaannnnnn
DEB: I’m outta here.
BOOMING VOICE: Faaaaaabrrriiiiics
CECIL: Bye, Deb.
Listeners, I’m just getting word that right this moment the old well has begun to cast a ray of darkness upward. As the sun reached its apex, darkness cut across the bright day in a thin long V. The chanters, whose numbers have apparently grown into the high hundreds, are doing their strange dance or exercise around the well and chanting.
More and more are joining this throng. I’m being told that all of their eyes are completely overgrown with skin and that their hair doesn’t actually fall out. Apparently each hair retreats rapidly back into their heads like a scared worm.
I can see from my studio that tall funnel of black against the blue sky. I can faintly hear the chanting. There it is. Wah wah WAH. Wah wah WAH. That’s it. That is the chanting I heard last night. Well of Night. Well of Life. Well of Night. Well of Life.
Listeners, I can feel the power of the chant. I can feel my hair shortening, reentering my scalp. Oh that feels so . . . ugh . . . so . . . rewarding. Well of Night. Well of Life. My eyes are being covered in skin but suddenly I can see so much. More than I ever thought was possible. I must go to this well. With the well, I will see everything! [growing more and more off mic] Well of Night. Well of Life. Well of Night. Well of Life. Well of Night. Well of Life. Well of Night. Well of Life. Well of Night. Well of Life. [door slams]
[long-ish silence; door opens; Cecil returns to the mic]
I almost forgot. Here’s today’s weather. [shouting and leaving again] Well of Night. Well of Life. Well of Ni——
WEATHER: “Children of God” by AJJ
Oh wow. What fun that was, Night Vale. Those Well of Life people are wild but so sweet.
I was a bit nervous at first because it’s been years since I’ve been unwillingly inducted into a cult or chanting circle. I kind of thought I’d get there and everyone would see how out of practice I was. And boy, if you saw my kick steps, you’d know I hadn’t done a jumping jack or prayer dance in forever.
But here comes old Cecil with his hair withdrawn and eyes covered in flesh, ripe for the teasing, and they welcomed me without judgment or hesitations. I wasn’t two steps into their circle before someone drew blood from my neck and everyone cheered. What fun! Then someone else turned into a birdlike animal (a little furrier than a normal bird) and we all followed it into the well.
And down in that well, we all chanted until the bird person touched each of our foreheads with its bird hoof or whatever birds call their feet. And some of us joined hands and droned for a little bit. A few others were watching baseball highlights. And a few more were enjoying the hummus someone had made.
Then I was back here, skin covering gone from my eyes, hair returned to my scalp. The only thing different is that I’m now wearing a black plastic poncho, cat ears, and yellow galoshes. This was definitely not what I wore to work, as I do not own yellow galoshes. They’re orange. Well, I dunno. These are kind of orangeish. The lighting in my studio is weird. Maybe these boots are mine. I’m wearing exactly what I was wearing before, I think.
Anyway, I met some amazing people today. People I don’t remember anything about except the feeling of love and acceptance I felt when I was with them. Their faces and bodies are blurs. But for a short time we all chanted and did aerobics as one. We all mattered to each other even though we knew we didn’t matter at all. That seems wrong, I know, but two conflicting things can exist simultaneously. And they did. And it was a great moment. One I will cherish. And one I hope to never have again, because it would be ruined by the unattainable perfection of nostalgia.
The old well is gone now. In its place a barely noticeable bulge in the earth, slightly pink, and soft to the touch. The Parks Department has already erected a historic plaque to commemorate the well. The plaque reads: “Nothing unusual happened here or will happen here. You have been photographed reading this plaque. What were you hoping to learn?”
Stay tuned next for less of what you once were but more of what you think you are.
Good night, Night Vale. Good night.
PROVERB: When someone says, “I’m a dog person,” I always reply, “Yeah? Well, I’m a lizard person.” And then I peel off my face.
Episode 73:
“Triptych”
SEPTEMBER 1, 2015
GUEST VOICE: KEVIN R. FREE (KEVIN)
I RAN INTO A DUDE ON EAST 4TH STREET IN MANHATTAN WHO TOLD me that he didn’t like “Triptych” because he didn’t like for Kevin to have any human qualities. He likes his Kevin straight villainous, no frailties or feelings or fleshed-out whys or wherefores. I disagreed with that dude, but that was way back in 2015, a lifetime ago, when I didn’t have the words to be able to describe exactly why Kevin is a villain. So I will do that here. Please indulge me:
Kevin was just a dude. Sure, he had an important job as radio host, but he was just a regular guy. Like, say, for example, Senator Lindsey Graham of South Carolina. A dude with an important job.
StrexCorp moved into Desert Bluffs, and Kevin resisted them. He was part of the RESISTANCE. Like, say, for example, Lindsey Graham was in 2015, when he said that Donald J. Trump was “. . . a race-baiting, xenophobic religious bigot. He doesn’t represent my party. He doesn’t represent the values that the men and women
who wear the uniform are fighting for.”
StrexCorp then takes over Desert Bluffs, and Kevin gets brainwashed. He defends StrexCorp, even praises it. Like Lindsey Graham, who said about President Trump in 2018: “He’s not, in my view, a racist by any stretch of the imagination. I have never heard him make a single racist statement. Not even close.”
Then we find out that Kevin is depressed and regretful about what happened to him and Desert Bluffs, as a result of capitulating to StrexCorp.
Does Kevin’s regret make him any less a villain? Will Senator Lindsey Graham one day regret the way he’s ingratiated himself with the president and supported his racist, xenophobic, and, might I add, sexist and transphobic policies, let’s say—for the sake of argument—probably? But—like Kevin—he’s still a villain.
I hope that dude from East 4th Street reads this.
—Kevin R. Free
What’s past is prologue. What’s future is epilogue. This right here is maybe chapter 4 or 5.
WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE
Today’s top news is the Screaming Vortex that opened up in the Night Vale Mall food court, completely obliterating Ice Cream on a Stick, Lucy Tropic’s Fried Ice Cream, and Mario’s Very Authentic Italian Ice Cream Sub Sandwiches, while doing significant damage to American Teddy’s Ice Cream and Falafel. American Teddy’s owner, Teddy Rahal, said that this is the worst case of food court vortex that Night Vale has seen in decades, and then he started hollering about the figures he could see approaching from within the depths of the vortex, and I’m sorry but . . . I’m getting some weird feedback in my headphones. Just some slight technical difficulties. Let me see if any of these wires are loose and we’ll get right back to this important story. Okay, this one looks a little loose, I’ll just wiggle it a bit . . .
