by Joseph Fink
So! That’s what happened. Or at least, according to my notes. It’s entirely possible that during that memory gap I decided to use my notebook to try out a first foray into realistic fiction, and that something else entirely happened. Who knows which fictional version of the fictional past is true?
And so, listeners, now that we are safe, let us take a moment of deep sympathy for Pamela Winchell.
One of the great fears, among a life of great fears, perhaps the last great fear, is the fear of being no longer useful. We find a role in life, and we do that role to the best of our ability for as long as that ability is there. But all of us, even me, dear listeners, will someday hit a point where we no longer are able to do that thing that we define ourselves by doing. And more than the fear of injury, more than the fear of death, this is the fear that looms. The loss of self. The self that is the self we imagined we were our whole lives.
But we were never that self, not really. We were only a series of selves, living one role and then leaving it for another, and all the time convincing ourselves that there was no change, that we were always the same person, living the same life. One arc to a finish, not the stutter-stop improvisation that is our actual lives.
Worry less about the person you once were, or the person you dream you someday will be. Worry about the person you are now. Or don’t even worry. Just be that person. Be the best version of that person you can be. Be a better version than any of the other versions in any of the many parallel universes. Check regularly online to see the rankings.
Pamela Winchell was mayor. And now she is not. But that does not mean she is not anything. She is still Pamela. She is still a human being. And now she is also the Director of Emergency Press Conferences.
We look forward to the Pamela that is, and whatever Pamela will come after.
Stay tuned next for a world so possible that its very possibility feels constricting.
And, of course: Good night, Night Vale. Good night.
PROVERB:Most people think pit bulls are dangerous dogs, but biologically speaking, most pit bulls are just three shih tzus wearing a trench coat.
Episode 53:
“The September Monologues”
SEPTEMBER 1, 2015
GUEST VOICES: MARA WILSON (FACELESS OLD WOMAN), KATE JONES (MICHELLE NGUYEN), HAL LUBLIN (STEVE CARLSBERG)
ONE OF THE JOYS OF PLAYING THE SAME CHARACTER OVER TIME IS WATCHING him get fleshed out and seeing his relationship with the audience change. Jeffrey and Joseph’s writing informs everything I do on stage and I hope that, in some small way, what I do provides some inspiration to them. Steve has become a more complex and fleshed out character, and in the last five years he has had two watershed moments: “Old Oak Doors” and “The September Monologues.”
My first live show after “The Debate” was in San Diego back in early 2014, and I vividly remember talking with Joseph, who said he had been thinking a lot about Steve Carlsberg and that maybe Cecil wasn’t always the most reliable narrator. That information helped fuel my on-stage performance—after all, even if Cecil hates Steve, that doesn’t mean that Steve has to hate Cecil or think he is a bad guy—I went on playing him as happy-go-lucky, with those delicious moments of darkness the boys would write into my live-show bits.
In “Old Oak Doors,” we saw the protective side of Steve emerge. He became the hero, and it became apparent to the audience for the first time that maybe Cecil’s issues with Steve weren’t entirely Steve’s doing. I saw a difference in how the audience reacted when I came on stage after those shows. People began to relate to Steve, to care for him, to feel that he was misunderstood, but, of course, many still felt that Cecil’s disdain was justified.
Then came “The September Monologues,” where you learn the root of their tumultuous relationship, but from Steve, not Cecil. I love that the source of their conflict comes from a shared love for Janice and what each feels is best for her. The script is heart wrenching, and I only recorded two takes of it; the writing was so clear and visceral and funny and sad that it made it simple for me to perform. Strong writing is like that. Steve changed for me after “The September Monologues,” because I knew that he was someone burdened with terrible and complete knowledge, living in a place where knowledge is forbidden. I’d always played him as happy-go-lucky, but now I include this layer of sadness and pain that comes from knowing the truth and it’s always bubbling below the surface.
And for the record, I think Steve’s scones sound delicious.
The way Cecil and Steve’s relationship continues to evolve is such a joy because I think ultimately they have a lot more in common than either one knows. The disdain is still there, but it has been joined by grudging love and, maybe, a little respect. Like most relationships we have, it’s not as simple as pure love or pure hate. There are dimensions and shades of gray and that’s where Steve and Cecil are right now.
One thing I can tell you for sure is that Steve doesn’t have to fight as hard to get those on-stage hugs anymore.
—Hal Lublin
The wind out of the desert is changing. I feel it. You feel it. A shiver in the midday heat. A crackle in the television broadcast. A shift in your immune system. It is September and something is different.
CECIL:It is September and the days have gone sinister, from first eyes open to last slow breathing. It is September. And so, listeners, dear listeners, Night Vale Public Radio is proud to introduce . . . the September Monologues . . .
FACELESS OLD WOMAN:Chad. Can you hear me? My mouth is half an inch from your left ear and I’m whispering. You will feel a heavy warmth there, like air from a swamp. That means I’m talking to you, Chad. I’m right behind you.
Listen, Chad. How long have we lived together? Your whole life. That’s the answer. Not that you’d know it. Because I do it secretly. Thus my name. The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home. Oh, also I don’t have a face.
Chad, I am getting away from the point. You are the point.
Is this how you want to live your life? Shuffling from one trivial moment to the next, never letting anything add up to anything else? Chad, it’s not my place to say, I know. My place is hiding behind the boring button-up shirts in your closet, my thin, gnarled fingers almost brushing your hand each time you reach for one of these milquetoast frocks on your way to another unsuccessful night trying to find someone who will make you more than you are.
Chad, do you know how many flies live in your apartment? I do. I know all of their names, and I tell them where to lay their eggs. So listen, Chad, do not get on my wrong side. My fury is vast and murky and expressed through a papier-mâché gaped-mouth figure that I left behind your cereal boxes this morning. Not that you’ll find it. You never eat breakfast. A good breakfast is the start of a good day, say the tablets we found in that ancient crater last year.
But I’m not here to lecture you, Chad. I’m here to understand.
Like: What’s with all the candles? Your room is strewn with clothes like your dresser got sick from overeating, but suddenly you’re buying nicely scented candles and arranging them carefully in the living room? That doesn’t seem like you, Chad.
And the fabric. That rich, red fabric that you bought and . . . are you sewing that fabric, Chad? That doesn’t seem like you either. Your other hobbies involve watching, or consuming, and now, here you are, doing. What does it mean?
I have uncovered many secrets, Chad. Do not think that you are going to be able to keep anything from me. I know what is behind the old VHS copy of Cliffhanger in your media center. I know about the way you talk to your horse figurines. Yes, I know about the horse figurines. And I know about the dreams, Chad. I put my faceless head very close to your face at night, as you sleep. If you opened your eyes, I’m sure it would upset you. So fragile and yet so certain, your belief in the sanctity and privacy of home.
But what about the amulet you hid in the bag of lettuce, deep in your fridge? Why the amulet, that ancient, cracked painting of a screaming goat
set upon gold and ebony? I couldn’t lift it, Chad. I tried with my bony, skin-taut arms that have a surprising animal strength, those arms that have been so close to you so many times, but that you have never seen. I tried to lift it, Chad, and I couldn’t. Why wasn’t I able to lift it?
This is me, as part of your life, trying to understand that life. And you, drinking beer with your friends, drinking beer by yourself, drinking beer before work by yourself, smiling with your friends and smiling at your work and sitting dead-eyed and silent for hours in your living room, wearing a polo shirt and khaki shorts, crying without making a sound or moving, a silence of tears down your slack, boyish face. Chad, this is you and I’m trying to understand.
I’ve stopped googling bees and I’ve starting googling your name, over and over. I can’t find trace of you anywhere. Who are you, Chad? I thought I understood. I do not understand.
And now, you are rising from your easy chair, still weeping. You are putting on the long red robe and lighting the candles, arranged throughout the room in a pattern or shape that I do not recognize. You are raising up the amulet and you are speaking. No, shouting. No . . . intoning. This is not a language I understand. I understand every language. Your very speech is outside of my reality.
What I saw next, Chad, was beyond me. I have seen death, in its many heaving forms. I have seen the low-flying ships that hide on the horizon, in front of the setting sun, and I have seen the misshapen silhouettes of their pilots. I have seen the websites you visit. But, Chad. What I saw in that moment. What you summoned in your living room. What you brought to us here in this little town, my town, the town I secretly live in, the town in which I am, at least in my view, presumptive mayor. What have you done?
Chad, this is all to say, that I am the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home, but not your home, Chad. Not anymore. Because something else is living there now.
Oh, Chad. Something else is living there now.
CECIL:The air is different. Or, no, it’s not. It is the way we are breathing that is different. The breathers, all of us, have changed. We’ve gone . . . funny. You know? Just . . . funny. Words can’t capture it. But I have only words. So. Up next, more words. After that, words. Words and words and words. Words that form . . . the September Monologues.
MICHELLE NGUYEN:Nobody’s made a good album in years.
Michelle, you say. Michelle Nguyen, that’s not true, you say. Well, you’re right. Very little of what I have to say is true. Some of it is, though. Make of that what you will.
No, don’t. I don’t trust you to make anything good.
Hang on, there’s a customer.
[off mic]
Welcome to Dark Owl Records. You! YOU! Why are YOU here? What do you want from me, you—
[on mic]
Nevermind, they left.
We sold a pretty decent record the other day. It was a Beach Boys album. Everyone thinks the Beach Boys are the best. And fine, fine, they contributed a lot to American music. You can hear their influence on people like Cole Porter and Joni Mitchell and Mozart, but I’m so sick of everybody thinking they KNOW music just because they buy a Beach Boys album.
I begged the guy not to buy it. It was, of course, the one with most of their big hits on it, like “The People Under the Floor” and “I’m Being Followed” and “Tracking Device Inside My Skin” and, no doubt, The Beach Boys’ most famous song “Hand Me That Hammer, Madame Dentist.”
He bought the album, anyway. But I broke it into pieces as I handed it to him. And then I told him the store was closed and he wasn’t allowed to leave. He’s still somewhere in the basement.
A couple of people came looking for him, but I covered my eyes with my hand and sat silently so they couldn’t see me.
Point being, there are still a few good albums in the world, but not many.
[pause]
Oh, you know what I ordered for the store last week? It should arrive any day. If you’re a true lover of folk music, you’ll be just as excited as I am for this.
I ordered twenty-five copies of Woody Guthrie.
They’re scale replicas of his body in his most recognizable pose, holding a guitar in one hand and an aquarium full of mice in his other two hands. These replicas are three-to-one scale, so there’s no room with our low ceilings. I’ll have to keep them outside of the store in people’s lawns and next to highway overpasses and such. But they’re just great.
Oh. Wait. Nevermind.
Folk music is over. It’s done. Came and went. Stop listening to folk music. The Guthrie replicas are now 70 percent off. Please don’t buy them, though. Folk music is dead.
You want to know what music I’m listening to right now? Joy Division. Not “Unknown Pleasures.” Everyone’s listened to that album. That album will never be talked about by me again. No, I’m listening to a different Joy Division album. It’s a pretty recent album that was never actually released because they never wrote it or recorded it or produced it. But I managed to get a copy of this album and I listen to it almost daily, in private so it is not ruined by other people having heard it or talked to me about it.
It’s a good album. I cry when I hear it. I cry when I think about it. I’m crying now. I’m sure it doesn’t sound to you like I’m crying, because you can’t comprehend my crying. You can’t see me or hear me crying because you don’t know me. You don’t truly know me. This Joy Division album truly knows me in a way no other human ever has.
And so that’s a complete list of music I like.
Looks like the coroner is here again.
[off mic]
Hello, Linda. We got the new Panic! At the Disco album in.
[whispered into mic]
I’ve been selling her blank CDs for years now and telling her that’s Panic! At the Disco’s aesthetic. That they just release completely silent songs with no titles on albums with no tracks or cover art and no name. It’s really funny. Except for their new album really did come out, and it’s called “Quit Fabricating Our Musical Career, Michelle.” So I’m a little freaked out by that. But also, I think I’m really impacting the future of music.
[normal voice]
We here at Dark Owl Records pride ourselves on that. Impacting the future of music. Also the past. We impact the past of music. I’m wearing a hat right now.
So know that.
I hate Panic! At the Disco.
I’ve never actually heard their music, so I don’t really hate them so much as resent them. Or rather, resent what they stand for. Or rather, resent what I believe that they stand for. Or rather, resent my perception of other people’s projections of what they stand for. Or rather, myself. I hate myself is what I’m trying to say.
We have that in common, I think.
Panic! At the Disco is probably fine if you were to ever listen to their music. Lots of people buy lots of their music. Of course lots of people buy lots of ridiculous things: overpriced coffee, minivans, dogs, furniture, towels, medicine. You name it and some idiot will buy it.
[off mic]
Linda! Is that a Public Enemy cassette? Don’t touch that. You do not have hip-hop access here.
[on mic]
We have a pretty good hip-hop collection.
[pause]
That’s not true. It’s just that one cassette. And it’s broken.
Anyway, T-shirts and posters and trance music are all 50 percent off this weekend at Dark Owl, so come visit the store.
Wait. Nevermind. We’re closed until further notice.
You’re not allowed in here, anyway. Not with that tattoo. Who has a Woody Guthrie tattoo these days?
CECIL:It will all be over soon. And then something else will take its place. Like waves, says the common metaphor. From dust to dust, says a simplified version of a complicated philosophy. “Hmmmmmmm,” says the Big Bang, still echoing quietly through everything it created. Let us return, one last time, before it, you, or anything else ends, to the September Monologues.
STEVE:There are g
lowing arrows in the sky. You can’t see them. I do.
There are dotted lines and arrows and circles. The sky is a chart that explains the entire world, but you can’t see it. I know that.
The world makes sense. I believe that. I do. It has to. Otherwise, it wouldn’t make sense. And that would be the worst thing that could possibly happen.
No one listens when I talk. They hear, but they don’t listen. Even now maybe your attention is drifting. Why pay attention to me? Why pay attention to Steve Carlsberg? There he goes again with his theories and explanations. But I see them. I see the arrows in the sky. I understand what is happening.
Night Vale is a weird place. No one else sees that, I guess. But I do. It’s not like other places. I’ve never been other places, but I know. I know what other places are like. I’ve read books. Don’t tell anyone please. Don’t tell anyone that I’ve read books. I have to maintain my position and the respect of my peers. I am a member in good standing of the PTA. I bring scones and they are always the first item in the potluck to go. I take great pride in that.
My . . . brother-in-law? stepbrother? brother outside of the law? . . . I can never get those terms straight. Well he just brings store-made hummus and wheat-free pita chips. Every time. I make scones with my own hands, from scratch. Sometimes I put in a zest of orange, sometimes I don’t. They are not always the same. Nothing is.
People pick at the chips and the hummus. They want to be polite. Often they are not.
We all, all of us, so often fail at what we want to do. That’s okay. As long as we understand our failure. As long as we see it.
I see my failure to help my community the way I would like to help it. I would like to guide it somewhere new, but the only person who listened to me was that man on the Desert Bluffs radio, and then, well, then all the rest happened.
