The Buying of Lot 37

by Joseph Fink

  The Secret Police are also on the hunt for the Faceless Old Woman, whom they describe as an elderly female without a face, although no one has ever actually seen her, so we’re all just guessing. But you’ll know you’re near her if you’re at home, particularly if you’re home alone and it’s dark and you think you hear breathing and creaking steps in another room. Under no circumstances should you look. Don’t look. You will not at all like what you see, the Secret Police said.

  There is a reward for information leading to the arrest of either of these fugitives. That reward is a gift card to Pier One, a lifetime of gratitude, and a couple of handwritten coupons for things like “washing the dishes” or “a ten-minute backrub.”

  A couple of listeners have asked how my boyfriend, Carlos, is doing. He’s still working on lots of interesting science projects in that desert otherworld. It’s been almost a year since I last saw him in person. I miss him a lot.

  I’m waiting to hear back from station management about getting vacation time so I can go visit him. It’s nearly impossible to get approved for vacation, and even if you do, you never know when or how you will find out. At most businesses, you just file some simple paperwork or ask your direct supervisor, and after a few days, they have someone from Human Resources hide in the backseat of your car and when you’re halfway home they grab your face from behind, covering your eyes with one hand and mouth with the other, and shout, “Your vacation has been approved! Congrats!” and then in your excitement you take them out for ice cream.

  But not in community radio. You can wait weeks or months to hear back. In the meantime, though, I’ve been taking up watercolors again and I did something I’ve never done for anyone else I’ve ever been with. I painted a picture of Carlos. He’s in profile, looking across his desert otherworld. He’s wearing his Karl Lagerfeld-designed lab coat and there’s a car-sized bichon frise atop a dune behind him.

  It might be the best painting I’ve ever made. I had long given up this old hobby, and lately I’ve grown so, I don’t know, out of touch, lost, disconnected, I just needed something to occupy my time.

  Anyway, I hung it above my desk, near the window, and I tell you it really gets me through the days, seeing my pastel Carlos, in his brush-swept otherworld paradise.

  Let’s take a look now at the community calendar.

  Thursday night, Dark Owl Records will be holding an open mic for anyone who promises not to play any music, perform any poetry or comedy, or produce any kind of art at all. Dark Owl owner Michelle Nguyen said she hopes to not have to listen to or see any more art for as long as she lives, which she is sure will be for a really long time. “It’s taking forever, this life,” Nguyen said, before inserting an AOL Free Internet for 30 Days disc into her antique CD player. “This is the only thing I can listen to anymore,” Nguyen added.

  Friday morning the Society for a Blood Space War will be traveling back in time and eliminating several future enemies before they gain training and grow powerful. According to the group’s press kit, Friday is the official day of the event but since they’ll be traveling back in time, it’s kind of moot because they’ve already done it. It’s just that they recently hired a new PR manager and he’s being all like “you can’t announce an event without a date.” Anyway they’ll have preemptively assassinated all future enemy leaders by Friday morning.

  Well this certainly explains the people in space suits who broke into our break room here at the station last week and started a laser-knife battle with two folks from finance and our new intern Hannah Reff, who it turns out had some pretty sick laserknife fighting skills. The finance folks went down easy, but Hannah managed to fight two of her attackers off before the three remaining intruders grabbed her and jumped en sacrificial masse into the temporary black hole they had created near the coffee maker, thus ending Hannah’s future reign of space terror.

  To the family of Intern Hannah, she was a good intern, very focused and always a friendly presence here in the office. She was also a future warlord in the Blood Space War, but you couldn’t have known that. Only Hannah could have. She will be missed.

  Where was I? Oh, Saturday afternoon on the Great Lawn is the Ennui Fair, sponsored by the Last Bank of Night Vale. There will be some pouty clowns indifferent to simplistic balloon shapes of dogs. There will be local merchants and artisans standing hopelessly in small lots where they should be setting up booths to showcase their wares but can’t bring themselves to do so because they’ve lost the thread, not just of the Fair but of their careers and lives. Organizers say they expect cold rain that day, so you should . . . and then their press release just trails off.

  Sunday all day is the first annual Ultimate Frisbee Tournament, at the Softball and Field Hockey Grounds, which were discovered last fall by archeologists over near the Olive Garden in the Problematic Birds District. The archeologists determined this ancient site was built over four years ago by natives of this town who enjoyed outdoor activities like amateur softball and field hockey.

  “Tuesday Afternoon” is a pretty decent classic rock song.

  It has just been reported to me that the Night Vale PTA is upset about the strategic plan created by the Night Vale School Board.

  Gordon Moreno, president of the PTA, issued a statement criticizing the school board for not consulting parents and teachers when crafting these changes.

  Joined by treasurer Diane Crayton, whose son Josh is a ninth grader at NVHS, and secretary Steve Carlsberg, whose stepdaughter Janice is in second grade, Moreno said the School Board once again showed its lack of care for parental input into the education and development of its students.

  “Parents’ voices must be heard,” Moreno shouted from atop the statue of immortal film actor Lee Marvin. Sitting on Marvin’s shoulders, legs dangling like a denim-wrapped flesh scarf from the bronze sculpture’s muscular neck, Moreno called for more transparency in education planning.

  Moreno then clenched his teeth and lips and eyes as he kicked his legs back and forth in a groaning, full body tantrum.

  Let’s take a look at financial news.

  Two-thousand, nine-hundred twenty-one is a number, which is up from many other numbers. Definitely up, so you should get really excited, or perhaps really upset, over this.

  Also, the following words: prime, debt, capital, offering, and portfolio. Write those down and learn what they mean. Do not remember anything that you learn, but seek the memory of what you learned in dreams.

  Here’s another number: 9.8 billion. That’s a very large number, one of the largest numbers. Loosen your jaw and breathe in slowly through your nose when you hear a number like that. Nine. Point. Eight. Billion. That’s billion . . . with TWO Ls. Billion. Wow.

  This has been financial news.

  John Peters, you know the farmer, called today to say he noticed that Frank Chen has returned to town. Some of you recall that Frank went missing a while back, and a little over two years ago his body was found by four kids who followed a railroad track. Chen’s body was covered in extensive claw marks and burns most likely caused, according to the coroner’s report, by a large dragon.

  Anyway, John said he’s seen Frank driving around town in his pickup truck doing some freelance construction work with a focus on carpentry and restoration, just like he always did when he was alive.

  John said Frank looks good. “He’s real tall now, and rotund,” John said from atop a telephone pole, where he’d jimmied up a phone directly into the active lines. “Got a tail and a bunch of colorful heads now. Also he got one of them crossover toolboxes and a class-four adjustable hitch for his truck,” John said, sounding impressed.

  “Guess death isn’t the end,” John added. “We all have to live on in some way. Maybe it’s in the legacy we leave, or the memories other people keep of us, or the feeling they have when they hear our names, or a stolen identity taken by someone still alive, or just actual, physical immortality. It’s all a shame, whatever it is. Such a damn shame, everything is, I tell
you.”

  And then there was a loud buzz and a staticky pop and a dial tone. And then a different voice said, “You can hang up the phone now, Cecil.”

  And I said, “Okay, Lacy, fine.”

  We’ve just received word that the school board has rejected the PTA’s request for more transparency in long-term strategic planning.

  The president of the school board and enormous glowing cloud cited School District Code 25.3B-2, which states “ALL HAIL. ALL HAIL THE MIGHTY GLOW CLOUD. YOU ARE WEAK. YOU ARE NOTHING. YOU MUST BOW DOWN AND GIVE PRAISE TO THE GLOW CLOUD,” as well as Code 17.2A, which explicitly defines the powers of the school board president as “OMNIPOTENT. OMNISCIENT. OBSTREPEROUS. INFINITE.” That’s exactly what it says. It even has that reverb effect when you read it.

  PTA President Moreno, knowing he had very little leverage in his request for power of legislative review, decided to change his strategy into a request for forgiveness from the angry pulsing cloud.

  Animals began falling from the sky, with heavy thumps and splats and splashes. The Great Lawn has grown dark with carcasses and shadows, as PTA officers run in search of cover. I’ve heard from my friend Diane Crayton that she huddled underneath the Lee Marvin statue, and that the lifelike bronze form of our nation’s greatest living actor has done a tremendous job of blocking the various black bears and nurse sharks and ostriches falling so violently to earth.

  The Glow Cloud has spread wide across the sky, blotting out important things like spy satellites and helicopters, as well as unimportant things like the moon and the illusions of mountains near the horizon.

  From right here in the studio, I can see the darkness spreading. It looks like this is as good a time as any to take you to the wea—— [THUMP]

  What was that? [THUMP] What the [THUMP] was that?

  [THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP. . . . growing rapidly more and more thumps of animals hitting the station]

  WEATHER: “True Trans Soul Rebel” by Against Me!

  The school board and the PTA have reached a compromise. The PTA’s earlier grievance that long-term curriculum and school district planning lacked transparency has been heard, and while the Glow Cloud and the school board could not offer complete openness and inclusion in all school district decisions for the PTA, they could offer to stop dropping dead animals on everyone if the PTA never mentioned transparency or questioned authority again.

  PTA President Moreno agreed to these terms, panting, “Yes. Sure. Never again. Please just let us be. Please.” He then breathlessly repeated all hail, all hail, all hail, as thick residue of some fallen beast dripped slowly off his swollen face and onto his torn shirt.

  Diane Crayton, safe beneath the Lee Marvin statue, asked, “Perhaps a PTA liaison on the school board would be—”

  But Moreno jumped in, “No. No liaison. We’re just fine, Diane. We must give praise.”

  And Diane didn’t say a word, but she said a lot. Moreno did not acknowledge the look in Diane’s eyes.

  Steve Carlsberg then added . . . I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I’m sure he added something. Steve always does.

  I hope you are all safe, dear listeners. I hope you are all okay. I know I am safe. Sadly, though, I am not okay.

  The falling animal carcasses collapsed a small section of the outer wall around our radio station. No one was injured but it was the wall where my desk was. My new painting. I had spent so long on it. I mean. I can replace it but. It’s just that—

  It’s just that it brought me such happiness. Such a reason to get up. Such little joys. Like it’s not hard to find images of Carlos. We have science with its phones and screens and psychic projections and . . . But that picture. It was art. Creation. Destroyed.

  I mean. I can paint another. I can.

  I can just paint another. It’ll be fine. Just an excuse to do some fun painting.

  I’m glad we’re all okay. Diane’s okay. Even Steve. I’m glad he’s okay, too.

  I can just paint . . .

  It’s fine.

  Yep. Everything’s fine. Stay tuned next for the quiz show “Ask Me Another. But I’ll Never Talk, You Fiend. I’ll NEVER Talk.” It’s our most popular new program.

  And as always, good night, Night Vale. Good night.

  PROVERB:Don’t bring a gun to a knife fight. Don’t bring a knife to a knife fight either. Stop going to knife fights altogether. What’s your deal with knife fights?

  Episode 65:

  “Voice Mail”

  APRIL 1, 2015

  GUEST VOICES: DYLAN MARRON (CARLOS), KATE JONES (MICHELLE NGUYEN), HAL LUBLIN (STEVE CARLSBERG), SYMPHONY SANDERS (TAMIKA FLYNN), WIL WHEATON (EARL HARLAN), MOLLY QUINN (FEY), MEG BASHWINER (DEB), MARA WILSON (FACELESS OLD WOMAN), RETTA (OLD WOMAN JOSIE), JASIKA NICOLE (MAYOR DANA CARDINAL), JACKSON PUBLICK (HIRAM MCDANIELS), ERICA LIVINGSTON (PHONE TREE), CHRISTOPHER LOAR (PHONE TREE), KEVIN R. FREE (KEVIN)

  I LIVE AN UNCONVENTIONAL LIFE. I HOLD EXTREME LIBERAL OPINIONS. I make weird performance art late at night in moldy old theaters. I travel the world talking into a new microphone every day. I wear high-top Vans and a fake leather jacket. I have visible tattoos and piercings. I hate rules. I hate authority. I hate The Man. I hate The Man so much that I think that we should, in fact, stick it to him. But I have a confession to make, I LOVE structure. That’s right, I’m just another damn square in dark-framed glasses. I love schedules: mealtimes, bedtimes, and rigidly enforced freetimes. My favorite thing to be in the whole world is on time. Because what is structure anyway but bones! And what is more punk than a skeleton? A skeleton with a watch on its wrist bone.

  I especially love structure when it comes to making art. For the most part, if you build a strong framework you can throw any damn thing at it and it will be great. Even better, borrow an existing framework. That’s why I think this episode is genius. It is a great example of using an existing structure to do the heavy lifting of setting the tone and mood to the story. It uses the 1990s answering-machine trope to gift the audience with a private glimpse into the intimacy of Carlos and Cecil’s long-distance relationship. Long-distance relationships are often carried out in phone calls, text messages, voice mails, telegraphs, carrier pigeons, and 1,000-mile stares out of rain-dappled windowpanes through longing eyes. So the choice to tell this story, in this way provides a very satisfying fit for rebellious lovers of structure like myself. Not to mention, it uses the structure of a chain of voice mail messages as a jungle gym for all of these fantastic voice actors to show off. This use of structure is brilliant in that it tells us something new about the story and something new about what voice mails can be. We should expect nothing less from the dudes who invented throat spiders.

  My personal outgoing message is and has been since I got my own phone in 2000: “You have reached the voice mail of Meg Bashwiner. She encourages you to not spend your life waiting for the beep.” This was cute and fun back when my phone was just for my friends to call me to talk about going to see Rocky Horror or smoking cigarettes behind the high school or whatever it was we talked about before texting and bitmoji existed. But now that my phone is officially for, like, important business shit, it is just strange. The only reason anyone calls me and leaves a voice mail nowadays is for work or doctor’s appointments. I think callers find my voice mail jarring and this leads to shaky and confused voice mails from people who are trying to contact me in a professional manner. I suppose, they feel like they are forced into a choice between leaving me a message or finally taking the leap and going to blacksmith school, or however it is receptionists at gynecologists’ offices would really like to be spending their lives. But I’m not going to change my outgoing message because, remember, I hate The Man. And challenges to the convention of voice mails are a part of sticking it to him. Another reason this episode rocks.

  It was a true honor to get to perform one of the callers here. This episode feels a bit like a yearbook for the Welcome to Night Vale team in 2014–2015, with each guest actor getting to drop in and sign next to
their photo. I am thrilled that Deb has her place in this episode. Deb is not a frequent player on the podcast itself, she is saved for the live shows. So I am always excited and nervous when I get asked to do some voice acting and not just the weekly cold read of credits and proverbs. Speaking of proverbs, the one for this episode is about the pack of feral cats that lived behind Joseph’s and my old apartment. It says to stay tuned for updates. Here’s the update: We have since moved. When we moved all of our patio furniture was covered in cat shit and hairballs. Those cats are probably dead now. Spay and neuter, friends, spay and neuter.

  —Meg Bashwiner

  CECIL:You have reached the voice mail of Cecil Gershwin Palmer. That might seem like an easy thing to do but think about how long you had to stay alive just to learn how a phone works and who I am. Congratulate yourself on that. Give yourself a vigorous pat on the back. And don’t forget to leave a message after the heavily distorted sample of a man saying, “I JUST COULDN’T EAT ANOTHER BITE.”

  HEAVILY DISTORTED SAMPLE OF A MAN:I JUST COULDN’T EAT ANOTHER BITE.

  CARLOS:Hey, sweetie, it’s Carlos. I know you’re probably busy talking or not talking. Seems like you’re always talking or not talking, you know?

  I’ll try again in a bit, but I just wanted to let you know what’s up here. What’s up? The sky. Ha ha. It’s a funny joke but also scientifically accurate. I only tell scientifically accurate jokes. I don’t get how people can find inaccurate jokes funny.

  Like: A horse walks into a bar and says, “I feel used. As a species even. I feel used.” And the bartender is also a horse—this is the Horse District, where horses live when they’re not being used by the humans—and the horse bartender says, “Don’t I know it, buddy,” and the first horse says, “I’m not your buddy” and then he says, “Man, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. That was awful of me. It’s the anger.”