The Great Glowing Coils of the Universe (17 page)

And yes, you will die, but probably not until everyone you know is already dead too. Your parents, your friends, your pets, each death leaving a small but irreparable scar on your not yet still, still-beating heart. The living tell the dying not to leave and the dying do not listen. The dying tell us not to be sad for them and we do not listen. The dialogue between the living and the dead is full of misunderstanding and silence.

There's nothing to fear in oblivion, unless of course your consciousness survives death. If so, it would be reasonable to fear the sensation of consciousness without senses, suspended alone in the cosmos with no one to hear you and no way to make yourself known, no reference point for counting time, a count that does not matter anyway in a literal eternity. You might wish that you still had a corporeal form only so that you could make your mouth move to express your terror, to make the universal form of a terrified scream, the form of a letter
O
. But you won't be able to. You just won't. This has been the Children's Fun Fact Science Corner, brought to you by shame, loneliness, and the letter
O
.

I have been told, listeners, that the auction has descended into chaos. Michelle Nguyen, owner of Dark Owl Records, having bid on a sealed box of Elvis Presley 45s, opened the box to find it was in fact a box of Elvis Presley's .45 caliber revolvers. The upended box has made bidding much more treacherous. Mayor Pamela Winchell, interested in Lot 28 (a gently used five-cup coffeemaker), has begun laying down suppressing fire over the ducked heads of anyone trying to outbid her.

Despite this, I must enter the auction house now myself, taking my life into my hands even more than usual. Lot 37: Cecil Palmer. I must know. I must bid. I go now, listeners, to await the crying of Lot 37.

As I go, you go, to the weather.

WEATHER: “Absentee” by Jack Campbell

Listeners, many complications ensued during my attempt to bid on Lot 37. First, in registering for the auction, I had to indicate my current income, which is made difficult as our new owners, who I have been asked to stop talking about, are now paying us in scrip redeemable only at merchants they own, like Dust Hut or the Ralphs. Luckily, the Sheriff's Secret Police turns out to be one of those select merchants. I was able to get a paddle only moments before the bidding on Lot 37 began.

When confronted with destiny, there are external events to record, yes, but also internal. I would say time slowed down even more than usual. The edges of the room went blurry and then went completely. There was a deep throb of distant machinery that I realized was my own heart propelling inadequate amounts of blood through my parched and aching body. If I did not win Lot 37 I would be unraveled. Perhaps I would be unraveled either way. The dull ache I felt was a primal ache of incompletion, the separation an infant feels when pulled too soon from its mother's embrace. My cheeks flushed with the irrationality of desire. I needed Lot 37. I counted my breaths. I judged myself for wanting, and judged myself wanting. I focused on those parts of my life completely out of my control in order to calm myself down, drowning my fears in pleasant helplessness.

The upshot is I forgot to raise my paddle. Oh, oh, foolish Cecil. And through the tears that came then to my eyes, I couldn't see who won Lot 37 with only one bid. Winner of Lot 37, if you're listening, on one hand, I wish you good luck with your prize. On the other, I will be using the mightiest bully pulpit of all—community radio—to strike back at you and destroy you. But also: congratulations. Also that.

I am authorized to tell you that the Sheriff's Secret Police have declared the auction a resounding success. In celebration, they deployed the piñata, to the screams, presumably delighted, of everyone in attendance. The winning bidders walked away grinning, laden down with trinkets and trophies that reassured them with the cleverness of sheer acquisition.

The Sheriff's Secret Police went on to say that objects are invested with manna, magic power caused by the dangerous ideas of property and ownership, and holding on to them is our attempt at having something that will never let us down, even though eventually all will. People leave. Parents leave the room. Lovers leave your life. You leave the world. We clutch teddy bears first, then dolls, then sports jerseys and automobiles with hand-sewn leather and excellent gas mileage as if that were something permanent. The Sheriff's Secret Police gave a great cheer in honor of constant decay and the inevitability of abandonment.

Listeners, accumulating objects is just a way, we hope, to turn back the grim specter of death. Thank you for your participation in this auction, and for your hope that making a certain purchase—All-Clad cookware, a candelabrum, a comic book, a community radio show host—would render you anything more than mortal.

I go now to find myself, or to find who has myself, or to find someone that might make me feel better about what has happened today. I'd take that last one, honestly. I'd take that honest last one.

And so, dear listeners, and whatever unknown person or entity that is now the owner of Lot 37: I bid you a farewell, the fondness of which is determined by your place relative to mine in my heart.

Stay tuned next for our popular home medical program
Yes, That's Probably Cancer.

Good night, Night Vale. Good night.

PROVERB: Listen. I'm not a hero. The real heroes are the people that point out to us when protesters have smartphones, thus invalidating all concerns.

EPISODE 38:

“ORANGE GROVE”

JANUARY 1, 2014

I
KILLED TWO GOOD PEOPLE
.

Sort of killed. Depends on your definition of alive, I guess, and how sentient you consider fictional characters.

In this episode, Intern Maureen—named after one of my favorite people, author Maureen Johnson—and Adam Bair—named after the person who bought the welcometonightvale.com domain long before we realized we needed to secure it from poachers, and just gave it to us—both touched the Orange Juice that made them flicker out of existence.

We didn't hear much from Adam. I hope he appreciated his death.

But Maureen—oh boy.

In fact, we heard about it on Twitter from Maureen. So much so that somehow her intern namesake didn't die at all. More on that later. But this was the episode that drew Maureen's online ire.

The upshot, though, was we ultimately became good friends with Maureen. The lesson, as always, is if you want to make friends, you simply need to kill virtual versions of people you like in a work of fiction.

We agreed to keep Intern Maureen alive as long as author Maureen agreed to perform her part live at our two-year anniversary show at New York's Town Hall that June. And she did, and it was perfect.

That recording is available online (at our website—you know, the one Adam Bair gifted us? He was a good Web designer, and he will be missed).

—Jeffrey Cranor

You take the good. You take the bad. You take them both, and there you have spiders crawling out of a red velvet cupcake.

WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE.

We start today's show with some exciting agricultural news. John Peters, you know, the farmer?, said his winter orange crop is outstanding this year. He said there are oranges everywhere. Delicious clementines, juicy Valencias, rich navels, and bold blood oranges. John said there are so many oranges. A real bumper crop, he said. A real orange-tacular, he did not say. A real orange-a-thon, he never would have said. A real orange-ocalypse, he may have thought but kept to himself.

John, speaking to a pack of local reporters, and backed by a group of farmers wearing black double-breasted suits and red silk ties, said this is the dawning of a new citrus economy in Night Vale. John said citrus is our future. Citrus holds the key to prosperity. Citrus holds the key to health. One particular orange here literally holds the key to a one-sided door in the middle of the desert. If you find that orange, John said, I will pay you dearly for it. Or rather, John corrected himself, you will pay dearly for it. John then said, either way. Whatever. Would love to have that orange, my friend. Would love to have that orange. Yes sir, he punctuated. Or ma'am. Or neither. I mean, whoever. Sure would love to have that orange. He chuckled while sweating and adjusting his wooden hat.

John then tossed some oranges to the reporters. The reporters caught the oranges and then began to disappear and reappear, blinking in and out of existence. Quickly at first, then slowly, then more out of existence than in, until they were all gone.

More on this story as it develops.

The City Council announced today that they just can't be here anymore. They said this in unison, standing in a cramped meeting room and wearing tiny rectangular sunglasses. They added that they wish us all the best in our final weeks. They then made the standard American Sign Language “I Love You” gesture as smoke filled the room.

Witnesses said the smoke smelled of maple and was a little briny but not unpleasantly so. When the haze cleared the City Council was still standing in the room apologizing, claiming “This usually works” and then, no longer speaking in unison, casting blame on each other for not believing hard enough and that if weren't for so-and-so they'd all be on a beach somewhere safe from the bears or whatever those things are.

When asked for an explanation about the bears, or whatever those things are, the council simply whispered, in unison, “Mistaaaaakes.” No follow-up questions were asked, as the reporters became physically and emotionally occupied with the dozens of agitated starlings that began pouring from the air-conditioning duct.

You know, listeners, I've been thinking about John Peters's orange grove. I did a little digging online and found that orange trees are not native to deserts.

I also e-mailed my boyfriend, Carlos, about this. He's a scientist, which kind of makes me a scientist too.

Here's Carlos's e-mail back to me just now:

Cecil, I'll do my best to answer your questions, but do know that I don't specialize in botany or dendrology. I am a scientist. I study science, not plants or nature.

I did drive out past John's farm a month ago, and there wasn't a single tree, just acres and acres of rocky, cracked, flat ground. There's no way he could have grown anything natural on that land, let alone a bountiful orange grove, especially in just a few weeks.

As far as your other question goes, let's stay home tonight. We ate out last night. Plus, there's a new documentary about scatterplot matrices on Netflix I've been wanting to see. Also
The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance
is on TBS again. We could rewatch that. I'll make pasta, if you can pick up some—

Et cetera et cetera. Carlos goes on about weekend bowling plans. . . . You don't need all this. Okay, I think that's all he had about the orange trees. I do hope we watch
Liberty Valance
, though. I love that film.

And now a word from our sponsors.

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