262 - The Man Who Is Not Tall

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At last, alas, alas's atlas.

It's lost.

Welcome to Nightvale.

Listeners,

I am concerned.

I am concerned about a beloved member of this town, a beloved member of our neighborhood, a beloved member of my family.

Yes, I am speaking now of everyone's favorite Scorpio, Steve Carlsberg.

Steve has been acting, well,

strangely lately.

And yes, of course, what does acting strangely mean in a town such as ours with a broad understanding of the spectrum of normal?

But I mean only that he is to the left of himself in so many ways.

The Steve I know is a good family man, a good friend, a helpful hand when a hand is needed, and a helpful silence when what is needed is space.

All of that and more, as we know, has always been my opinion of our Steve.

But lately, he is, instead, consumed by his new job at that tech startup Labyrinth.

He is there early in the morning and late at night and every hour between.

My niece, Janice, says that the family hardly sees him anymore.

And when he is home, He is hunched over his Blackberry, which I didn't think was a thing anymore, but apparently Labyrinth had a few custom-made at the old defunct factory because they just really like that classic Blackberry vibe.

I don't know what has happened to our beloved Steve, but I will not rest until I figure it out.

But first, some thoughts from yours truly.

It has been four years since speech about clouds and cloud-related topics was legalized in Nightvale, and are in favor of the new freedoms.

However, some point to a new problem in Nightvale, which is cloud perverts.

Cloud perverts openly stare at clouds and categorize them.

They say things like, oh, what a perfect example of a serrocumulus cloud, or, I have never seen mimatis clouds, but I hope I do before I die.

They sit for hours and paint anatomically correct pictures of clouds.

Some even sell these paintings on the dark web, just gross pervert stuff like that.

And even those of us who are happy the ban has been lifted, and I am always in favor of freedom of speech, except in a few thousand specific circumstances, we can't be tolerating behavior like this in our society.

So,

what to do with cloud perverts?

One answer would be to ban clouds again, but I am hopeful we will not have to resort to that.

The other option is to address the people rather than the object of their obsession.

The people are the problem.

We should loudly and clearly say to cloud perverts, that is sick.

You are sick.

You make me sick.

And if that doesn't work,

gulags.

Just my POV, which stands for Private Opinion Victory.

Steve spends his days in an old cargo van.

Painted on the side of the van is the Labyrinth logo, a complicated white maze on a black background already several years into fading under the constant desert sun.

The inside of the van smells like old car seats and new suits.

The frame rattles when going over over the rough pavement of the roads far out in the desert, where no one drives unless they are trying to go somewhere they can't be seen.

The driver of the van is a man who is not short.

Steve himself is not tall.

I've never thought of him that way.

He's never thought of himself that way, but it's true.

Steve is a man who is not tall, and he rides with a man who is not short.

Steve wears sunglasses.

The sun reflects blinding off the sand, but that is not the reason he hides his eyes.

He taps his fingers nervously on the old plastic window frame.

He whistles nervously through dry lips.

He blinks nervously, but no one can see because of the sunglasses.

He is our Steve, a man with a family who loves him, but right now, none of that matters.

He rides shotgun in the old van, and he is not tall.

Let's have a quick word now from our sponsors.

Because when the wind shifts suddenly and it's no longer pushing the cooled the ocean depths out into the desert, but instead the dried salts of the desert pushing back toward the ocean of its birth, and the clouds are all passing the wrong way across the sky, and the trees are bowing against the power of that dry, displeased god, that was when I knew that I also had been living my life the wrong way round, that the choices I had made, seemingly reasonable in the moment, were madness in hindsight.

The kind of ill-fortune that can only be brought onto yourself through your own misguided belief that you understand what you need.

And so, laughing at a joke in which I was both set up and punchline, I turned the car round and started driving back to that small town in the high mountain woodlands where my secrets still echo as gossip in the neighbor's ears because I needed to start over.

Because until I started over, I would only be adding to my already accumulating mistakes.

Listerine,

it's what we're advertising.

This has been a quick word from our sponsors.

And now let's take a look at traffic.

Beep beep, bee beep, out of the way.

Back at you, buddy, you two jerk hole.

Come on, Bud, drive your special car.

Thank you.

Okay, we're here.

This has been traffic.

The van pulls over at the sand dune that looks like every other sand dune.

The driver consults landmarks that are not apparent to anyone else and nods confirmation that this is the place.

The man who is not short gets out of the van and Steve, the man who is not tall, follows.

The two men, equal in height to the millimeter, walk quickly to the back of the van and with a few efficient movements heave a large large wooden crate out of the back.

Grunting and swearing and sweating through their no-nonsense button-up shirts, they carry the box up the sand dune to the very top and then lay it carefully down so as not to jostle whatever is inside.

After that, they take a few minutes' rest.

Neither of them speak.

From the top of the sand dune, they can just barely see the rooftops of Night Vale glittering in the noonday sun.

I don't know what Steve thinks as he looks back at his town.

The other man offers him water and he gratefully drinks but does not speak his thank you.

Talking is discouraged in this line of work.

So he sweats in silence and then break over

The two get back to their task.

More on Steve soon.

But first,

the children's fun fact science corner.

Here are some quick do's and don'ts to have a safe and scientific time at home.

Do have beakers filled with different colored substances.

If some of the beakers are bubbling, all the better.

Do not have the little machine with two antennae and some electricity that goes zip, zip up them?

That is only for experienced professionals in well-equipped laboratories.

Do look at stuff under a microscope.

It's a great way to learn more about the world because the microscope makes everything look bigger, like so much bigger.

Do not attempt to look at your own eye through a microscope in a mirror.

I tried it and it doesn't work.

Do get your partner's enthusiastic consent and have a conversation with them about what they are hoping to get out of this scientific session.

Do not try to disprove God.

She hates that.

Do avoid all don'ts.

Don't avoid all do's.

This has been a children's fun fact science corner.

And now for a children's sad fact science corner.

Once there was a stream in the far north reaches of Russia, in the place that has been home to waves of human civilization over thousands of years, some willing, some not, testing the limits of what human experience can encompass.

In that stream was a kind of fish.

It was not a pretty fish, if we are to judge other creatures only by their aesthetic or practical value to us, and by that same rubric, Neither was the fish nutritious or tasty, but it was alive, and it lived lived in the stream.

And the stream was its world, in the way that our world is

the world, a limitation we do not perceive.

During the middle of the last century, great mining facilities were built in the far north reaches of Russia, and laborers were sent there, a new captive population, digging up nickel.

and breathing in nickel and coughing up nickel, a pretty little sparkle on the exhale, killing them.

And from these mining facilities came a black, poisonous sludge that overtook the stream.

And the fish died.

They had never been discovered by any humans, and so no humans noticed their absence, but they were absent nonetheless.

No one knows this fact.

You don't either.

This has been a children's sad fact, Science Corner.

The man who is not short gestures to the right spot, and the man who is not tall, Steve, starts digging.

They were not given shovels, only instructions, and an understanding that they must do what is needed to get the job done.

And so, Steve digs with his hands.

The sand scrapes at his palms, gets under his nails, and chafes the still soft skin of his hands uncomfortably.

He ignores all this, and he digs.

The man who is not short does not dig.

There is some complex seniority system involved that has less to do with how many years you have put into the organization and more to do with how many layers of its secrets you have uncovered.

But in any case, the the man who is not short is no longer a person who has to dig, and Steve is still very much a person who has to dig.

Finally, Steve is done digging.

Backs up, lets the man who is not short inspect the work.

The man who is not short nods imperceptibly.

And then, against all code of conduct, he mutters,

Good job.

Steve isn't sure what to do with this compliment.

They are not supposed to exchange compliments.

Surely the man who is not short did the greater wrong offering the compliment, but would Steve also be doing wrong if he accepted it?

Still, he cannot let the words lie.

Thanks, he says.

He tries to brush off his hands, but they will have traces of sand on them for days.

And now, as that lovable old children's TV host, Jigsaw used to say,

do you want to play a game?

Today I thought we could play that classic kids game, sneak past the wagon.

Yes, that's right.

The one where you pick one child to be the wagon.

And that child closes their eyes and shuffles through the room, mumbling, I am the corpse wagon.

Bring me your dead.

And all of the kids try to sneak past the wagon.

If any of them get caught, they become dead and can't play the game anymore because they actually become actually dead.

So it's a bit of a high-stakes game.

But that's what makes it fun, right?

Okay, I'll be the wagon.

Are you ready?

You better be.

I am the corpse wagon.

Bring me your dead.

I am the corpse wagon, bring me your dead.

I am the corpse wagon, bring me your dead.

I am the corpse wagon, bring me your dead.

I am the corpse wagon, bring me your dead.

I am the corpse wagon, bring me your dead.

Again, in the words of that lovable scamp, Jigsaw, that was so fun.

Thanks for playing.

Whole dug, the man who is not short finally joins Steve, the man who is not tall.

The two of them take hold of the crate and gently lower it into the sand.

When the crate is snug, The man who is not short steps back again and leaves Steve to the grunt work.

The wind over the sand dunes whistles a hollow, inharmonic melody.

Far away, a cloud formation works itself up into a storm.

Although, until it leaves the empty spaces and makes contact with human civilization, it is not yet truly weather.

The trundling path, the trundling path

There's no better roses than the welcome map

But taking a short could where's the fun in that?

I'd love to know

The trundle in path,

the trungling path.

Why wiggle and squirm on me to become a stat?

Not even

an interesting one at that.

I'd love to know.

Cause rumbling path, the trumbling path.

Some people like diamonds, but why I prefer tat

or any little something that can make you laugh.

I'd love to know

the trembling path, the trumbling path,

a treacherous hike, no one can glory or grab.

And where is the joy that hope for a bath?

I'd love to know

the trumbling path, the trungling path.

We all know about the trungling path.

But will you grow out of your tinfoil hat?

I'd love to know

the crumbling path,

the crumbling path,

the crumbling path,

the crumbling path,

the crumbling path,

the crumbling path.

Come gather all your photos and your autographs.

You're getting married today.

Now, how'd you fancy that we finally know?

Hey, it's Jeffrey Kraner with a word from our sponsor.

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The thunder peters out to nothing.

The storm is drifted to less fortunate parts of the world.

Here in Night Vale, we remain in sunny stillness, in the peace between problems.

The man who is not short walks across the desert, and Steve, the man who is not tall, follows.

Not a single car has passed along this desolate stretch of road, and so they return to their van unseen.

Finally, Steve speaks.

Can I ask?

The man who is not short makes no attempt to stop him from speaking, but also offers no encouragement to continue.

Still, Steve persists.

The crate is buried in a sand dune which changes shape and moves with the wind.

Soon enough, it will be uncovered for anyone to find.

So what was the point of our work today?

The man who is not short looks out to the horizon, as if expecting the arrival of others.

But there are no others arriving.

The road remains empty.

It's a good question, the man who is not short allows.

Thank you, says Steve, feeling ashamed of how grateful he feels for even this small encouragement.

It's best not to ask any questions.

The man who is not short continues.

Especially good ones.

He gets back into the van.

Steve, after a moment, does as well.

The van roars to life.

The radio comes on.

It is stuck between stations.

A loud, unpleasant squeal.

Steve covers his ears, but the man who is not short does not make any move to turn off or fix the radio.

He swings the van around.

and starts slowly driving back toward Nightvale.

Listeners,

I am worried for my brother-in-law.

I am worried about our friend, our neighbor, our family member.

I am

worried.

Stay tuned next for the sound of running water somewhere in your walls.

Is that a leak?

But it's nowhere near any pipe.

What is that?

Where is that coming from?

Good night, Nightvale.

Good night.

Welcome to Night Vale is a production of Nightvale Presents.

It is written by Joseph Fink, Jeffrey Kraner, and Bree Williams and produced by Disparition.

The voice of Steve is Hal Lublin.

The voice of Night Vale is Cecil Baldwin.

Original music by Disparition.

All that can be found at disparition.vancamp.com.

This episode's weather was The Trundling Path by No Monster Club.

Find more at bobby's website.com.

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Today's proverb: The rules of mini-golf are simple: the first person to keep score loses.

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I'm Amy Nicholson, the film critic for the LA Times.

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You might know me from the League Veep or my non-eligible for Academy Award role in Twisters.

We love movies, and we come at them from different perspectives.

Yeah, like Amy thinks that, you know, Joe Pesci was miscast in Goodfellas, and I don't.

He's too old.

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It is.

Anyway, despite this, we come together to host Unschooled, a podcast where we talk about good movies, critical hits, fan favorites, Must Season, and Casey Missed Thems.

We're talking Parasite the Home Alone, From Greece to the Dark Knight.

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