85 - The April Monologues

Hey hey, Jeffrey Kraner from welcome to Night Vale here.

Apart from Night Vale, we make other podcasts.

If you're already a big Night Vale fan, check out Good Morning Night Vale, where cast members Meg Bashwiner, Symphony Sanders, and Hal Lublin break down each and every episode.

Or if you're looking for more weird fiction, there's Within the Wires, an immersive fiction podcast written by me and novelist Janina Mathewson.

Each season is a standalone tale told in the guise of found audio.

Finally, maybe you like horror movies or are scared of horror movies but are horror curious, check out Random Number Generator Horror Podcast Number 9, where me and the voice of Night Vale Cecil Baldwin talk about a randomly drawn horror film.

We have new episodes every single week.

So that's Good Morning Nightvale Within the Wires and Random Horror 9.

Go to nightvalepresents.com for more or get those podcasts wherever you get your podcasts.

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The Wednesday season two official wocast is available in audio and video on todoom.com or wherever it is you get your podcasts.

Once again the turning of the seasons.

Nearly imperceptible here a shading of the desert heat.

But we feel the change in the thrum of our bodies, in the texture of the sand.

There is rain, once in a while.

If not here, then somewhere else, surely.

Wild Spring has stepped in for her stolid winter sister.

It is April, and something is different.

It is April, and the days have depth and vibrance.

It is April.

And so, dear listeners, Night Vale Community Radio is pleased to present the April monologues.

Chad.

Oh, Chad.

I'm beginning to understand, and I wish I did not.

You used to wear nice shirts.

You cut your hair regularly.

Sometimes while you slept, I would comb it to keep it orderly and presentable for the next morning.

You would shower and shave and dress for your internship.

So plain and well-kempt and precious, unaware of the faceless old woman secretly living in your home.

And then one day you did not return home.

You love your home.

You rarely leave, not even to be with other people.

You play video games and watch police dramas and read books by comedians.

You've always loved your solitude, and I have always thought you were special in how completely ordinary you seemed.

Few young men are exactly what one thinks of when one thinks of a young man.

You are it, Chad.

And I always looked out for you.

Remember that terrible roach problem you had?

And you tried all kinds of traps and poisons, but nothing worked?

Only one day you returned home to find thousands of roach corpses scattered across your floor, each one with its legs tied and its head removed.

And there was a hand-scrawled note that said, They'll not bother you again.

That was me.

I did that.

Well, I didn't kill the roaches.

That was the exterminator you called.

But he he was very thorough at his job.

But I wrote the note, Chad.

That note was me.

We had a good way about us.

I lived secretly and facelessly in your home, and you.

Well, you kind of did too.

Only metaphorically.

But then one night you didn't return home.

I saw in your emails...

I loved reading your emails, Chad, so compellingly bland.

You had to go check out a used and discount sporting goods store, something for your work.

But that store was not what it claimed to be, and you didn't return home for months.

The landlord came by in your long absence, but I scared her off with this terrifying noise I can make using only a leather belt and a bird.

You loved your home, and I protected it for you.

But when you returned, things were different.

Oh, how different.

Your crisp-buttoned shirts, all unbuttoned and wrinkled, dangling on hooks like dried pelts from a misguided hunt.

These days, you rarely notice the little things I do.

Like when I painted the inside of your bathtub black, or glued blurry photos of spiders into the bottom of your mugs.

You don't even play video games anymore.

You wear hoods and light candles.

You drew a star in the middle of your floor, which...

Actually, I can totally get behind.

Your emails, which were once so wonderfully common, full of mailing lists and social invitations and social invitation rejections and food delivery receipts, the tale of a stagnant nothing of a man, so perfectly lovable in his comfy inertia.

Now they are terse, coded messages to a girl I think you are destroying.

Found a door.

Come over, this one says.

He is here, and he is good.

This one says.

Candles are growing again, this one says.

I do not like these candles you have that grow when lit and melt when not, and I certainly do not like him.

What you brought to us here in this little town, my town, the town I secretly live in, what you summoned.

I stopped secretly living in your house because I was afraid of it.

But now I have returned because I feel, unusual for me, some obligation to do something to prevent this coming disaster.

Listen to me.

It is five in the morning and you are asleep, but I am at your ear, quietly asking you.

Telling you.

I'm begging you, really, Chad.

Did you ever think that I would beg you?

Beg anyone?

I haven't begged since I was a child aboard that wicked ship.

Those men didn't listen either, Chad, which is the reason I lived at the bottom of the ocean for so many years before this place, this desert, this town, this apartment.

Chad, what happened to you in that store that wasn't a store?

What did they turn you into?

What have you brought this reality?

Do you even know the destruction that awaits this town?

Not just this town, perhaps the world?

That is not a door you have opened, Chad.

When is a door not a door?

When it is a chasm?

I know you cannot see or hear me, for I live secretly, but I beg you, if somehow my voice seeps into your dreams and sticks in your memory, you must undo what you have done before it is too late.

You must, Chad?

That creature, that monster you summoned, is here.

It is staring at me with eyes that could never be mistaken for human.

It's walking toward me.

How does it see me, Chad?

No one sees me.

Chad, it is licking my hand.

Stop it.

It's bringing me a tennis ball.

The puppy is bringing me a ball.

I will not play fetch with you, hound.

How do you see me, you monster?

Chad, we must undo- Get away from me!

You must undo what you have done.

It means nothing but ill-will to this town, to this world, and most importantly, from my perspective, to a faceless old woman that secretly lives in your home.

Stop staring at me, you unholy beast.

There, beagle, go fetch your stupid ball!

Growth turns our thoughts to decline.

Each new sprout brings to mind the decay out of which it grows.

Each thing leads to its opposite.

Every moment contains multitudes.

Every second is the history of the universe, if taken at its composite parts.

Let us take this moment at its composite parts.

Break down this day into each person's thoughts.

We return you now to the April Monologues.

I've been thinking lately about loneliness.

Not because I'm lonely, I just like to be ahead of the curve when it comes to thinking about things.

Obviously, I'm not lonely.

I'm Michelle Nguyen, owner of the coolest and only record store in town, and I'm not lonely.

I'm just like a performance artist, and my medium is solitude.

I've been listening to a lot of hopcore lately.

It's my new favorite genre.

It's recordings of a person hopping.

Thump, thump, thump.

But soft.

Thump, thump, thump.

Totally great.

You wouldn't have heard of it.

Because I made it myself and I've shared it with no one.

It's a recording of me hopping.

I recorded that and I'm listening to it.

It's the new thing.

Maureen came by, nervous, jaw clenched, hair parted, hands fluttering, stomping, restarting, sighing Maureen.

She was looking for something new to listen to, said things were stressful at her internship.

She had to lead an army or whatever, and she needed something that would relax her.

I suggested easy listening like Slayer or some silence, but she said she was tired of all the top 40 stations playing no sound at all.

Silence is too mainstream, and she wanted something new.

I'll be honest, I actually like silence.

I shouldn't.

It's like so popular.

But my favorite silence is the hum of a dryer from the next floor down.

I also like the swish of a highway that you thought was too far away to hear, but now that it's so quiet, you can hear it, distant and dissipating.

like the sizzle of foam on a wave.

I gave Maureen Leonard Cohen's new album, the one where he talks in a gravelly voice and women sing along behind him.

She rolled her eyes and walked out.

I think she liked it.

Hold on.

Welcome to Dark L Records.

Hey, Larry.

Oh, you want the new album by the Beatles?

How original.

Well, all the dubstep stuff is upstairs.

It's like that old joke.

I listen to Bach often, but never the Beatles.

Thump, thump, thump.

I love this hopcor recording.

I made it on the old beige carpet of the back office here at the store.

I did it in socks so it would be extra quiet.

You have to hold still, like even hold your breath to hear it, but it's there.

Thump, thump.

You have to really pay attention to notice me, but I'm there.

I don't actually listen to Bach often.

What a sellout.

Did you see his HBO special?

Ugh.

I didn't, but I bet it was bad.

It's a quiet time for record sales.

Usually it's really busy, which is annoying.

I hate it when people are like, please, I want to pay you a lot of money for physical albums.

It's like, get in line, you know?

Get in that line, the one leading to the cash register.

I'll ring you up when it's your turn.

But I've let the temporary staff dissolve back into mud for the season, and I won't have to mutter the incantations to bring them back to life for another month or two.

It's just me, behind the counter.

Me, like always.

I'm all I need.

I'm the ultimate underground hit.

No one's heard of me.

No one's listening.

Just the way I like it.

Yes, I know this is a one-story building, Larry.

I was being metaphorical.

I don't actually have any Beatles albums.

It's like the old joke.

I listen to Bach often, but.

He left.

It's lost.

Maureen came by, steady, jaw tight, hair loose, hands swinging, shuffling, restarting.

Sighing Maureen.

She said she liked Leonard's album, but she had heard it enough now.

What else did I have?

I never thought I'd do this, but I gave her some of my favorite recordings of Bees.

I love those recordings, but I've listened to them enough times now that I don't ever need to hear them again.

It's like the sound became part of me, and I know it better than the recordings do, you know?

Maybe you don't know.

Probably not.

You're probably still listening to that Woody Guthrie single on repeat, because you just listen to whatever big big music tells you to.

Oh, this is my favorite part of the hopcor recording.

It's the part where the thump of my hopping gets so quiet that it isn't any sound at all.

It's a silence, and you have to know I'm there to recognize me in the silence, that I'm still hopping even though you can't hear it.

Listen.

That's me in there.

In that no sound at all.

They say music is made up of the spaces between the notes,

and that life is made up of the moments where your eyes are closed because you're blinking.

And that books are made up of blank pages that everyone pretends have words on them so they'll seem smart.

I'm the blink and the space.

I'm the pause.

I'm the gap.

Hold on.

I have a customer.

I don't actually have a customer.

I just need a moment to myself.

This is me greeting someone.

This is them feeling like just because they're in a record shop, they're entitled to like music or whatever.

Ugh, that person is the worst.

Hold on, someone is actually coming in.

Oh, it's

I'll be back.

Maureen came by,

satisfied, jawloose, hair up, hands idling, striding, stopping, restarting, sighing Maureen.

She said she loved the bees recording.

She wanted something like it, but even more so.

Similar, but so different that it would startle her.

I knew exactly what she meant with that thirst, but I didn't know how to satisfy it.

There's only so much music, you know?

And there's so much human desire.

Well, you are not going to believe this.

Probably like, you won't even understand.

I gave her the recording of me hopping.

I know that like ruins it because now someone else has listened to it, but somehow I don't mind if Maureen hears it.

I think maybe even I'd like that.

I hope she comes back soon.

I mean, don't get me wrong.

I love it when the record store is empty, when there are none of those annoying customers clamoring for music to listen to?

Being alone is the best.

But I also kind of like it when Maureen comes by.

Her being here is cool too, I guess.

I just have to figure out what album to show her next.

Only, there's so much good music, you know?

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Each leads to the next.

The seasons are a corridor we proceed through, and the door at the end of the corridor is black and depthless.

Appreciate the warmth of this narrow corridor.

How small this world is,

and how small we all are for living in it and how joyful a smallness can be.

So let us return for one last time, for one last

small time

to the April monologues.

I try to be helpful.

I know I can't always fix everything.

I know my limits, and they are many, but still, I try to be helpful.

So when the kid came by, I did my best.

He was scared, sure, because he could see them too.

The glowing arrows in the sky.

Dotted lines and arrows and circles.

See, the sky is a chart that explains the entire world and he could see it.

Well, that's a terrifying thing if you aren't prepared for it.

Oh, he was shaking so bad.

His ball cap was pulled low over his face.

Steve, he said, Steve Carlsberg, I know you can see them too.

Help me.

And I tried.

I tried to be helpful.

I like the evenings when it's quiet.

Parts of the world, the big cities, things don't change much from morning to afternoon to evening.

The same even light, the same people in a hurry.

But here,

Every time of day has a different tone and shade.

In the mornings, before anyone else is up, the desert is golden and the horizon light illuminates every detail on the mountains to the west.

I feel bad for the folks who don't believe in mountains, who won't see even when shown.

Then the birds come and hop around outside the kitchen window.

I like to watch them as I make coffee.

My brother-in-law, he never sees the birds on account of he likes to grind the coffee himself and the pounding of his coffee hammer keeps all the birds away.

But me, I don't mind the pre-hammered stuff.

It's a soft trade for the birds.

And then the afternoon, where the light deepens and widens, and the mountains turn to blue cutouts against a white blue sky.

And then the sunset, loud and fragrant, like sunsets usually are.

And then the evening, a vast, quiet empty.

Just me and Abby and Janice floating, an island of a family, in the rich darkness of the desert nothing.

The kid was so scared.

Oh boy, but he had it in him.

He tries to be helpful too, I could tell.

And so it wasn't enough to know.

He wanted to do something about it.

He said that he had been sent to a sporting goods store that they thought might have been a front for the world government.

I know that place.

The world government isn't the half of it.

Go in that sporting goods store, you're gonna find a real racket.

I love puns.

But yeah, that place holds the core of it.

And this kid, he goes in there and he sees it.

And once you've seen it, once you know, you can't ever not know.

Can't become who you once were after you become what you are now.

Glowing arrows in the sky.

Dotted lines.

He understood, like I understand.

The folks that run Night Vale, they think they have control.

But you can't control what a person knows.

The more you think you have that contained, the more it eludes you.

You might as well try to control the weather.

And they try to do that too, using cloud seeding drones and laser arrays, but it never works out the way they planned.

What can we do about it?

The boy kept asking.

Poor kid.

I wish my brother-in-law took better care of his interns at the radio station.

Didn't send them to places they had no right being, like sporting goods stores run by the world government.

But it's not up to me.

I suppose Cecil can run his life the way he wants, and he won't ever hear from me about it.

Not like the other way around, I suppose.

The kid understood how the world worked.

He could see the structure of it and oh bless him, he wanted to fix it, to make it right again.

And he wanted me to tell him how.

Not much we can do but understand, I told him.

Not much to do but know.

But he wouldn't accept it.

He wanted to follow those glowing arrows in the sky like they were a map to somewhere and not a labyrinth in which a monster lives.

Listen, I said.

Listen, Chad, I said.

I think in time you'll feel feel better.

Hey, maybe get a puppy, I told him.

We had a puppy infestation a few years back.

Hell on the insulation and some load-bearing joists, but it was just the cutest thing.

Yes, he said.

Summon a puppy.

Well, I said, sure, but more just get a puppy.

Like, adopt is probably the word you're looking for, I said.

Adopt a puppy.

Sure, they smile and wag their tails and roll around.

Very cute, I said.

This is how we will change things, he said.

Summon a puppy.

The world government will never see it coming.

And he thanked me and walked away.

Oh well, at least he's not a station intern anymore.

I'm sure he'll be fine.

What's the worst that could happen?

I sat out on the porch the rest of the day, just thinking.

Watching the wide light of afternoon narrow back down to the west until I could smell the sunset coming.

Then I went inside.

It was Abby's turn to make dinner and it looked delicious.

Maybe I should get a puppy too.

Add one more to our island of a family.

Puppy could be just the thing.

Janice would love it, but not a puppy like that kid has now.

I think, perhaps, that that's no puppy at all.

Maybe it was a mistake, my conversation with him.

But what can I say?

I try to be helpful.

And so we reach the end of the April monologues.

There is much that could be said.

I

will say none of it.

Welcome to Night Vale is a production of Night Vale Presents.

It is written by Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Kraner and produced by Joseph Fink.

The voice of Night Vale is Cecil Baldwin.

The voice of the faceless old woman was Mara Wilson.

The voice of Michelle Wynne was Kate Jones.

The voice of Steve Carlsberg was Hal Lublin.

Original music by Disparition.

All of it can be found at disparition.info or at disparition.bandcamp.com.

Comments, questions, email us at info at welcometonightvale.com or follow us on Twitter at Night Vale Radio.

Check out WelcometonNightvale.com for more information on this show as well as all sorts of cool Night Vale stuff you can own.

Plus, pre-order links for our new illustrated script collections.

Today's proverb.

Put your in, take your

out,

put your

in,

and

all about.

Mike and Alyssa are always trying to outdo each other.

When Alyssa got a small water bottle, Mike showed up with a four-liter jug.

When Mike started gardening, Alyssa started beekeeping.

Oh, come on.

They called a truce for their holiday and used Expedia Trip Planner to collaborate on all the details of their trip.

Once there, Mike still did more laps around the pool.

Whatever.

You were made to outdo your holidays.

We were made to help organize the competition.

Expedia, made to travel.

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Hey, y'all, it is Jeffrey Kraner speaking to you from the year 2025.

And did you know that Welcome to Night Vale is back out on tour?

We are.

We're going to be up in the northeast in the Boston, New York City area, going all the way over to the upper Midwest in Minnesota.

That's in July.

You'll kind of draw a line through there, and you'll kind of see the towns we'll be hitting.

We'll also be doing Philly down to Florida in September.

And we'll be going from Austin all the way up through the middle of the country into Toronto, Canada in October.

And then we'll be doing the West Coast plus the Southwest plus Colorado in January of 2026.

You can find all of the show dates at welcometonightvale.com slash live.

Listen, this brand new live show is so much fun.

It is called Murder Night in Blood Forest, and it stars Cecil Baldwin, of course, Symphony Sanders, me, and live original music by Disparition, and who knows what other special guests may come along for the ride.

These tours are always so much fun, and they are for you, the Die Hard fan, and you, the Night Vale new kid alike.

So feel comfortable bringing your family, your partner, your co-workers, your cat, whatever.

They don't got to know what a night veil is to like the show.

Tickets to all of these live shows are on sale now at welcometonightvale.com/slash live.

Don't let time slip away and miss us when we are in your town because otherwise we will all be sad.

Get your tickets to our live U.S.

plus Toronto tours right now at welcometonightvale.com/slash live.

And hey, see you soon.