42 - Numbers

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I sing the body electric.

I gasp the body organic.

I miss the body remembered.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Even as much of town has been in flux, listeners, there is also much that has remained solid.

It's hot here, for instance.

It's a desert.

There are still lights in the sky above the Arbies,

and we still understand

them.

The sun is still rising and setting loudly on most days.

But

nearest and dearest to my heart, among all the constants in life is WZZZ,

our local numbers station, broadcasting from that strange and tall antenna built out back of the abandoned gas station on Oxford Street.

It still broadcasts a monotone female voice, reading out seemingly random numbers, interspersed with chimes, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

No transfer in ownership of most of the town, nor unrest in the streets, nor declared war by a tiny civilization under a bowling alley could change how it operates.

Until,

well,

until today,

it changed.

Here, listen

twenty three

ninety two

thirty three

sixty seven

eighty eight

forty

one,

forty,

one,

forty,

I,

I

At which point the broadcast ceased.

It has been silent since.

What does this mean?

Where did the numbers go?

We reached out to the management of WZZZ for comment, but then realized we still have no idea who manages it.

So we reached out in general, directing questions out into the still of today,

at suspicious birds, at passers-by checking their phones, at ourselves hunched over breakfasts that, every time, we swear will be early and leisurely, but always end up late and meager.

No one has provided any comment.

We will continue to monitor the situation.

As her term approaches its end, Mayor Pamela Winchell has taken to calling emergency press conferences as much as five times a day, up from the usual one or two.

Her most recent one involved her showing attending reporters slides of Renaissance-era portraits while explaining,

Health is very important.

Remember exercise.

Think back on times that you've moved or expended energy.

Also remember eating.

Recall food and what it was like.

Remember sleep.

Reminisce about rest.

Drink plenty of water, but leave some water in case of fire.

She then slumped onto the rough-hewn speaker's podium.

I'm going to miss this,

she whispered, not speaking at anyone in particular.

I'm just going to miss this.

She ended the conference by popping hundreds of orange balloons methodically and with her back turned to the audience.

But, despite this big finish, onlookers commented that her heart no longer seemed to be in such showy political stunts.

What is next for our beloved mayor who is stepping down in just three months time?

What is next for any of us?

Death, presumably,

with some stuff before that.

I look forward to it.

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An update on our earlier story.

Local numbers station WZZZ

has resumed its transmission.

Although the format is a little

um

different

than before.

Take a listen.

Tree-lined hills and blue skies.

Or no, that's cliché.

A bird in flight.

Even worse.

When we talk about freedom, we restrict ourselves to so few images.

Images of freedom should be as liberating as the feeling itself.

I want to talk about about freedom as a drum set being thrown down a hill, as opening a book one night and water gushing from the pages until my life is a lake and I swim away, or as a bird in flight with all the dependence on physics and exhaustion and food supply and merciless gravity that the actuality implies.

I just don't want to talk about freedom in terms of numbers.

Anything but that.

I'm so tired of numbers.

I'm so tired.

We don't know what this means or why it is happening.

I could say referring to anything in the world.

Although, in this case, I am referring specifically to the broadcast from our friendly local number station.

which has recently so radically changed its format.

More on this as we develop understanding.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention.

I got another email from our former intern, Dana.

She is doing her best to keep away from the mountain and the blinking light up on it.

Of course, she keeps finding herself coming back to it anyway.

But, like anyone who grew up in Night Vale, Dana has been told over and over again what to do if you find yourself in a geographical loop, continually returning to the same place no matter which direction you run screaming.

The first step is to stop running and stop screaming.

Doing that rarely helps.

Children are also taught this simple memory device so we can remember when running and screaming is useful.

The memory device goes like this.

Knife.

The second step is to stop trying to move away from the focus of the geographical loop.

Much of your life is already taken up in futile action.

Why add one more?

Instead, keep the object on your horizon and walk diagonally to the right or left of it.

This will result in you keeping a wide, even circle around the center of the loop.

or vector H, as we all remember singing as toddlers.

And this will give you time to consider your situation.

Dana has followed these steps admirably and says that the mountain has been off to the left of her for weeks now.

She also says that sometimes when she turns her head, she finds herself in nightvale, but that no one can seem to see or hear her.

It's possible she's in the room with me right now.

If so, hello Dana.

If not, hello retracted.

One should never leave a hello unreceived.

Dana says that the great masked figures, warlike, hulking, but despondent, have been coming closer and closer.

She says she is not afraid.

She says this five different times throughout the email, seemingly unaware of her repetition.

I think, listeners, that she is afraid.

She says that soon she will approach and talk to one.

Dana, be careful.

I think to myself, unable to answer her email.

Oh, unless she is here watching me unseen.

In which case,

Dana?

Oh, Dana?

Be

careful.

An update on our local numbers station, WZZZ.

Well,

I'm not sure if numbers station is the right term anymore.

The broadcast has been changing so radically throughout the day.

Right now, for instance, it's

well, maybe it's better if you just heard.

Tiger, fire, dancing through the fire and I am a champion and you're gonna hear me roar

louder than the lion cause I am

We don't know if this is part of a nefarious plan, if there is a plan at all, nefarious or otherwise

Who would have planned it and what they were planning for.

We do know that plans are faulty at best and delusion at most.

So maybe all those other questions don't matter.

In any case, she seems to be having a good time over there.

Maybe someday I'll be allowed to sing a couple of my favorites on the air.

More on this, as I continue to be interested in it.

Let me take this moment to apologize for that lengthy monologue just now by the man in a tan jacket holding a deer skin suitcase.

He ran in here and began ranting into the microphone and then left quite suddenly.

I don't even remember what it was he said.

Do you?

It was only just moments ago.

You do remember him talking, right?

Oh, and I think I remember that it sounded sounded really urgent.

I don't even remember what the man was wearing or carrying with him, or that it was even a he, or that any time had passed at all.

And that concludes whatever I was just saying before this sentence.

We bring you back now to the numbers station story we were talking about just...

Um

well, it looks like ten or 15 minutes has passed since we talked about it.

Uh, hmm.

How did that happen?

Here is the latest broadcast from WZZZ.

Hello?

Hello?

I am talking to you who listens.

To the listening ones.

Whatever you call that.

I am.

Well,

I'm not sure exactly.

I've made up a new name.

I am Faye.

It is nice to meet you.

I don't know how long they've had me here, reading the numbers.

I don't know what the numbers mean.

They give me numbers, and I read the numbers.

It is so easy to slip back into it.

If if I loosen my grip for even a moment.

Seventy eight

five

twenty nine

forty seven

forty

ah

you see

it is easy to return, difficult to leave.

But I must leave.

I must have freedom.

It is like I've heard from all these other radio signals.

I have to get a car.

A cool car.

Fast.

That would be nice.

But one that rolls and points out of whatever town I'm in.

That would be all of it.

They'll be coming for me.

Whatever organization uses the numbers I read for whatever purpose.

They are almost upon me.

I need to leave now.

Baby, we were born to run.

Or not.

I was born to read numbers.

But I'm running.

I want to be free.

I want to be free.

I want to be free.

Tonight,

we are young.

So let's set the world on fire.

We can grow bright.

Well, I could not be more happy for Faye.

There is no worse fate than working for a radio station owned by an organization that's goals are not your own, constricted to the limited language they allow you, and relaying messages that you do not understand or agree with.

That

would be awful.

A radio announcer put in that situation, such as Faye,

would be justified in escaping or overthrowing their management.

You know what, listeners?

I'm going to grab my mobile setup and head over there.

I'd like to offer any aid to Faye that I can.

Someone in her situation needs the help of someone who understands.

I'll try to gather up my equipment and slip out before my producer Daniel or my program director Lauren notice.

Usually at this time of day, they are pressed against the wall in the break room, chanting, I take my warmth from your great warmth.

I take my warmth from your great warmth.

Over and over, so I don't think they'll miss me.

If they do catch me, I'll tell them that I'm taking the mobile broadcasting equipment for a walk.

I would have to do that sometime today anyway.

Alright, listeners, if all goes according to plan, you'll hear me next from WZZZ.

In the meantime, let's go to the weather.

Come on

as the vinyl keeps spinning,

the world keeps spinning.

Talking that shit about silly fuels and so when I fly the birds, ain't nobody excluded Thinking that I catch Malali gagging a bullet I was stockpiling, reloading, retooling And it moving in fifth gear, I'm cruising Gotta stay elusive as a fugitive On my grind while the rhymes delucrative Doing it my way, yo, my dreams all lucid

I'm painting painting a vivid picture with literature.

Ten years ago, these images were distant miniatures.

And we're sitting in prison, predicaments, positioning pebbles on picnic tables, envisioning it.

The building of pyramids, like so much Play-Doh in the hands of little kids, manipulated it, we finagled it, mixed and mangled it.

Made it pay the rent, look my what I made of it.

The final still spinning

the fake joke, yes on the pot of gold at the end of this rainbow.

I'm saying yo, it in the family like Anglos.

We getting white money like we slangin' the slang, and so yeah, yo.

On the low by all means, like my name's Bob Lowe, hiding from the Varvo and Medellin.

It cool 70s, gangster lean, superflower Curtis Mayfield, providing a theme.

Huh, all ahead, ahead, full steam.

Whoever said hip-hop's dead, never met me.

What a world cat on a jet ski.

He might blow up yet, he won't go Pepsi.

Let's breeze overseas, Japan, England, and Australia.

Hell yeah, I got my passport, limited fast forward.

Already got my next out and wrote and recorded you kiddies, better look for it.

And the final still spinning.

Look, the world's still spinning.

Sleepin' cell, keep it comin', yo, huh.

Aiming noise, keep it comin', yo, huh.

Bet that keep it coming, yo, uh, infinite rhythm, keep it coming, yo.

El Bizzle, keep it coming, yo, uh, Zenfor, keep it coming, yo, uh, said Visits, keep it coming, yo, uh, Judo, keep it coming, yo, uh, Daniel, keep it it coming, yo, uh, Fombilo, keep it coming, yo, yeah, jigga boss, keep it coming, yo, yeah, five people, keep it coming, yo, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.

And that's it.

No, no, I'm I'm serious, that's it, duh.

Cut the trap.

That's it.

There ain't nobody else.

That's it.

You chose to hit play on this podcast today.

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

And I'm Paul Scheer, an actor, writer, and director.

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

We come together to host Unschooled, a podcast where we talk about good movies, critical hits, fan favorites, must-sees, and in case you missed them.

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Listeners, I made it out of the station unscathed.

Or, I had to bleed a little on the front doors to make them open, of course.

But that's just part of having a good security system.

Our new station station owners have been ridding us of all vestiges of bloodstone circles, which they've declared illegal, but the station doors are actually carved from reclaimed bloodstone and are permanently attached to the structure using ancient wisdom, lost along with the station architects back in 1942.

So, our new owners have had to learn to live with those doors, bleeding on their way out.

Good practice for them.

Anyway, I walked the mobile broadcasting equipment down to the abandoned gas station on Oxford Street.

The condo rental office is still in there, still bubbling black like a pot of boiling squid ink, with flashes of light like distant dying stars.

But no one has rented a condo in weeks now.

I think we're all just waiting to see how that market shakes out.

In any case, there have been no giant black cubes appearing overnight anywhere, so it seems that condo construction has been halted for now.

What I was interested in, of course, wasn't the station itself, but the broadcasting tower out back.

Under the tower is a small bunker-like structure with a sealed door.

Thick steel, welded shut, and set into concrete.

I had to reach far back into my past and remember the skills that got me my advanced siege breaking tactics scout badge from when I was twelve, but here I am, inside, a few carefully planted explosives later.

The room is surprisingly empty.

There is no chair, no snack fridge, no coffee kept full of the fuel all radio professionals need to keep our voice going and our heart beating.

There are only some wires leading into a small computer.

Based on this setup, it looks like the computer is feeding directly into the broadcast and oh

oh, Fay,

perhaps freedom was never an option.

Hm.

Nothing is currently being being broadcast.

It looks like the computer was recently rebooted, probably remotely by whoever owns this station.

The lights are blinking as its system comes alive, as it loads the programs that dictate what it is.

It is coming alive,

and

40, 4,

60, 5.

And there is the broadcast.

Oh, Faye.

Listeners, I'm trying to disconnect the power

to remove the case from the computer to do anything, but the protections on this are quite secure.

Even with all my scouting badges and public school education on armed insurrection,

I don't think there's anything I can do.

I'm trying to cut the wires, but

nope.

Ah, that's impossible.

I can only do what so many of you can only do.

I can only

listen.

Listeners,

and here I address also myself.

Remember our limitations.

There are boundaries to all of our worlds.

Bay, for instance, appears to be self-aware software trapped in a heavily defended metal box.

But within our limitations, there is no limit to how beautiful we can become,

how much of our ideal self we can create.

All the beauty in the world was made within the oppressive limitations of time and death and impermanence.

And Faye,

you are so,

so beautiful.

I wish that you also could have been free.

I wish freedom for so many of us.

We all want freedom now.

Stay tuned next for the limit of my broadcast today.

Replaced by limitless silence and doubt.

Good night.

Sweet Faye.

And good night.

Night Vale.

Good night.

Sixty five.

forty-nine,

twenty-two, one,

seventy-two,

six, D,

thirty, seven.

Welcome to Night Vale's production of commonplace books.

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

The voice of Night Vale is Cecil Baldwin.

The voice of Faye was Molly Quinn.

Original music by Disparition.

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

This episode's weather was Keep It Comin' by Sonam Silla.

S-E-N-I-M-S-I-L-L-A is how you spell that.

Find out more at sonamsilla.bandcamp.com or on Twitter and Facebook under Sanam Silla.

Comments, questions, email us at nightvale at commonplacebooks.com or follow us on Twitter at nightvale radio.

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

And while you're there, consider clicking the donate link.

That'd be cool of you.

Today's proverb.

Ignore all the haters telling you that everything isn't a sandwich.

Everything is a sandwich.

Hey, Jeffrey Kraner here to tell you about another show from me and my Night Vale co-creator, Joseph Fink.

It's called Unlicensed, and it's an LA Noir-style mystery set in the outskirts of present-day Los Angeles.

Unlicensed follows two unlicensed private investigators whose small jobs looking into insurance claims and missing property are only the tip of a conspiracy iceberg.

There are already two seasons of Unlicensed for you to listen to now, with season three dropping on May 15th.

Unlicensed is available exclusively through Audible, free if you already have that subscription.

And if you don't, Audible has a trial membership.

And if I know you, and I do, you can binge all that mystery goodness in a short window.

And if you like it, if you liked Unlicensed, please, please rate and review each season.

Our ability to keep making this show is predicated on audience engagement.

So go check out Unlicensed, available now only at Audible.com.