There’s a stalled car on the northbound on-ramp to the Eastern Expressway just south of Route 800. Commuters should have little delays, as highway patrol is fiercely denying this report. In fact, police representatives have just issued a statement claiming that there are no cars anywhere, and, “What are you doing, talking about them, talking silly lies? You silly people. There are no cars! What is this fiction? Oh, please, did you seriously believe for a second–? Wait, wait, you thought that cars were real?” The highway patrol continued, “Oh, that is rich.”
All other roads seem clear. Expect delays, of course, at the drawbridge construction site, because it is years away from being competently finished.
For our final story in this week’s featured look into the history of Night Vale, let’s look at the very recent past. Yesterday. I had cereal for breakfast, a sandwich for lunch, steak for dinner. Cars were driven. Cars were not driven. The sun gave a great shout of light and then, after several hours of thought, quietly retracted the statement. Old Woman Josie dug up a box in a shady corner of her yard and carried it, cradled in her arms like a baby or a delicate explosive, to another part of her yard, where she buried it again. An unknown person did something that no one else saw, the nature and extent of which is impossible to determine, and the result of which will be lost in the chaotic chain of causation and consequence that is history.
But most importantly, all of us, all of us here in Night Vale, in America, in the world, in the secret orbital bases— all of us got through another day. We passed the time from one end of twelve to the other without stopping once. Well done, us! Good job, people who experience time. Time experiencers, good job! And from this moment in history, the one that’s happening right now… good night.
Carlos, this station’s favorite scientist— no offense to Dr. Dubinsky in the Night Vale Community College chemistry department— dropped by our broadcast location earlier this morning for a little chat. Sadly, dinner or weekend plans were not among the topics.
However, Carlos did request that we ask listeners for anyone who saw a series of bright, colorful flickers coming from Radon Canyon this past weekend. These flickers would’ve also been accompanied by unintelligible noises, possibly some form of coded communication or signal-jamming technique. Carlos suggested that there could be some very sinister forces at work here. He declined to be interviewed live, claiming only that he was scared for us, scared for all of us in our strange town. Then he drove away quickly in his economical but attractively sporty hybrid coupe.
If anyone out there knows anything about these otherworldly lights and sounds, please contact us immediately.
The Department of Public Safety announced that all street signs in Night Vale will be replaced with traffic cops wielding semaphore flags. Drivers will be required to learn this physically expressive maritime alphabet. This decision is not without its controversy, as the existing street signs are entirely in Braille.
One critic, Paul Birmingham, says removing these signs will deflate the Earth. As a member of the Air-Filled Earth Society, Paul believes that Earth is a precariously inflated orb that could pop or sag at any moment. “We’ve gotta stop teaching all this religious propaganda in our schools and start teaching real science!” Paul shouted from his lean-to behind the library. I have to admit, listeners, he makes a valid point.
There is a car. It’s not in Night Vale, or even in the desert that cradles our little town. It’s out somewhere beyond that. There are many cars there, but I’m speaking only about one. Blue, squarish, with tires and windows and an engine that works, most of the time. A woman is driving it, and she is also glancing whenever she can at the child in the passenger’s seat. He is a child, but he is 15. You understand. She is glancing at him, but she is not saying anything. And he is not saying anything either.
She wants to cry, or she wants to push him out of the car, or she wants to go back in time and insist on using a condom– only she would never do that. She couldn’t change any of this really, not for all the money, piles of money, some of it defunct money from defunct and absent governments. She wouldn’t give any of this back. So she drives her car, blue, squarish, with tires and windows and an engine that works most of the time, and she glances at the fifteen-year-old child, and neither of them speaks.
This has been traffic.
And now… the weather.
[“Movement 1: Invocation of the Duke” by daKAH Hip Hop Orchestra. More from daKAH Hip Hop Orchestra at myspace.com/daKAH.]