(co-written with Dessa)

CECIL [in a cheesy DJ voice, over a few bars of smooth Jazz]: Good evening, fiiine citizens. I’m your late-night host this week, here to keep you company after sundown. Welcome to Night Vale.

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As you regular listeners already know, I took over the night shifts this week because I’ve been spending my days with a very special houseguest—well more like one and a half houseguests: my favorite cousin Sabina is visiting and she’s seven months pregnant with what will be my second ever niece. Well, first ever niece once-removed. That takes too long. Let's do niecelet.

My sister's daughter Janice is a teenager. It's been so long since I've had a new baby in my family. So if you hear a certain knowing, avuncular quality in my voice, it’s because you are listening to an expectant uncle. I’m already getting some of those leather patches sewed onto the elbows of my windbreakers.

All week Sabina and I have been reading baby books—and I’m a veritable expert at this point. A baby at seven months is as big as an eggplant. She can already get the hiccups and déjà baby vu and has a fully developed sense of comic timing. I’m holding an eggplant with me here in the studio to practice supporting her neck—also to make sure I have something to eat when I get home—Sabina’s cleaned out the fridge pretty thoroughly.

Back at my place, Sabina’s been keeping the radio on 24/7 so the neicelet will know the owner of this dulcet baritone already loves her very much. Hellooo almost-niece.

Doing all this reading together, it’s been crazy to learn just how vulnerable we all are when first we enter the world. Did you know a newborn doesn’t even have kneecaps yet? That it has a hole at the top its skull, which must be taped shut so the newborn does not escape through it during the night? It’s amazing any of us survive to the Shaming Ceremonies at all.

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Speaking of rights of passage, the annual Night Vale Science Fair is scheduled for this Monday night; every fourth grader is expected to report to the Rec Center for a fun-filled evening of free programs and live demonstrations.

Organizers say the kiddoes will have the chance to make a 1-to-1 scale volcano that spews real ash and molten igneous rock.

They’ll learn how a pile of pennies can be transformed into a battery by simply taking those pennies to Walgreens and exchanging them for a pack of Duracell double-As.

They’ll learn about centripetal force by pouring a bucket full of water and then filling out a worksheet on centripetal force.

They’ll plant a bean sprout in a Styrofoam cup that won’t disintegrate until their grandchildren have set off on exploratory missions to find another planet that can support bean sprouts.

What else might be on the community calendar for this week? you ask? Well, let me work at my own pace over here, okay, pal? Like all jobs worth doing, this one takes focus and patience—you can’t just rush through it. As my optometrist says: “Measure twice, cut once. Then do the left eye.” So I guess that’s really measure four times total and then cut two times—but I had an astigmatism so I ended up just sticking with contacts anyway.

So.

[Paper’s tapped into order].

This week’s events. On Tuesday night head over to the bandshell to hear a set from OUROBOROS: the rock band that only plays covers of their own songs.

Wednesday: Ablution in Fresca to celebrate the start of the Andorran New Year.

Thursday is Thirsty Thursday: consume no liquids. You’re gonna get real thirsty.

Friday has been indefinitely delayed by weather at O’Hare and is now pleading with a United representative for a hotel voucher to avoid sleeping in a plastic chair in Concourse Z.

Early morning on Saturday, we’re in for a rare astronomical treat. The Earth will fully eclipse the sun, blotting out its light completely, so that only a ring of wispy blue remains visible against the blackness. Now this eclipse will not be observable on Earth of course, and to our knowledge there is no planet on which this phenomenon could be observed—there’s just nothing on that particular vector in space—but at 4:13 am on Saturday morning, the total eclipse will occur and that blue corona will shine softly in the dark, like a delicate smoke ring. And that dim, blue halo will represent the entirety of us. Our dramas, dreams, and disappointments: our first ride without the training wheels, our 8th grade dances, our double-Windsors and our veils, our sleepless nights in waiting rooms, our rush-hour commutes, our dozing through recitals til the one we love goes on, our crying in the car as the one we love leaves home. Just that thin filament of blue on which we wage our peace.

Then on Sunday, Tacos and Gun safety with Three-eyed Bill at First Methodist.

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Stay tuned, savvy listeners, for in a moment I’ll be sharing Night Vale’s third quarter economic development report. To my knowledge, we’ve never had an economic development report before, for any quarter, but the press release looked official, and we all know that new municipal arms of government form all the time—arms that then pull back to be reabsorbed by the governmental shoulder from which they sprouted.

But before crunching those numbers, a quick message from today’s sponsor: Equinox Gym. At Equinox, we focus on the whole body, particularly the soft and vulnerable parts of that body. Stop by our windowless complex today to meet with a dietician about this month’s promotion: the Zima Cleanse. Or, for even faster results, nothing torches calories like our calorie torch. Also, new members this week to Equinox receive 60 days free access to our popular Judgment Spa.

This has been a word from our sponsor.

Now to business news (Woah, did that sound unusually powerful to you? Sort of took myself by surprise there, like I grew a suit or something.) The Night Vale Economic Development Board—or NehVecDevB for short and cumbersome—sent a press release at the closing bell of the Night Vale Stock Exchange. The bulletin said that futures are down—way down—although the recent past is trading briskly. In response to declining levels of interest, NehVecDevB plans to incentivize consumer spending. At the start of tomorrow’s business day, they’ll launch an agitprop campaign of xenophobia, branded as nationalism, branded as civic pride, branded as A 2008 F-150 FORD TRUCK, WITH SATELLITE RADIO, AIR-CONDITIONED SEATS, AND A HEAVY-DUTY HITCH TO HAUL AWAY WHATEVER IT IS YOU’RE TRYING TO HIDE.

So, make plans this weekend to head out towards the Used Car Lot with your hands in the air and your checkbook in your mouth to meet with a sales person about financing options—you might be surprised by how few years of indentured servitude can get you behind the wheel of a Ford truck.

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You know what cars make me think of? Well Carlos, I guess, but everything makes me think of Carlos—and his name is anagram of Lo, Cars! He’s out of town at ErlenmeyerFlaskCon this week and I miss him something fierce. But what I was going to say is that the thought of buying a car reminds me of my neicelet. It’s extraordinary to think that she’ll be a teenager someday, getting her driver’s permit, then her license, then her crossbow—going through all of these phases we all pass through. It’s like there’s a future attached to her already. Inside Sabina there’s a baby and seeded inside the baby there’s the toddler and within her are the blueprints for the girl, and soon she’ll be out here learning to play the sitar, and considering vegetarianism, then voting and buying lottery tickets—well, those are the same thing really—and I’ll get to bear witness to this blooming life. Someday, she might even decide to have a niece of her own.

[Cecil needs a moment, overcome with feeling.]

Okaaay, something is in Young Cecil’s eye over here. Hang tight, team, I’m going to just run out and grab a box of tissue from the supply closet to remove this bothersome—

[Mechanical latch noise, then silence. More mechanical fussing and silence again.]

Listeners, I must admit I’m in a state of concerned agitation here. When I tried to open the door of the studio, the handle came off in my hand. And when I went to reinsert it, I found that the hole was tamped full of soft, hot tar—which can not be up to code. So now, I find myself in a small, soundproof, airtight room. With a doorless handle in my left hand and a handle-less door before me. I’m, I’m uncertain of just how to proceed. I can’t imagine there’s more than a few hours worth of oxygen in here—even if the studio’s potted fern works double duty on converting the carbon dioxide.

And--of course--I left my phone in my jeans in the other room, after I changed into my professional radio hosting unitard.

I... I need some time to assess the situation. I’ll leave you to The Weather.

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WEATHER: “If We Live” by Disparition

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[cut to Cecil, mid-mutter. He’s panting, shallow-breathed]

Okay, calm down, Cecil. Calm down and you can beat this. Be like the patient viper who does not strike until his prey is upon him; be like the Preying Mantis who’s head is a guitar pick; keep your heart rate low and your focus steady. And Good God, sit down, man, save your strength. Breathe deep enough to get the air inside your brain and think. What would an uncle do?

[Deep breathing sounds. Maybe a meditative Ooooom that glides up into a nervous register and becomes a sustained, soft whine.]

Okay—I’ve got it. Easy, I just need one of you to come and open the door. Here I am behaving like I’m alone, but of course I’m not alone [relieved, slightly manic laughter], I’ve got all of Night Vale listening. HOO! That is a relief—come to think of it, I imagine hundreds of you may be on your way already—and I can’t have the whole town rushing over all once, that would cause traffic jams, hysteria, straight-line winds gusting to up to 60 knots.

If you’re on the way, just shoot a quick flare into the sky so that everyone knows you’re the one on the way. More importantly so that I know you’re on the way.

Guys, it’s like 11pm, you’re all not in your PJs yet. Just need one person to make the trip—it’s like an eight-minute drive from your apartment….Oh COME ON. Is—is no one listening?

The memo from Management at the last all-staff meeting did mention low late-night ratings, but this is not low, this is talking into a tin can on a string whose other end is tied to a fire hydrant at the bottom of the sea—this is utter futility, this is falling in the woods and no one’s there to hear you, this is not seeing the Cecil for the trees, this is a Kafka meets Beckett and tells him to talk to the hand, this is—Stop. Full stop, Cecil. [Deep breath] This indignation does me no good at all. Just burns through my oxygen supply, which is running low already. At this rate, I’ll never survive until the morning commuters tune in. Just think, Cecil. Think like an uncl—

That’s it!

There is at least one person listening; babies never sleep through the night, right? So, you, neicelet, you should still be able to hear me…though I imagine the sound of my voice may be muffled by the blankets on the guest bed—and Sabina’s abdominal muscles.

Alright, niecelet. I need you. You’ve got to find a way to wake up Sabina. I need you to kick. Brace your little elbows on the soft wall behind you and really kick. Aim for a spot under the ribs, that roof of bone above you.

And again, [quick, audible, Lamaze breaths] Kick!, good, again. [quick, audible, Lamaze breaths] Kick! Good, again. Now give it everything you’ve got it this time. Sabina, wake up! This is an emergency, Wake U—

Oh, the station phone is ringing. I forgot we even had these. Caller, you're on the air.

SABINA: Hi Cecil. The baby was keeping me up, and I turned on the station and-

CECIL: Sabina! Oh, thank God, you’re awake…No, no it’s not a schtick. Listen, I’m trapped in the studio and I just need someone to open the door from the outs—

SABINA: Okay, I'll be right there. I'm starving. I may stop by Subway for a mashed potato and Nutella sandwich first.

CECIL: Please come now. We’ve got snacks in the breakroom pantry, I think. I’ll set you up with some GORP and Gefilte fish.

SABINA: All right. Hey did you know there's a faceless old woman living in your home? She keeps trying to put lotion on my belly when I'm sleeping.

CECIL: She does that. Listen, my spare office keys are by the Lucky Cat. See you soon. And thank you, Sabina.

SABINA: [off mic] Enough with the lotion, lady! [call ends]

CECIL:

[Long beat, then a very long exhale.]

And thank you, niecelet. At negative two months old, you’ve already saved a life—and somehow I get the feeling mine might be just the first of many. If you need bailing out of a tight spot someday, you know who to call. I’m the baritone you can count on at anytime, kid, day or night-shift.

[Chair squeaks as it’s reclined.]

Man, I can’t wait for that door to open so I can get a lungful of fresh air. It’s funny how small a room can feel when you’re not allowed to leave—Oh, sorry. Forgot who I was talking to for a second.

Well, as soon as you’re out here breathing air yourself, I’m getting you a pair of cleats, and a pair of baby shin guards. And a baby cape too. I can’t wait to meet you, little hero of a niecelet.

But first, I’m making your mother some midnight eggplant parmesan.

Stay tuned next for the sounds of a door opening, a rush of oxygen-rich air, and a wheezing celebration of an overworked respiratory system.

Any second now. Any second. Any... second.

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