This is a story about him. He has a square jaw and teeth like a military cemetery. His hair is perfect despite his dignified, yet premature graying at his temples.
Everyone hates and despairs and loves that perfect hair in equal measure, but this is not a story about this handsome scientist's perfect hair. This is a story about him.
He is listening to the radio. He always does that. He does that every time that a particular radio host is on the air, speaking of occasionally scientific ideas that surpass the unreasonable. The radio host shows a suddenly prominent interest in science rather than his previous latent acknowledgement. That handsome man views this significantly less handsome man, who is beautiful in his own right, as a phenomenon unlike any other. Unfortunately, he is also slightly-
You . . . listen to my show, Carlos?
This scientist lets out a flustered jumble of superfluous terms to indirectly communicate his sudden discomfort and scrambles to the nearest electrical outlet to disconnect the radio-
Okay, maybe he doesn't exactly listen to the radio host's show all the time. He often sacrifices the important information that the man broadcasts for the sake of experiments and a slight embarrassment that everyone knows and understands-
This very handsome scientist clearly does not hear the radio host's careful articulation of significant words like "important information". He disregards the man's pleas and disconnects the radio halfway through this urgent monologue. He is oblivious to the note of disappointment in the radio host's voice and the growing concern-
-no, worry.
The radio host scrambles to broadcast to a significant portion of town in hope that word reaches the ingenious, yet ignorant scientist on the limited time left before Street Cleaning Day. While the man struggles to personally remain calm, he urgently recites, "Ladies, gentlemen, you. Today is Street Cleaning Day. Please remain calm! Street Cleaners will be upon us quite soon. We have little time to prepare. Please remain calm." Cecil concludes his notice with an emphasis that is intended for himself rather than his listeners.
Nevertheless, this is not a story about the radio host or his growing concern for the scientist. This is a story about him.
There is little time to prepare and, indeed, this very handsome scientist wastes a significant amount of it to continue his most notable study, the house that does not exist in the in the new housing development of Desert Creek. Throughout the dwindling population along the streets, though, he suddenly hears the blaring sirens in Central Night Vale that indicate sirens going off in Old Town Night Vale. He does not scramble to his siren preparedness kit, which is an automatic response for most citizens, or seek shelter. Instead, his purely scientific curiosity drives him towards the source of the noise.
He merely peers on and acquires a perplexing observation about the people of Central Night Vale. As the citizens enclose themselves in the solitary confinement of their home with various solid objects that range from boards to metallic bars, he intently observes each sealed entrance. Occasionally, he knocks on a few of these doors. He receives no response except the gradual quickening of his lightly scented breath that appears to purify the atmosphere about him with each intake of air.
In the meantime, he uses the scientific method to theorize several possibilities of the occasion for these sirens. He quickly dismisses any obvious hypothesis like "turbulent weather" or "military attack". He is not a meteorologist or a scientist in a military profession, but cloudless skies and a dwindling number of Sheriff's Secret Policemen on the streets indicate that the cause of the noise comes from another source. Regardless, his extensive talent in the sciences cannot tell him what he does not already know in a short period of time.
He moves on and wades quietly through the isolated pavement.
He concludes that the looming threat is far more dangerous than what he has encountered before. He has no evidence to support his instinctive conclusion, but he does not deny that he feels a growing sense of foreboding for each minute he lingers on the streets.
Briefly, he spots Old Woman Josie in a rushed struggle to make her way down the pavement to her home. She attempts to force her worn body to move in a velocity beyond her years. He briefly approaches her for a moment, intending to ask about the occasion for today's sirens before a flood of feathers obscures his vision. He does not, under any circumstances, see an angel. He firmly acknowledges the fact that angels are not real and attempts to find a logical explanation for such a severe hallucination at such a spontaneous time.
This time, though, he hesitates for one minute too many. The radio reverberates through every vacant store on a different broadcast. The radio host no longer recites "A Story About Him", and he has not for a long time. This very handsome man makes this conclusion after acknowledging that his broadcast is a likely cause for the citizens' sudden preparations. Regardless, the severity of these preparations unnerves him. As he stops to listen to the radio host at a local food market, he discovers that the man is no longer narrating this story. After a few seconds of listening, the radio host briefly addresses his ignorance of the outside world due to his current position in the studio bunker.
That absolutely unnerves him.
As the radio host mentions the sounds, they occur on the surface that this particular scientist loiters in. He runs as the screams begin. There is no reason for him to intensely examine in his surroundings. He finally understands that it's time to react. He only has instinct and fear despite his growing tolerance for terror. He sacrifices his breath to obtain a momentary solitude, momentarily abandoning cool calculation for faster actions.
He begins to sweat. He acknowledges the cool droplets that caress the surface of his heated skin and soothes its irritable surface by gradually applying moisture to the necessary spots. Eventually, the adrenaline accumulates heat. The warmth on his skin starts to attract attention.
The street cleaners pursue him without hesitation.
Briefly, the members of the town recognize the features of the fleeing local celebrity covered in sweat and grime. His perfection erodes away with every panicked stumble. He is unaware of neither their acknowledgement nor the consequences of it. Before long, a few citizens proceed to sacrifice themselves on the street, buying him more time. Their passion for the man rivals the fond idolization of the radio host in some cases, but their deeds go unrewarded. He does not look back. On the other hand, the radio host does not spare them a moment of silence for their sacrifice. This is not an act of cruel dismissal on either man's behalf, though. The relentless street cleaners that pursue each of the sacrificed citizens drive them into that particular position. Some have a minute to live. Others are lucky to receive a few seconds of prolonged life. The radio host sits in his bunker, unaware of the heroic deed done, though unknowingly in their case, for this man, Night Vale's most important citizen.
The fallen victims of the street cleaners give him the time that he needs to stumble over the lifeless corpses of the scientists from the press conference earlier that day. He lands, visibly grazing the surface of his perfect skin using the jagged ends of the hard pavement. Luckily, the treacherous earth does not allow the ground to permanently embed the wound in his skin. He only has a minor cut.
For the first time in his adrenaline rush, he begins to do what scientists do best. He carefully observes his surroundings and drags his fingers through the pockets of a few long dead street cleaner experts, justifying his actions under reasons of "preserving scientific study by living to study science in the first place." He searches anything to preserve his life or, if possible, to preserve others.
Seconds later, he discovers a tight container only engraved with the unusual phrase: "Cantarella Substitute", an alternative drug that supposedly induces similar effects to Cantarella. He examines the container with a visible skepticism stretching across his expression. Cantarella is a fictional poison that supposedly suspends a body in the state of death for a few hours like in Shakespeare's classical tragedy, Romeo and Juliet.
There is no head radiating from their bodies. There are no simple movements such as the gentle intake of breath or slightest twitch, which often attracts the attention of street cleaners. Their mouths constantly froth despite the distinct coldness of their bodies that raises his doubts about this new substance.
They did not take the pills recently.
He quickly abandons the experts with the pills in his hand. He briefly weighs the merits of taking them. On one hand, the pills provide a calming assurance of safety from the dreaded street cleaners. On the other, the poison also contain a variety of unknown factors. The heat in a human body usually takes quite some time to leave a corpse, though he does not know exactly how much. What if his body heat does not leave in time? What if the foam dribbling down the lips of the experts indicates an unforeseen side effect? What if-
He debates and examines. He flees until his legs are no longer able to operate without a growing ache in his joins. Clearly, his decreasing speed makes him the perfect target for the street cleaners to pursue. He is aware of their approach, and he is afraid. He fears many things. He is afraid of events, places, and, particularly, people that he occasionally forms an emotional bond with. He fears the emotional impact of those relationships, and he is afraid of the implications of acknowledging them. He is especially afraid of acknowledging a strange emotion in the case of a particular radio host.
He is not ready.
He spares another long glance at the case of pills in his hand. For once, he dismisses his knowledge and growing doubts. He refuses to acknowledge his emotional attachments, but he doesn't do that out of stubbornness. He wants to live and gradually learn to accept and recuperate these feelings. In a way, he wants to live for his team of scientists and the citizens that rely on him. He even wants to live for the radio host despite the man's unusually eccentric ways. He does not want these thoughts about the radio host to stir a strange sensation throughout his body, but they do. Regardless, he quickly dismisses them.
The street cleaners grow closer. He does not have any other option. He scrambles to unscrew the cap, sweaty palms clawing desperately at the surface of the bottle to no avail. Eventually, the container falls to the surface of the pavement with a loud clatter and falls open. He scrambles to grab a single pill before slipping into the fridge of the local ice cream shop.
He does not acknowledge that the architecture appears to be perfectly in tact when he is fairly curtain that a large portion of the building is currently suspended upside down. He quickly enters the building to investigate, briefly disregarding his own emergency. He silently confesses that it does make sense to look into a strange occurrence after it's there for a month, but he has not quite gotten to it yet. Nevertheless, this is no time to try explaining phenomena with little to no explanation!
He snaps back into reality and scrambles into the freezer, slipping on the ground's icy surface before crawling inside between several boxes. He stays absolutely still as his body temperature slowly drops. For a moment, he restrains the natural inclination to shuffle around to maintain the heat of aerobic exercise. He eventually grows numb from the environment.
The street cleaners pass.
Meanwhile, time passes along with the street cleaners, and the screams subside. As he begins to feel a distinct numbness throbbing throughout the circulation of his body's heat, he slowly rises from his crouched position between his cardboard shields. He does not know whether the discoloration of his skin indicates whether an hour or an entire day passes, and he does not need to. Instead, he thinks about the proper way to explain having hypothermia on a hot, desert day. He dismisses that thought after noticing that the outside is absolutely silent.
Eventually, he returns to the city only to see the citizens' reunion. Within minutes, he hears the laughter, the joy, and the tears with a distinct mixture of relief, fear, and grief. He briefly notes that the corpses from this dreaded day are no longer lying on the ground. The bodies of the experts move fluidly through the ground and produce loud cheers of triumph. On the other hand, a majority of the victims in Street Cleaning Day are no longer there.
He does not focus on the amount of casualties, though, not this time.
Instead, he finishes his story. A lot of time passes from this particular event in the narration. He repeats the first phrase in his account: "This is a story about him." Seconds later, he informs the reader in a voice equivalent to smooth caramel, "There are two people in this story, the narrator and the character."
"I am aware of the narrator's thoughts and feelings because, one long year later, he told me. Indeed, I wrote this story in a bit of a scientific manner, but I tried to make myself as clear as possible," he explains.
"Cecil is very important in my new hobby of documenting the strange occurrences in Night Vale for helping me with that particular issue, and now, he is so much more to me than that," He trails off absently before gazing directly into the gentle glow of the screen where this story is written. "The narrator is just as aware of the events as am but he does not always create the actual account of the event. Keep that in mind," he pauses. "I am going to describe myself to myself. I am going to speak to the person that is recording this."
This is a story about you, and you are perfect. You don't exactly believe that, but there is always someone that contradicts your beliefs of inferiority and self-loathing. They compliment, cherish, and love you. You don't understand why, but what you do know is that you're glad you have someone to tell you that you're wrong. Who knows, maybe you are?
"Maybe I am."
You rephrase your opening statement.
This is a story about him. You are he, and he is you. This is a story about your survival during Street Cleaning Day.
You are the writer, and you are perfectly fine with being imperfect.
Author's Note: I wrote this story to answer a prompt for the Daily Dot's "Tumblrvale" contest that asked about my "preparations for Street Cleaning Day". I also wrote it in the perspective of Carlos to fill in a gaping plot hole that bothered me for quite some time while describing what I would do through Carlos's perspective.
I'm sorry if I confuse you at any point throughout the story to meet these requirements. Other than that, this story has a lot of meaning for me because it marks the end of my two year long writing hiatus, which is more than I bargained for after writing it. Maybe you know me under another name or another face, but that is my imperfect self.
I have killed my imperfect self.
Disclaimer: Welcome to Night Vale is a podcast created by Joseph Fink and Jeffery Cranor. I have no influence over it's sentience and gradual consumption of any surrounding life forces.