Let me tell you the definition of suffering. Over the few short months I’ve been working as a station intern, I’ve been dragged violently underground by an elder god, buried alive by a self-proclaimed “monster hunter”, and locked in a meat freezer for 7 hours.
I’ve been frozen, burned, battered, and at one point, lost in an alternate dimension (I might still be), and it’s honestly a miracle that I’m still alive.
But nothing can compare to being kicked point-blank in the pancreas by a guy going record speeds in a rolling chair.
My name is Daniel Park, and I’m an intern at NVCR, which essentially makes me an over-glorified, under-paid errand boy. Maybe I’d have more to do if I were a college student, but considering I got in by the skin of my teeth at 17, there are some things I’m just legally not allowed to do- not like that’s ever stopped me from doing them- but for the most part, coffee-making and janitorial duties is a central part of the job description. Thanks to my condition, I’m also in charge of delivering files to station management, keeping cobwebs out of the creepiest corners of the basement, and reporting on the most dangerous events in Night Vale, on-site.
Not having a sense of fear would probably be more useful outside of the only inter-dimensional crossing point in the U.S.
I come here for a few hours every day after school, helping out with busy work wherever it’s needed, operating the recording booth whenever our directors are unavailable, and making frequent trips to the staff lounge for coffee- kept company by the various lovecraftian creatures of the station, spiders, and another intern not much older than me called Brian, who had just beaten me in a game of office-jousting.
From my spot on the floor, doubled over next to the office chair, wheels still-spinning, I could see the door to the staff break room open and a pair of well-polished, black dress shoes step in.
“What are you two idiots doing?”
I recognized the voice as Lance, our resident two-faced, double-crossing snake of a receptionist.
(He borrowed 20$ and refused to pay it back. I have a right to be mad.)
Although he was chipper and helpful (maybe a bit too helpful) on the clock, that was all a facade. After-hours he’d take off the mask and turn back into his cynical, condescending self, with such startling contrast that it seemed as if he had a split personality. The difference between his attitude towards customers and towards other staff was so stark that it could give one vertigo the first time you’d see the change. He actually graduated from a prestigious school with a degree in theatre, so to some extent, his disillusionment was understandable- although it was nice enough, Night Vale was no place for a young college graduate trying to make their way in the world. It’s a place you go to settle down- not to live out what might be the best years of your life.
Still, that felt like letting him off too easy. I’ve watched him steal other people’s lunches out of the break room fridge and leave his used filters in the coffee machine.
But hey, he did do his job, and I think that’s all we can really ask of him. Even if we are coworkers, we don’t have to get along- all we have to do is keep this place running.
Brian helped me up, muttering an apology for impaling me with the toe of his tennis shoes, as Lance rubbed his temples in annoyance. It seemed like he was about to chew us out for reckless endangerment, but instead he chose to spare us.
“Look, I know you haven’t been busy today, but please refrain from whatever you’re doing. You interns already have a stupidly high death rate and we don’t need to raise that.There’s a bunch of plants near the back of the station growing a bunch of fingers- go pull them out.” He monologued as he fished someone else’s bag of Doritios out of the fridge.
“Fingers? Like, human fingers?”
“Hey, what gives you the right to order us around?”
“Yes, human fingers. Now go!”
He popped open the bag, motioning aggressively to the door before walking out himself. Brian and I stared at each other until the sound of his heels hitting the tile floor faded away, before his mouth broke into a grin.
“Hey, you think if we let them grow they’ll turn into little plant people?”
See, the thing about my partner was that he wasn’t exactly the brightest. He was lively and high-spirited, but he had the tendency to be incredibly oblivious with rare, scarily accurate moments of insight. Brian Rand was a junior at Night Vale Community College, majoring in communications and riding the coattails of a football scholarship. After a childhood spent listening to Cecil on the radio, he held an inordinate amount of admiration for the man, bordering on fanboy-ish, and was hoping to be the next big radio host himself.
He was friendly and sociable, though, and kind to everyone, and even if he was dumb as rocks he usually won people over anyways. Aside from his good looks and Athletic ability, one more thing he was blessed with to make up for his lack of intellectual lacquer was his confidence.
Once, on casual friday, he wore a kangaroo onesie with neon green flip-flops and an american flag cap. When he was told to go change, he put on a pair of sneakers, thinking his flip-flops were the problem. Another time, he started a peanut-catching tournament and managed to catch 15 in his mouth, before remembering he was allergic to nuts and asking to go to the hospital. He has the voice of an angel, but exclusively uses it to sing early 2000s songs like Britney Spears’ Toxic and Dancing queen by Swedish pop sensation ABBA.
If his wit was as sharp as his jawline, he’d probably be the perfect human.
“Come on, let’s go check out the hand-plants.”
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