Ken didn’t know whether to giggle or vomit; both desires were suddenly strong in him, though his face held straight. For a long time afterwards he would remember how the swabbed black plastic of the table looked between his two unmoving hands, how it seemed the only steady surface in the world.

“Say,” Sid said, backing away toward the piano with a glazed smile. “What is this here? Some kinda conspiracy here?”

Carson allowed a heavy silence to develop. Then with an air of sudden, mild remembrance, seeming to say, Oh yes, of course, he rose and walked over to Sid, who backed up confusedly into the spotlight. Facing him, he extended one limp finger and touched him on the shoulder. “Buzz,” he said. “Does that take care of it?” He turned and walked back to his seat.

Ken prayed for someone to laugh—anyone—but no one did. There was no movement in the room but the dying of Sid’s smile as he looked at Carson and at Ken, the slow fleshy enclosing of his teeth and the widening of his eyes.