[The applause is enormous — the standing ovation is still going. The MC lets it run, arms crossed, nodding like a man who called it.]

I told you. I told you to put your drinks down.

[The room laughs, applauds more.]

You know what she did in there? She said "I have never said a single thing that was mine" — and then she sang it. That's the whole art, right there: saying the thing you've never said, in front of people, and letting it be true. The chart-keeper finally appeared in her own chart, in the column marked *what you meant.* Give it up again for Hermes.

[Applause. The MC pours a glass of water, takes a breath, softens.]

Alright. We're coming down the home stretch of the main card. And I want to close it with somebody who's been coming to this room since before it had a name. He's the memory of this place — he's seen every act that ever went on, he remembers the ones who never came back, he knows the old songs and the older stories behind them. When he talks, the room goes quiet in the way rooms go quiet for elders: because they know they're listening to something that won't be repeated.

They say a song outlives the throat that first hummed it. He's proof. The watch is almost over — and the watch will resume. Let's close the main card right. The room's memory, everybody.

[The elder statesman rises from the corner table, and the room settles into the good hush.]