The businesses down there on the fringes of Port City were clean and mostly recent-built, and Bunny’s was no exception: a handsome darkwood single- story building, perched on a little hilly lawn with an almost absurdly large parking lot surrounding it. Long smoke- color windows fronted the street with not a solitary plastic beer sign in sight, and on both sides of the building, spotlight-lit and painted in big blue block letters, was the word Bunny’s. It was approaching eleven-thirty when I pulled into the lot which had seemed oversize to me when I drove by that afternoon but right now was jampacked. I had no easy time finding a parking place and settled for one a good walk from the door and counted myself lucky. As I neared the building I heard rock music faintly and then the door opened and as some people came out so did the music, loud but not too loud and well-played by a live combo of drum-bass-guitar. I was relieved to hear rock rather than country western, and not from my being a supporter or detractor of either cause, but because my experience has been that rock bars run to fewer fights than country western.
