In another bar, in another part of town, Reza, known as 'Bunny' amongst those who'd 'known her when', had taken shelter from the torrential downpour. She slapped the oaken bar, liberating a few crumbs that had lodged themselves in one of the names carved into the surface by the steely blade of some wannabe tough long years ago... or maybe it was just last night. "Cal, give me a glass of Four Roses."

"Sure, Miss vonWren," he replied, looking at her meaningfully,"But you usually drink wine. You OK?"

Bunny took the proffered glass, and staring past Cal's eyes, past the painting of the naked hoochie, past the brick wall and on down the street, began to reply. As she raised the glass before her world-worn face, a blinding flash of light exploded through the front window in an atmospheric fanfare, a visual drum roll. A hundred juke boxes in a hundred bars went silent, and as the electricity fled the fury of the storm, the last light in the place illuminated Bunny's sad, whimsical face.

"The men in my life...the women too, for that matter... I try to talk to them and they answer in one liners and sound effects. I swear they once were capable of stringing a couple of sentences together. I seem to remember being inspired by these clowns. I was talking to a guy the other night and I thought he was listening, but followed his eyes and he was staring at the fight on the TV. What is it about that brainless stuff that's so much better than talking to people!?

"It's easy," Cal offered, as he lit a few of the candles he kept around for emergency 'ambience' should he ever be invaded by a flock of disoriented yuppies, "Pop culture in any form is familiar. Don't matter much if it's sports, politics, bitchin' about their pet peeves or pet hates. They don't need to think, they don't need to create nuthin', they don't need to question whether they're doin' the right thing. They don't need to leave their comfort zones and try to make theirselves or their little part of the world better. They just turn it on, tune in and forget what they hell life's for."

"But don't you like football?"

"Yeah, well, OK. Maybe it's just a guy thing. Weren't you gonna make a toast?"

Bunny sipped from her glass then pinned it down with her gaze, "The moment sorta passed. I really wish I could find out where all the fun went. I wish there were someone else who cared that it disappeared, because it feels like I'm the only one who thinks something went wrong..."

Cal picked up a candle and walked a few feet down the bar, setting it down in a carefully chosen spot. "Miss vW, here you go."

She slid off the stool and walked down the bar. There, carved in the stained surface, was the name "Blake Madison, Private I" and a phone number. "Oh God," she sighed, "Not him! I'm looking for fun, for a good time, and he's as sad a person as I ever met. Why should I call him?"

Cal slapped down a tip-jar quarter in front of her, smiled, winked, leaned across the bar, and very quietly, answered, "Because he still dreams."