What it was， was a Cadillac convertible. The car was cus- tomized-that much is unarguable. A gross understatement， but a kind one. Aesthetically， the car was neither kindly nor re- strained. It impinged， it exploded， it crashed onto the reef of one s sensibilities， a neon Flying Dutchman. Bets， the bouncer， saw it first. She was peering through a rec- tangle of wavy glass， set chest-high in the door. \"I ve always found it useful to know what s coming，\" she would say. What was coming this time was that big， gaudy car， a candy-apple_ orange Queen Mary nuzzling up to the curb in front of the bar. In fact， the boat was nuzzling over the curb， onto the side- walk. In a moment of cowardice most unbecoming to the profes- sionally brave， Bets stepped back from the door. She regained her nerve just in time to watch the right front wheel drop off the curb. Clunk. \"There goes the front-end alignment，\" she mut- tered， practical as always， perhaps even seeking to mask her moment of doubt in a firmly delivered opinion. The car came to rest. Bets pushed open the door to confirm the vision she had seen through the glass. \" ，， Jesus， she mur- mured. The car was very new. Every bit of paint and chrome an- nounced this to the world. There were few signs to suggest this vehicle had traveled as far as its license plate proclaimed. In all its poor taste， from the long horns， real ones， mounted on the hood， to the flames and pin stripes swirling down the sides， to the oversized antennae curving graciously over the back end， her eyes had not betrayed her. It was awful， it was ridiculous， and it was parked smack-dab in front of her bar. Bets reeled from the door， letting it clo~ ungently， and called to May behind the counter， \"How about o:beer over \"here?\" Bets was not one to overreact. When overwhelmed on any level， by any particular feeling or impulse， her reaction was the same.
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