I drove around Atlantic Terminal looking for a spot to double park, creeping around the crooked streets and hoping not to knock into vans or pedestrians. I found an anonymous street where a few others who had done the same and stopped next to a beat up car. I put the flashers on. No one else had. Was I some type of fool? Surely I’d marked my car to be towed or stolen.

The guy at Men’s Wearhouse opened up a minute past ten and told us to bear with him, he was all alone and all his staff were sick. He brought out my tux and I walked back out, trying not to drag it on the sidewalk. Around the corner and the other corner the car was still there, blinking.