About ten years ago, I was moving from Los Angeles to Lexington, Kentucky. As one of my final stops before leaving, I visited two friends of mine at their apartment that Saturday night. Their place was in an enormous, sprawling complex with at least a hundred units and — as I recall — about three or four designated parking spots for guests. With those spots taken and no street parking available, I parked my car in the business lot across the street (which was, as I recall, a bank).

The three of us stayed up far too late and I’d had a few drinks. Given the hour, my slight inebriation, and the fact that their couch was at least as comfortable as the air mattress I’d been using since selling my bed, I asked if I could crash with them and was heartily told I should. The next morning, I woke at something resembling a reasonable hour — before 9AM, I believe — and went to collect my Jeep. As should surprise no one reading this, it’d been towed during the wee hours.