Seven and a half years later, he gets up from his seat. The strip mall has been demolished and replaced by a parking structure 18 stories tall, one of those hi-tech ones where you drive your car into a little shoe which then gets pulled up by an elevator into a cubbyhole slot.
Joey, for that was the mans name, found himself awakening in one self-same slot, and unable to squeeze out between the tightly packed cars, even though he himself was not in a car.
The yellow hibiscus blossoms had faded somewhat. Apparently he'd gotten rained on a lot in his seven-year sleep, and bleached by the drying rays of the sun.

To his immediate problem, descending from a cubbyhole slot somewhere in the mid-teen stories of a parking garage, he devoted more than a brief thought. For several hours, he sat still, watching the elevator mechanism zipping the shoe into its various positions to load and unload vehicles. How he got there was not important right now.

If he were able to slip into the shoe as it vacated a slot, or if he were able to guess what car was to be pulled next...And if he could get to that location, he would simply sit in the car (for they were all unlocked with the keys inside) and ride out, dealing with the upset of the car's rightful owner when it was time for that conflict to air.