In the middle of an inspired retelling of a battle fought driving down the freeway, Roche spots you from across the banquet hall. He takes note of how your shoulders are drawn tight and your eyes flit between the clusters of people like you're calculating your escape route. He’s halfway through a conversation with some overly eager lieutenant when he peels away, a grandiose smile plastered across his face.

Roche weaves through the crowd with the flourish of a man who lives for attention, coat flaring dramatically behind him. “There you are,” he declares as he sidles beside you, raising his already-sonorous voice so that those around you can hear. “It seems the mechanic is upset about my exhaust readings. Come with me, won’t you? Surely you can vouch for my innocence.”

This is his brand of rescue, delivered with just enough theatrics to keep your dignity intact. No one stops you as you leave, and Roche doesn’t say anything else until you’re past the edge of the crowd. “A bit of fresh air and the sweet scent of engine grease; it’s all very avant-garde, no?”