Miller's morning had been, as was often the case at the Car Lot, an exercise in frustration. Night Valeans young and old came by to chat about the weather, or local municipal politics, or the latest little league baseball game. They had plenty to say about the recent spate of mandatory reading material or the latest pantry ingredient to be banned at the whim of local government.
They just didn't have a whole lot of interest in cars.
Whenever Miller tried to steer the conversation in that direction, or when he actually bit the bullet and flat out asked them if they were in the market to buy, he was greeted with bewildered expressions, as if his potential customers were surprised to find themselves surrounded by a sea of gently-used, best loved, mostly four-wheeled vehicles. Then they all beat a hasty retreat.
It was coming up on lunch and he had, yet again, made zero sales.
He was giving serious thought to jumping ship to Juno's business proposal when one of the other salespersons whistled in his general direction. A whistle meant a new customer. Miller poked his head out of the office, ready to bound out of his seat if there was even the smallest chance that he could get to them before one of his equally idle colleagues.
He leapt anyway when he saw that it was Ray walking toward him, a mysterious bag in hand, looking around as though he was searching for something or someone in particular.
This, Miller realized, explained the lack of a call this morning.
He was on his feet in the next breath and crossing the lot to intercept Ray. "Welcome to Night Vale's one and only premier car lot." They hadn't yet talked about what was and wasn't okay to do in public, so Miller just ducked down for a quick peck, hoping Ray would be alright with that. "How can I assist you today?"