The morning sun bounced off the Carmichael Industries sign, catching the attention of every car that turned into the parking lot. It was supposed to be a smooth, professional operation. Employees flashed their badges, drove in, parked, and went about their day.
But this was Jeff and Lester's first day on the job. And "smooth" was not in their vocabulary.
From the booth at the entrance, the speakers had been rerouted. Instead of the standard beep of the gate opening, the lot now echoed with music. Jeffster music.
Jeff strummed a battered electric guitar he had dragged into the booth, the amp plugged into a very illegal-looking extension cord. Lester, standing proudly beside him with a microphone, wore sunglasses and a scarf like he was fronting a stadium tour instead of working a parking lot.
As the first car pulled up, Lester launched into song:
🎵 "Welcome to Carmichael Industries!
Where the parking is tight,
But the service is freeeee!" 🎵
The analyst behind the wheel froze, badge half-raised, staring in disbelief.
Jeff chimed in with a riff that made the amp screech. "Pull forward slowly, man, no need to rush. Park straight, park proud!"
The gate lifted in perfect rhythm with the music. The analyst shook his head, laughing despite himself, and drove in.
Another car pulled up moments later. Lester leaned down dramatically to the window, microphone in hand. "State your badge number… in song form!"
The bewildered employee flashed his ID. Lester grinned, turning it into another chorus.
🎵 "Four-nine-seven, you're in heaven,
Slide on through, spot twenty-seveeen!" 🎵
Jeff pounded a single chord like it was the encore of their lives.
By mid-morning, the lot had transformed into an impromptu Jeffster concert.
Employees parked while Lester serenaded them with improvised lyrics about their license plates.
Jeff invented "parking solos," wailing on his guitar every time a car backed into a space correctly.
At least one analyst clapped on the way to the building, muttering, "Best parking experience of my life."
Inside, reports filtered up to me.
"Bartowski," one analyst said, still chuckling, "your parking attendants… sing at us."
I sighed, rubbing my temples. "But are they letting people park?"
"Yes… very enthusiastically."
"Then they're doing their job," I muttered.
Still, I made a note in their files: Strike One — Unauthorized Parking Lot Concert.
Out in the booth, Lester raised his mic to the sky. "Ladies and gentlemen… Jeffster thanks you for your cooperation!"
Jeff slumped in his chair, nodding. "Best gig we've had in years."