Meanwhile, back at Truman's Auto Shop
Off-screen, in all the time that has passed, a car radio is now blaring a hit song from a particularly famous invasion rock band that would charge exorbitant licensing fees for this kind of music that is currently playing. Whatever has transpired in the time that has passed, several towels are laid out. One is drenched in a strangely colored fluid of indeterminate origin that can only (one would dearly hope) be reassured is not the color of some bodily excretion.
Not some human bodily excrections, anyway. Let's not delve further into disturbing and strange possibilities that haven't yet cause to ever be considered.
Paul, ragged and still not looking any more awake than he had when his latest customer had come up to him, is putting forth an uncharacteristic amount of effort to... whatever it is he's doing with this car's engine that requires all this indescribable detritus that continues to elude definition.
"Y'know, maybe... I'll... have to keep it for a while, until..." He doesn't finish the thought. Maybe he doesn't really have much of one and this is just him buying time to look busy enough for the guy in question. Lord knows how far behind he is on a number of other vehicles - a luxury he appears to afford by being the only real game in town for this business. A game everyone loathes playing, because it's Paul Truman.
There are now five cups that all previously held beverages strewn about the lot. As the new car comes to get pushed into the lot, there's that trademark half-hearted Paul wave locals would have come to know as the 'he knows you're here' wave.
"...'ll give you a call," he says to his long-waiting customer of far too generous means afforded to them, lazily turning his head along over to where Barry and Ignacio are no doubt exhausted with all their car-pushin'.
The mechanic doesn't say much of a greeting. Is he truly that busy, for once? (It's Paul Truman - he might've been making a business out of being not as busy as he ought to be.)