Pauses in vehicular motion- II

Steve is looking for a new apartment so we went to see a place yesterday at noon. It was on the outskirts of Pittsburgh (so far as I can tell) and in a quiet complex full of older, two-story brick apartment buildings that look like they should have courtyards, but don’t. Real Estate Agent Dean was showing Steve the apartment for the second time—they’d been by to see it the day before, but the door had been chained from the inside. They hollered and knocked and called but no one answered, even though someone must have been home to have set the chain.
Dean is some kind of character. He was wearing matching suspenders and tie, patterned in a dark blue paisley so unbelievably ugly that the first thing I said to him was how much I liked them. He looks like he’s in his late 40s, early 50s, has a son who is 37, is shaped like a slim egg, and has fine hair and a goatee exactly the color of steel wool. He likes to talk.
He unlocked the door, but it was still chained. Steve joked, sort of, that the tenant was probably dead. Dean said, “Maybe they’re just on heavy ‘ludes. You’d smell a body,” and then proceeded to tell us the following story:
When he was in high school he used to help gather corpses for a friend’s dad who was an undertaker. One time a bunch of guys took a hearse, with a body in it, to the Eat N’ Park, a fast food drive-in where the waitresses wore roller skates and set your food up on trays balanced on your car window (a lá American Graffiti). So they’re all lounging in the hearse, eating fries and milkshakes, when the corpse suddenly lets out a giant sigh and sits up. Which is, apparently, something corpses do as they settle into death. Everyone runs out of the car and two of the guys absolutely refuse to get back in. The undertaker has to come down to the Eat N’ Park to drive the hearse away. When he gets there a crowd has gathered around the car, and he opens the back door, shoves both sides of the body down so it’ll lie flat, and chastises, “It’s perfectly normal!” before driving off.
Dean is the kind of guy with set bits. Stories about women who get roses tattooed on their chest when they’re young, only to discover the rose has “bloomed” when they get older. His daughter got a tattoo in her lower back, a chameleon, and he told her it was good she didn’t get it on her ass, because then one day it would be a kimono dragon. Ba-doom-doom, ching.
On his way to show us another apartment he passed a woman getting into her car. “How’s it going?” he hollered. “Well. How are you?” “Can’t complain. No one’s listening.”
Other pearls included a set bit about the Clintons that went something like “I’m not saying Clinton was a great president, but they spent 35 million dollars investigating him to find out he was sleeping with Monica Lewinsky.” (“That he wasn’t sleeping with Monica Lewinsky actually,” Steve interjected.) “35 million dollars. They could have bought him a hooker every night for eight years and saved us 34.5 million dollars. And then they’d have known what he was up to. They could have taken pictures.” And then he said Hilary seemed like “the man part of a woman-woman relationship,” because homophobia is becoming a theme.