Dump and Chase. Elizabet YoungЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Open Door

      ONE

      Without taking his eyes off the television, Ken submerges his spoon in his cereal again. He comes up with a spoonful of milk. Two Rice Krispies remain, bloated and floating along opposite ends of the bowl.

      He became so engrossed in this documentary that he's finished his breakfast without realizing it. He looks back to the television, to the documentary on beavers—a family of beavers building a dam with their human-like hands— and he decides he shouldn't stay tuned for the next segments on vegetation and flooding and hunting. How much does an ordinary man need to know about this, anyways?

      He takes his bowl to the kitchen and drains the milk over a fountain of dishes stuck to one another in the sink. Another week's worth of dishes, undone. He runs the water and thinks about how much he doesn't want to clean.

      But today is Saturday, and on Saturdays he blasts his radio (WTRI, timeless soft rock) and vacuums the den, makes his bed, stain-sticks his clothes, and unsticks the dirty dishes in the sink. Then he showers, and shaves, and clips his toenails, and cuts his nose hairs, and spritzes his cologne, and hustles outside, where the latest model of Charger or Mustang or Roadster awaits him. (As the most senior Relations Associate of Rubble Rental, he always has his pick of the litter.) And, in his free rental, he visits the ATM to withdraw money, the liquor store to get a bottle of bubbly, the local supermarket to purchase a gift card, and then, finally, the condominium complex by the train tracks to pick up his girlfriend, Kendra (who also goes by Ken).

      He thinks about the task before him as he stands over the kitchen sink, over the tower of dirty dishes. Today is not a good Saturday; he does not feel compelled to clean, and groom, and drive all across town. Today is one of those Saturdays when he is all too aware that he is forty-three years old, that he lives in a dirty apartment, that he doesn't really own a nice car, that he has attained his “Senior” Relations Associate title by being the oldest guy working behind the counter of Rubble Rental, and finally, that he dates a woman named Ken who is not really his girlfriend but a “girlfriend coach,” which basically makes her an escort whom, on Saturdays, he takes to Bengy's Neighborhood Grille, then brings home for bubbly and a boinking, then pays with an American Express gift card.

      He stacks his cereal bowl on top of the others in the kitchen sink and returns to his ratty couch and the beaver documentary.

      By six o'clock, he has yet to dump his hamper into the washer. He has yet to shower, to shave, to clip his toenails, or to assess the length of his nose hairs. Instead, he tunes in for a music video marathon, and soon enough it is half past six. The fifteen minutes reserved for a shower have gone shamelessly to Beyoncé's short-shorts. Kendra won't mind if he smells like a hoagie.

      Outside, he unlocks the forest green Mustang and ducks into the driver's seat. The fresh smell and the clean dash of the new car invigorate him; he feels better already.

      He drives across town, over the hills and around tight bends, and he pretends he is Lieutenant Frank Bullitt, hot on the case. In actuality, he tails an unsuspecting Corolla, clearly marked T&S DRIVING SCHOOL, and nearly follows the poor kid into the high school parking lot. Ken receives the nasty glare from the instructor, and he raises his palm as an apology.

      He crosses the tracks, pulls into Kendra's condominium parking lot, and sighs. He wonders how she affords a condo, when he can barely make rent. There must be good money in girlfriend coaching. He pulls into the GUEST parking spot before her townhouse, unbuckles, checks his hair in the rearview again, and prepares to get out, hotfoot across the sidewalk and greet Kendra at her door, but she is already waiting for him outside the car.

      She whips the passenger door open, ducks into the bucket seat and says, “Can we please not go to Bengy's?”

      Ken has never known Kendra to be so forward. Her brashness causes him to pause. But he is further distracted by her hair. She wears her orange hair (a color that surely comes in a box) in a high ponytail, and he realizes that he has never seen her ears. She has elfish ears, and she is that much more adorable to him.

      “I'll go anywhere but Bengy's,” she says, reaching over her shoulder for her seat belt.

      Ken thinks for a moment. He can't come up with a single restaurant other than Bengy's. He's been taking her to Bengy's for months now. He enjoys their soup and salad combo with the endless breadsticks.

      “Don't you like anything else?” she asks, as if she can read his mind. “Rib eyes, sirloin, burgers, or chicken? And what are we listening to?”

      Ken lunges for the radio dial and tunes away from timeless soft rock. “I don't know what that was,” he says, and he questions the manhood of the last guy to drive this rental. He tunes to WHRY, Hairy 94 point 2, a hard rock station that allegedly puts hair on your chest, though it mostly attracts already-hairy men. “Why don't you pick the restaurant?” he asks, changing the subject a little too excitedly. “I'll go anywhere your heart desires.”

      She chooses the Stockbridge Tavern, which is a loud restaurant with a panorama of flat screens, an endless selection of draft beer, and a novel of a menu. Crowded places (especially those with younger, more handsome crowds) make him nervous. He slouches in the driver's seat and looks into his lap. He hasn't prepared for this. If only he had put on a better pair of jeans. If only he owned a better pair of jeans.

      Kendra props her elbow on the passenger window and rests her temple in her palm. She looks tired, or upset, Ken can never tell the difference. If the Stockbridge will make her happy, he can brave the crowd.

      TWO

      The hostess's podium is busy with a swarm of patrons grumbling curses and elbowing each other when they