An Infinite Number of Parallel Universes

by Randy Ribay

  Dante scans the crowded tables. All the faces blur together. He curses the fact that he hadn’t thought to ask Takei4Life for a picture.

  He tries to focus on finding somebody also trying to find somebody.

  “Excuse me,” a woman says as she jostles past Dante. Realizing that he’s in the way, Dante threads his way to a small, empty table in the back corner and takes the chair facing the entrance. He checks the time on a wall clock. He’s seventeen minutes early.

  Unable to browse the Internet on his antiquated cellular telephone, Dante distracts himself by looking around the cafe. He repositions himself on his chair. He gets the urge to urinate and wonders if he has time. He looks toward the door to the men’s restroom just as someone slides inside.

  At the table to his immediate right, two girls talk animatedly about something that requires several OMGs. To his left, a guy wearing gigantic DJ headphones stares at his laptop, the rectangular light of the screen reflecting in the lenses of his vintage eyeglasses. Dante feels a pang of sadness at the thought of his own machines sitting in a box in a dank basement.

  As the clock ticks past 7:30, Dante starts to wonder if Takei4Life is going to show.

  Maybe he’s at the wrong place.

  Maybe he mixed up the date.

  Maybe the guy found someone else to meet instead.

  Maybe the guy took one look at Dante and left.

  Maybe the guy will murder Dante.

  Dante scratches the back of his head and checks his phone out of habit.

  A tall, middle-aged man with wire-frame glasses walks through the door. He strikes Dante as familiar, but Dante can’t quite place him.

  But a moment later it hits him: It is Mr. Walker. Archie’s father.

  Dante is just about to put his head down when Mr. Walker catches his eye and offers a small wave. A bemused look settles on his face. He seems unsure whether he’s going to approach Dante, but he eventually starts to make his way over, scanning the room as he does so.

  “Hi, Dante.” He offers his hand and they shake. “Funny seeing you here.”

  “Hi, Mr. Walker.”

  Though the place is crowded, Dante does not invite him to sit.

  “So. How are things?”

  “Great,” Dante says. He shifts his weight in his seat.

  Mr. Walker scratches the back of his head. “Ready for school to start back up?”

  “I guess.” Dante leans over and peers around Mr. Walker at a young, sharply dressed Asian guy who just walked through the door. But the guy steps into line without looking around. He was kind of cute, so Dante feels a tinge of disappointment. At the same time, he doesn’t want Mr. Walker to bear witness to his first date.

  Archie’s father follow’s Dante’s eyes. “Waiting for someone, eh?”

  Dante shrugs.

  Mr. Walker scans the room again. “Me, too.”

  It’s then that a terrible understanding dawns over them both at the same time. There’s an awkward moment like when two people arrive at a door simultaneously and try to figure out who should walk through first.

  Mr. Walker runs a hand over his face and sighs. “DeeThreepio?”

  Dante’s eyes widen. “Takei4Life?”

  Mr. Walker nods.

  They look away from each other.

  Dante rises, his face burning with embarrassment. “Sorry—this is—I’ve got to go.”

  Archie’s father gestures for him to wait. “Just to be perfectly clear, I don’t want to date you. I didn’t know it was you—your profile said you were older.”

  Dante stands. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell—”

  “Archie already knows. I mean, not that I’m here. With you. But he knows about the whole gay thing.” Mr. Walker notices confusion flash across Dante’s face. “He hasn’t told you guys?”

  Dante shakes his head, shock clouding his thoughts as he finally understands the real reason Archie’s parents divorced. He drops back into his chair.

  Mr. Walker lets out a small laugh and sits down across from him. “Figures. Does he know about you?”

  Dante shakes his head again.

  “I know this is really, really weird, Dante, but would you actually mind staying for a moment? I’d like to get your advice on Archie.”

  Dante pauses and looks toward the door. It would be so easy to leave and pretend like this never happened. But he notices the pained look in Mr. Walker’s eyes. He stays. “So, do you do this often?”

  “What?” Mr. Walker laughs. “Go on dates with my son’s friends?”

  “No,” Dante says, cringing. “Meet guys online. And this isn’t a date.”

  “Sorry—just a joke. No. This is certainly not a date. Not at all.” He shakes his head. “But this is the first time. Honest. And given the results, I can’t say I’m inclined to try again.”

  Dante nods.

  “You want something to drink?” Mr. Walker asks. “I’ll get you something to drink.”

  He gets up and steps in line, leaving Dante in a daze.

  Dante thinks of Archie. He searches his memory for any clues Archie might have dropped about his father. He can’t think of any. Or had he just not been listening carefully enough? His parents had been divorced for a year—how could he keep this secret for so long? Why?

  Sure, whenever they all got together to game, nobody really brought up personal stuff. But this seems like something Archie should have mentioned.

  Mr. Walker returns, holding two steaming mugs. He sets one in front of Dante. “Hazelnut latte. Trust me. I never drank anything but black coffee until a year ago, and then I tried this. Showed me what I’d been missing all those years.”

  Dante holds the cup to his nose and sniffs it. It smells good. Sweet but not sugary. He takes a sip. It burns his tongue.

  “Careful,” Mr. Walker says, though it is too late.

  Dante sets his drink down to let it cool and waits for Mr. Walker to say something.

  “So, how’s Archie really doing?” he finally asks.

  “Fine,” Dante says. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  Dante shrugs. “I mean, I think he’s having a hard time because of the move. Starting over senior year? That’s not very easy.”

  “I know.” Mr. Walker sighs. “I think that’s part of the reason he won’t really talk to me—has he told you about that, at least?”

  Dante shakes his head, marveling at how much they’re keeping from each other. How can you be friends with people for nearly six years and never open up?

  Mr. Walker continues. “I feel like I’ve lost him. Do you know what I mean? I lost my son. Sure, I’ve been able to see him every other weekend. And in two days he’ll be living in my house. But even when he’s with me, he’s not with me. That make sense?” Dante nods. “He goes straight up to his room and just does math for some reason. He’ll probably just graduate and move away. I can’t help but feel like I’ll lose him forever. What am I supposed to do?”

  Dante does not know what to say. It’s a strange thing, having his friend’s father ask him for advice. He shrugs. “I don’t know, Mr. Walker.”

  “Me neither.” Mr. Walker leans back in his chair. He takes a sip of his drink and then sinks into silence.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” Dante says, “why didn’t you just wait until he graduated? To . . . you know . . . come out.”

  Archie’s father takes another sip of his drink. “Maybe I should have. I’ve asked myself that question God knows how many times. And I don’t have a clear reason for why I didn’t, only that I couldn’t.” He pauses, searching for the right words. “I had a great-uncle who lived in Iowa. He lived with his sister, my great grandmother, his entire adult life until he died. I found out decades later that he was gay.” He looks into Dante’s eyes. “Can you imagine that? My God—that man lived with that secret his entire life. Stuck in that room. You couldn’t be gay in rural Iowa back then. He just couldn’t. He probably would have been killed.”

  Dante do
esn’t respond but the story sinks in, works its way into his bones. He feels like crying. He takes a sip of his own drink, which has cooled to a safer temperature.

  Mr. Walker continues. “But the world has changed. People can be gay now. Sure, not everyone is going to like it. And some people are still harassed or bullied or even killed because of it. But I just got to a point where I felt like I couldn’t live in a tiny room any more. I had to get out. I had to stop lying to everyone.” He sighs. “Don’t get me wrong, I hate what it’s done to Archie. I hate that he has to suffer because of me.”

  “I know what you mean,” Dante says, thinking of his own family. “But Archie will probably come around, Mr. Walker. Just give him some time.”

  “I hope so, Dante.” Mr. Walker smiles. “Same with your family.”

  As if on cue, Dante’s ancient phone rings. It does not vibrate. It does not play some clever ring tone. It actually rings with a digital clatter, like a telephone from the previous millennium that it too is from. Recognizing his grandparents’ number, he lets it ring.

  “Whoa,” Mr. Walker laughs, eyeing the phone “The nineties are calling. Literally.”

  “It’s nobody,” Dante says, ignoring it.

  “Anyways,” Mr. Walker says. “How about you?”

  Dante shifts in his seat. “How about me what?”

  “Have you told anyone?”

  Dante considers the question. “My grandparents know.”

  “Your choice?”

  “Not really.”

  “How’d they take it?”

  “Like they found a bunch of corpses under the floorboards of my room.”

  “I’m sorry about that, Dante. Just give them some time. They’ll come around.”

  “Yeah,” Dante says. “I hope so. But you know what? I’ve felt pretty bad about it sometimes. But most of the time I actually feel better. Lighter. Like I can finally breathe.”

  “I know what you mean. So why haven’t you told your friends yet?”

  Dante shrugs.

  Mr. Walker nods.

  They sit quietly for a few moments, and then Mr. Walker speaks again. “Dante, let me give you some advice here: Don’t spend your whole life faking who you are. The longer you live that lie, the more you’ll destroy yourself. The more you’ll end up hurting others.”

  “What about your friends?” Dante asks after a moment. “Did they care that you’re gay?”

  “Not the ones who matter. Sure, when I first came out, some of them were freaked out. A few stopped talking to me right away. A lot of them just gradually drifted away.”

  “Oh,” Dante says. His phone again rings with his grandparents’ number. He ignores the call but wonders why they’re calling when they know—or at least, think—he’s at work. “Sorry. Go on.”

  “Anyways,” Mr. Walker continues, adjusting his glasses. “My closest friends didn’t care. Heck, they knew before I even told them. And having it out there and knowing they still loved me—God, that was the best feeling ever.”

  Dante tries to imagine his friends’ reactions. “I don’t have that many friends to begin with, and if they . . .”

  Mr. Walker sighs. “I hate that this world makes us feel like that. Like we’re nothing. Worthless. Defective. But trust me, you will not be alone. There will always be people, both gay and straight, who want to be your friend, Dante, so long as you’re a decent human being and so long as you’re a good friend back to them—hell, even people who aren’t decent human beings manage to find friends.”

  Dante’s phone rings for a third time. He sees that it’s his grandparents again. He starts to worry it’s an emergency.

  “Sorry,” Dante says, pushing back his chair. “I have to take this.”

  “No problem,” Mr. Walker says.

  Dante makes his way to the foyer. It’s still kind of loud with the heavy rain outside, but it’s slightly quieter than inside the shop. He covers one ear with a hand and then presses the phone to the other. “Grandpa? Everything okay?”

  There’s a silence at the other end for a few beats, and then his grandpa’s voice. “Get home right this minute.”

  “Everything all right?” Dante asks. “Is grandma okay?”

  “I said get home. Right now.”

  “If it’s an emergency I can probably leave, but I’m at work—”

  “Do not lie to me anymore, boy. Your friend Mari came by looking for you. Said you weren’t at work. So get home. Now.”

  Dante starts to speak, but his grandpa has already ended the call. A sinking feeling settles in the pit of Dante’s stomach. He heads back inside the coffee shop and quickly approaches Mr. Walker.

  “Sorry, but I’ve got to go,” Dante says, pushing in his chair. “Thanks for your advice.”

  Mr. Walker raises his cup. “Anytime. You in trouble?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You probably don’t want to hear this, but I’m sure they love you more than you can imagine. They just want what’s best for you. Your grandparents are probably right most of the time, but everybody makes mistakes. It might take a while for them to figure this one out.”

  Dante nods.

  “Well, I really appreciate you talking to me. You’re a great kid.” Before Dante walks away, Mr. Walker asks, “Can you do me a favor, though?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Try to get Archie to talk to me. That’s all I want. For him to hear me out. Hear my story.”

  “I’ll try, Mr. Walker,” Dante says and then makes his way to the exit.

  He stands at the threshold contemplating the gray sky. He watches the clouds flash with lightning, and then drops his eyes to the street where people rush past holding umbrellas or pulling their jackets over their heads.

  Dante walks into the rain.

  Sam

  Passing Planets

  Friday

  Sarah shifts and ruins everything. Sam tries to reposition his body against her, but she’s already out of the bed. He pauses the show playing on the television.

  Looking at her phone, Sarah says, “Sorry, I have to take this.”

  “Who is it?” he asks.

  But she’s already headed up the basement stairs, laughing with someone else.

  Sam sighs. He moves into her vacated spot. It is still warm and smelling of vanilla. He denies the existence of everything and anyone else.

  By the time her warmth and scent have dissipated, Sarah still has not returned. Sam stares at the screen where the episode’s protagonist is paused, floating helplessly through space. He had been on a mission. He succeeded, but his fighter was damaged so he had to eject. Now he drifts, hoping his crew will somehow find him amidst all that vast and infinitely expanding silence. To make matters worse, his suit is leaking oxygen. A light inside his helmet illuminates his desperate face as he drifts through a field of stars.

  Sam waits a couple more minutes.

  “Sarah?” He rolls onto his back. He gazes at the exposed beams of the basement ceiling, where a few glow-in-the-dark stars still stick to the rotting wood. There used to be more, there used to be a whole galaxy of constellations glowing a pale green overhead whenever it was dark enough. But over the years, the cheap adhesive had failed, and most of the plastic stars had fallen, their descent nowhere near as awe-inspiring as that of their celestial counterparts.

  Sitting up, he clicks play, and the lost pilot continues to drift through the void. Sam wishes that he could give the stranded man the air in his own lungs, that he could call the crew and alert them to the emergency. But since he can’t, he holds his breath in solidarity.

  By the end of the episode, the crew has saved the pilot in the nick of time, just as his oxygen meter went red and he lost consciousness. Sam lets the credits roll, still in the trance of the narrative.

  He hears Sarah making her way down the steps just as the TV screen goes black.

  “Is it over already?” Sarah says. She drops back onto the bed next to Sam and kisses his cheek.

  “Who w
as it?” he asks.

  “Huh?”

  “On the phone.”

  “Oh. Jenny. She wanted to know if I—if we—wanted to come to this show with her tonight. Her boyfriend’s band is opening. So what do you say?”

  Sam pulls the blankets around his shoulders. “Meh. I think I’d rather just stay in with you and watch a few more episodes.”

  Sarah rolls her eyes. “You’ve seen Battlestar Galactica like a billion times. How many chances will you get to see Jenny’s boyfriend’s band?”

  “I hate going to those shows.” Sam props up his head against the basement wall. “I’m always the only guy not wearing skinny jeans, a flannel shirt, and horn-rimmed glasses. The only guy without a beard. And there are never any seats. And everyone’s always pressing up against you. It’s suffocating. And I never know the words. So I always just end up standing there like an idiot while everyone else sings along. It’s the worst. But this,” Sam gestures to the screen, “this is genius.”

  “But you already know what happens.”

  “Yeah, but what makes the story great is that you know all of this and still you believe that there’s a chance they’re not going to make it,” Sam says, letting his head slip back down to the bed.

  With this particular episode, he pictures the crew searching some other star system while the pilot’s oxygen runs out. He imagines the body, preserved by the cold vacuum of outer space, quietly passing planets, undiscovered right up until the universe ends. There’s something in this scenario that calls to Sam.

  “Yeah, you,” Sara says. “Not me.”

  Sam sighs.

  Sarah reaches beneath the covers and pinches Sam’s butt. “Anyways. It’s cool if you want to stay in and be Old Man Sam, but I’m going out on the town.”

  “Whatever,” Sam says. “Want to make out for a little first?”