An Infinite Number of Parallel Universes

by Randy Ribay

  Sarah had gone to a party while Sam stayed in to watch a classic monster movie marathon on television. She had eventually called him from the party, horribly drunk, wanting a ride home.

  He took his dad’s car, even though he didn’t have his license yet, and drove to the party. A visibly smashed Sarah—decked out as a zombie princess—spilled into the passenger seat. Three other people slid into the back. They were in costume, so Sam didn’t know who they were—but probably wouldn’t have recognized them even if they had not been in disguise.

  “Samwise!” Sarah said, slurring the word. She had leaned over and kissed the side of his mouth, sloppy and reeking of cheap beer. “I told Amy, Hannah, and Heather you could take them home. Hope that’s cool.”

  “Sure,” Sam had said.

  “Radical. I told you he’s the best boyfriend ever!”

  And so Sam drove as they talked too loudly about what they drank, how much they drank, and how drinking made them feel. The relief he felt when the last one stepped out of the car was immeasurable. And then Sarah leaned into him and slid her hand over his crotch. “Let’s go to your place,” she had whispered into his ear.

  Thinking he might at least get something out of his good deed, he agreed. She made way too much noise as they snuck down to his room, but nobody woke up to investigate. As soon as they made it to the basement, Sarah began peeling off Sam’s clothes between kisses. Her motions were awkward and sloppy, leaving no doubt in Sam’s mind that she had had too much to drink.

  Still. Sam was a boy. He had dropped what he was doing to be his girlfriend’s designated driver. He had been a good boyfriend. Didn’t he deserve this?

  Sarah pulled off her tattered zombie princess gown. Giggling, she fell back onto his bed in her bra and panties, face still made up like the undead. Eyes at once wild and unfocused. She beckoned to him.

  But Sam stayed where he was.

  “I’m kind of tired,” Sam said. “I’m just going to sleep on the couch upstairs.”

  But Sarah sat up and, unsteadily, grabbed his wrists and tried pulling him on top of her. But he resisted. “What’s wrong, Samwise? Is it the makeup? If it’s the makeup, I can clean it off first, if you want.”

  “It’s not that,” he said. “I really am just tired.”

  And then Sarah went quiet. She stopped pulling on him. Stopped swaying. Suddenly, her stomach heaved and her hand shot up to cover her mouth. But it was too late. Her cheeks puffed up. Vomit pushed through, leaking from between her fingers, trickling onto her bare thighs, splattering onto Sam’s bed.

  She rushed away, up the stairs. Sam followed after her.

  He had spent the rest of the night in the bathroom with Sarah, holding her hair back as she alternated between sobbing and throwing up, apologizing and promising to never drink again.

  And Sam suddenly understands. It took three thousand miles, but he finally gets it: he had been a good boyfriend, but she had been a shitty girlfriend.

  “Earth to Sam,” Mari says, interrupting Sam’s memory. “They’re getting away. What’s the plan?”

  Sam looks up and watches as Sarah and her group of new friends start walking away.

  Sam hops down from the bench. He takes the unlit cigarette from his mouth and tosses it into a nearby garbage can. “Fuck it. Let somebody else hold her hair back.”

  They turn to him. “Huh?” Archie asks.

  Sam says, “Let’s go.”

  “Are you serious?” Dante asks.

  Sam nods.

  Mari shakes her head. “After all we’ve been through? Three days in the car. All of our fighting. A tornado. My car burning to ash. And now—”

  “Sorry to drag you all this way for nothing.”

  “Meh,” Archie says. “Some things you just can’t see at home.”

  “So now what?” Dante asks.

  “The day is ours,” Mari says.

  Sam says, “I still have my dad’s credit card. Let’s see the sights. Isn’t there, like, some spaceship downtown?”

  “The Space Needle,” Archie corrects. He takes out his phone. “I’ll call a cab.”

  And then.

  Sam picks up Reptar and walks away.

  In the Rearview Mirror

  Monday, 11:48 P.M.

  The television glows through the darkness playing some sci-fi movie from the nineties. Mari and Archie are asleep in one bed, and Sam is snoring on a cot.

  On the second bed, Dante lies awake staring absently at the screen. Whenever a car passes, his eyes follow the light cast by its headlights as it sweeps across the walls.

  He thinks about the day.

  The cab had dropped them off at Pike Place Market. They had found some stairs to a lower level and wandered through the maze of small stores without buying anything. From there they walked to the aquarium, where Mari forced Sam to hand over Reptar. They let Sam grieve as they strolled through the angular paths of Olympic Sculpture Park and spent an inordinate amount of time puzzling over some gigantic red steel sculpture that was supposedly an eagle. Then they made their way to the Space Needle and rode the elevator to the observation deck just in time to watch the sun set over the flat waters of Puget Sound.

  Afterward, they had bought ice cream and ate it on the curb while joking about skipping out on their flight home the next day to hike Mount Rainier. They talked about what all had happened in the past week and a half and what might happen next year. They mourned Archie’s transferring schools. They debated who would be grounded for the longest.

  But it is not any of this that’s keeping Dante awake right now.

  A crumpled piece of paper with a phone number scrawled in pencil.

  That is what’s keeping Dante awake.

  And that is why Dante slips out of bed, pulls the paper from the pocket of his jeans, and steps out of the room. Outside now, he walks past the row of closed doors to the vending machines. He leans against one of them and lets its electric hum vibrate through his body. He slips his phone from his pocket.

  As he stares at the numbers, his heart begins to race, his hands begins to tremble.

  He wishes his phone could text. But since it can’t, he takes a deep breath and dials.

  It rings a few times, but just when he’s about to end the call, someone answers.

  “Yeah?” says a slurred voice. “What’s up?”

  “Um . . . it’s Dante . . .”

  “. . . Who?”

  “We met outside the school today? You gave me your number?”

  There’s some rustling at the other end. Sounds like people talking in the background. The voice returns. “Yeah, yeah . . . Dante . . . What’s up, man?”

  “Sorry—too late?”

  More rustling. “No, no, it’s all good.” Laughter in the background. Probably the television. “So you want to talk, or what?”

  “Or what. Let’s meet,” Dante says.

  “Now?”

  “If you can.”

  It sounds like the guy covers the phone as he talks to someone who is with him. More laughter. Eventually, he says, “Sure, why the hell not. Where are you?”

  Dante tells him the name of the motel.

  “All right, be there in a few.”

  • • •

  Dante lowers himself to the concrete, his back against the vending machine and legs splayed out in front. He listens to the world buzz: the vending machines, the fluorescent lights, the motel’s sign, the insects. A car whooshes past. The cackle of a laugh track rises through the open window of a nearby room.

  Dante lets his eyelids droop . . .

  He does not know how long he’s been asleep when he wakes to a pair of headlights shining into his eyes. He shields the glare with his bandaged arm and climbs to his feet.

  Dante squints into the light. At first he figures it’s the guy, but there seems to be two shapes moving within the car, a black SUV.

  The driver side window slides down. A head pokes out. “Dante?”

  “Yeah, it’s me,” Dante
smiles, relieved.

  He walks out of the headlight beams and up to the window. He glances at the passenger seat. It’s empty. He must be so tired he’s seeing things.

  The guy smiles at Dante. “So.”

  Dante shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He puts his hands in his pockets. “So.”

  The guy looks around, checking out the motel. “Spared no expense, eh?” He tilts his head toward the passenger side door. “Get in.”

  Dante looks around, though he’s not sure what he’s looking for. His grandparents, maybe. His pastor. Jesus on the Cross.

  But then he thinks of his coworker Marco and his beach house fantasy. Sam and Mari in the lake. Zaius and his friends around the fire. If they can all be happy, why can’t he?

  He remembers Zaius’s words: You’re travelers. So travel.

  Given the trouble he’ll be in when they return home, Dante figures it will be a long time before he gets another chance.

  So he climbs into the front seat. The radio is playing, but the volume is set so low it’s barely audible. The car’s interior reeks of cheap body spray and alcohol. He buckles up and nods, wondering if this was a mistake.

  The guy winks, kicks the car into gear, and drives around to the back of the motel. He pulls into a shadowy corner of the lot, next to the dumpster. He throws the car into park. He kills the engine. “So,” he says. His eyes slide over Dante’s body.

  Dante’s heart thuds against his rib cage. He feels heat rise to his face. “So.”

  The guy leans back and starts undoing his belt. “Mind your teeth.”

  Dante forces a laugh.

  The guy pauses. He smirks. “Oh, you want me to suck you off first?”

  Dante reaches for the door handle. This is not what he was looking for. This is not what Zaius and Lamont have, not what Mari and Archie have found, not what Sam and Sarah lost.

  “Maybe I should—”

  The guy presses a button and the doors lock with a swift whir and click. He presses another button. The child safety locks, Dante realizes.

  “Don’t tell me you had me drive all the way out here—in the middle of the night—for nothing,” the guy says. He runs a hand over this mouth and exhales. “You’re down with this, right?”

  “Huh?” Dante tries to pull the lock up, but it won’t budge.

  “I mean you are gay, right?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Told you he was a fag,” a voice says from behind.

  But before Dante can turn to see who spoke, a plastic bag slips over his head. It tightens around his neck, digging into his throat. His world becomes a blur.

  He tries to cry out but can’t.

  He gasps for air and sucks in a mouthful of plastic.

  His hands fly up to his neck.

  As his fingers scramble for purchase to rip the bag away, something slams into his side and pain radiates along his ribs. He tries to ignore it, to focus on tearing off the bag, but he is struck again and again. The blows keep falling. He feels something in his chest snap and a fire spreads along his side.

  Something slams into his face and his pain blossoms within his cheek.

  He swings out blindly, trying to break the window, block the punches, do some damage of his own.

  His fist connects with something hard, and he hears one of his attackers cry out.

  Dante thrashes and kicks even harder.

  But the bag tightens even more around his neck, cutting off his windpipe.

  He is hit over and over again in his ribs, his head, his face.

  Jolts of pain. Flashes of red.

  Black spots form behind his eyes.

  Snot or blood or tears run down his face.

  His throat burns.

  His head feels both heavy and light.

  With each raspy attempt to suck in air, the plastic wrinkles, catching deeper in his nostrils and mouth.

  He hears laughter, but it sounds miles away. It’s “smear the queer” all over again. He never escaped.

  Overcome by a wave of exhaustion, he thinks that maybe this is for the best.

  He stops kicking. He stops thrashing.

  Like a stretch of midnight road in the rearview mirror, he fades away.

  Can’t Take a Joke

  Tuesday, 1:12 A.M.

  Ever since he heard the heavy door clicked closed, Archie hasn’t been able to fall back to sleep.

  At first, he did not mind. It was nice.

  Lying with Mari. His arm around her. Her head resting on his chest. The credits of some movie scrolling on the TV in the darkness.

  He hadn’t been able to stop smiling as he thought of the last few days and imagined what the future held for them.

  But now something’s bugging him. A dark feeling hovering just out of reach.

  He knows it was Dante who stepped out because his giant form is missing from his bed. And he knows Dante is alone because Sam’s still snoring away.

  But Archie has no idea how long he’s been gone.

  He waits for Dante to return.

  He feels the need to pee, so he unravels himself from Mari and makes his way to the bathroom. He urinates, but he does not flush.

  He starts to climb back into bed and then hesitates. Changing his mind, he slips on his glasses and heads out the door.

  Sam looks around. With Dante nowhere in sight, he randomly selects a direction and starts walking. The cement sidewalk is cold against his bare feet. As he passes the other rooms, he wonders how many people are having sex at that very moment.

  He shakes off the distraction and tries to put himself in Dante’s shoes, tries to understand why the big guy might sneak away in the middle of the night. Arriving at an answer, he turns around and heads for the vending machines.

  But Dante is not there.

  He starts to really worry.

  He heads back to the room.

  “Dante’s gone,” he announces, flipping on the lights as the heavy door slams closed behind him.

  Sam covers his head with a pillow. Mari shifts and reaches for her glasses.

  “What?” she asks. “What’s going on? What time is it?”

  Archie checks the bathroom but it’s still empty. “Dante’s missing.”

  “I’m sure he just stepped out for a moment.”

  “I walked around outside—there’s no sign of him anywhere,” Archie says, pacing.

  “Did you try the vending machines?” Sam asks from beneath his pillow.

  “Try his phone,” Mari suggests.

  Archie grabs his cell and dials Dante. It rings several times and then goes to voicemail. He shoots Mari a pleading look.

  Mari rises from the bed and slips on her shoes. “Let’s look outside again.”

  She pokes Sam. He withdraws into the comforter like a hermit crab disappearing into its shell. “He’s a big boy. He can take care of himself. Good night.”

  “Come on, Sam,” Mari says. “He’s your friend.”

  When Sam still does not move, Mari and Archie give up on him and head outside.

  The building is L-shaped with rooms on either side running along two floors. Their room is in the middle of the first floor, facing the road.

  Mari points in one direction. “I’ll walk this way.” She points in the other. “Go that way. We’ll meet around back.”

  Archie nods and takes off in his assigned direction.

  The hallway’s clear, so Archie surveys the lot as he walks. Not a person in sight. Just a single row of parked cars, windshields reflecting the neon glow of the motel’s sign. One of the letters flickers. The road is empty. The evening is quiet except for the buzzing of the motel’s lights.

  As Archie turns the corner, he starts to wonder if this is his fault. Did Dante leave because of what he said? He apologized back in the diner, and Dante seemed to accept it. But what if he really didn’t? He had hid his homosexuality from them for years, so who’s to say he could not hide a grudge?

  Archie hears something, interrupting h
is guilty thoughts. Muffled sounds. Dull thuds.

  Archie turns toward the noises. They seem to be coming from near the dumpsters. But it’s difficult to see. The light from the motel’s sign is blocked by the corner of the building, obscuring the area in shadows.

  Creeping closer, he makes out a black SUV parked next to the dumpster. It’s rocking back and forth.

  Archie asks himself if it’s possible. Is that Dante in there? With someone?

  He sneaks closer. There’s a flurry of movement behind the tinted windows. Again, Archie can’t see through the darkness—and he’s not sure he wants to.

  If it is Dante, good for him, right? Archie’s not supposed to care about who his friend loves, but neither does he have to watch. Archie’s muscles relax. He starts back for the room.

  But then he hears a shout—a shout of pain, not pleasure.

  He turns back toward the SUV. Sneaking behind the dumpster, he peeks around the side of it into the vehicle’s interior, now only a few feet away.

  His stomach drops. His mouth goes dry. His muscles lock.

  This can’t be real.

  Through the windshield, he sees someone who he’s pretty sure is Dante. Only there’s a plastic bag smothering his face. A guy sitting in the back seems to be holding the bag over Dante’s head, while a guy behind the wheel keeps punching Dante over and over again.

  It can’t be real. Who in the hell does something like this?

  Archie’s first instinct is to shout for help. But the cry catches in his throat. He tries to leap from behind the dumpster, but it’s like his feet are glued to the cement. He finds himself frozen with fear, with indecision.

  He watches as Dante stops struggling. There’s something unnatural in the way his limbs suddenly go limp. Something unnerving in the attackers’ laughter.

  Forcing himself to move, Archie glances around for something he can use as a weapon. He spots a pothole nearby, its edges ringed with loose pieces of pavement. He runs over and grabs a heavy chunk the size of a football. He hefts it over his shoulder, takes a couple steps, and lobs it into the air.

  The chunk of cement hits the windshield and the glass bursts. It does not shatter completely, but instead sags under the weight of the rock, a web of cracks radiating outward.