An Infinite Number of Parallel Universes (11 page)

His grandpa had also taken Dante's smartphone and presented him with a brick-like cell phone. It hailed from an era before social networking, before touchscreens and Wi-Fi. It could not access the Internet. It could not take pictures. It had an actual keypad and a small, greenish screen that displayed information in a boxy 8-bit text not designed to be nostalgic. Texting on it was more trouble than it was worth.

He had sadly concluded that the only thing the phone would be good for was calling people.

But as he bikes to work that afternoon, Dante tries to make the best of his situation. The phone? It can double as a self-defense weapon. No computer? Time to reconnect with the real world. The bike? Exercise. And a new perspective. The world looks different on a bike.

He sees more, such as the two-story houses and manicured, green lawns of his neighborhood giving way to ranch-style homes with patchy, brown lawns, busted chain link fences, and children's toys left outside. The sidewalk is as crooked as bad teeth.

He pedals out of the residential areas and begins passing strip malls comprised of payday loan places, liquor stores, and pawn shops. He passes an old, bearded, white guy plodding along the sidewalk while pulling a vacuum cleaner. A car driving in the opposite direction lowers its passenger side window and ejects a fast food bag that bulges with trash. The bag rolls a few times and then comes to rest in the gutter, which is full of shattered glass and cigarette butts.

Arriving at work, Dante hops off the bike. He looks around and notices for the first time that there is no bike rack. He locks it to a signpost, wipes the sweat from his forehead, and then slips on his uniform shirt and chicken hat. Dante enters the restaurant.

“Your old set of wheels crap out on you, son?” calls out Marco, a scrawny coworker whose arms are sleeved in tattoos.

“Something like that,” he says, the truth too difficult to explain. “Hey, what was up last Friday?” Marco had been the no-show.

“Sorry about that, man. Had some stuff to take care of. You know how it is.”

Dante does not. He clocks in, washes his hands, looks at the schedule to see what position the manager assigned him for the day, and then takes his place behind the fryers.

“So. S'up, Papi?” Marco asks.

Dante focuses his eyes on the red digital numbers that indicate the time remaining before he should take the chicken out of the oil. “Not much.”

“Cool, cool. You guys start up next week, too?” Marco goes to the other high school, the one on the same side of the highway as McCluck's.

“Yup. Tuesday.”

“School is some broke-ass, shit, man. I ain't never gonna use that stuff, real rap. But ya know what the weird thing is? I'm kind of glad to go back. I been bored as fuck these days. I just been smokin' and drinkin' and shit all day, playin' Xbox, shootin' hoops when it ain't too hot, gettin' my ass to work to fry up chicken for these fat fools, ya feel me?” He turns to the customer whose order he's punching into the register. “No offense, sir.”

Marco turns back to Dante and continues. “At least at school I get to show off some fly-ass threads I bought this summer and bag me some pussy. Feel me?”

Again, Dante does not. Nonetheless, he feigns solidarity with a grunt of agreement.

“Your order number is forty-two, sir. It should be right up—but for real, Papi, this year you and me gotta chill, son. I'll introduce you to some black chicks, some back-to-Africa type chicks. I know you ain't got none of them at that fancy school you go to. I'm tellin' you, son, they'll put a smile on that sad, Eeyore-looking mit of yours. Ain't no way those skinny white bitches be enough for your big ass. And maybe you can hook a brother up with some of that preppy ass I know you must be gettin'. Some rich bitches, so I don't got to work no more. Some chick whose Daddy Moneybags owns some mansion on a beach. We could live there and walk along the beach and shit during the day, and I could watch the sun set over the waves and shit as she goes down on me. You and your new black chick can come over and we could get mad high and have crazy orgies, real rap—Good evening, Ma'am. How can I help you?”

Dante marvels at Marco's oddly poetic daydream. As alien as Marco seems to Dante, at least Marco had invited him to visit the imaginary beach house.

But how can he tell Marco that he does not want a girl, that it's another guy's arms he wants to feel around him? Would Marco still want to have “crazy orgies” with him?

Probably not.

The fryer beeps as the red numbers flash zero. Dante lifts the basket, lets the oil drip from the chicken for a few moments, and then dumps the sizzling pieces onto the trays under the heat lamps. He retrieves a new batch of floured chicken and begins the process anew.

Some vague sentiment in Marco's vision lingers in Dante's brain. Dante imagines himself on a beach at sunset. He smells the salt water. He hears the waves crashing. Seagulls cawing. He feels the warm sand pocked with tiny shells beneath his feet. Cool, foaming water running over his toes as it approaches and then recedes, approaches and recedes. His feet sink into the sand. He feels a hand grasp his.

Yes, he wants that.

“Hey, Marco?” Dante says.

Marco's wide eyes peek over the chicken. “Yeah, Papi?”

“I've got some stuff to take care of. Cover for me?” Dante removes his hat. The manager walks over and tells him to put it back on. But Dante tells him he's about to throw up, and the manager moves out of his way.

Marco stifles a laugh. “Real slick, D,” Marco says once the manager is out of earshot. “What you really got goin' on?”

Dante punches out. “Meeting someone. Sorry to ditch you like this.”

Marco waves away the apology. “You got me last Friday. Just do me one favor, all right?”

Skeptical, Dante asks what that favor might be.

“When you up in your girl later tonight, tell her to call you ‘Marco.'”

Dante steps off the bus and then jogs through the rain to the coffee shop at the end of the block. He is drenched and short of breath when he steps through the door. His heart is a hummingbird. There's a long line of customers in various states of soaked. The baristas scurry about behind a display case that contains only a few remaining pastries and expensive bottled drinks. Conversation fills the air, punctuated by bursts of noise from the grinder and steamer.

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.”