Back to the Future (21 page)

“O.K., Doc,” Marty interrupted. “I get the point. It’s a big gamble, no matter what.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of the lightning. You just take care of your old man.”

Marty sighed. Once again he took out the family snapshot and looked at it. His brother Dave was completely gone and Linda’s head was partially obscured.

“Jeez,” he gulped. “I’m next.”

There was a knock at the door. Doc Brown and Marty exchanged anxious glances.

“Biff,” Marty said. “Somehow he got out of the shit and followed me.”

He looked around for a crowbar or some other heavy object as Doc Brown raced to the window and peered outside. Marty heard him grunt.

“It’s worse,” Doc Brown said, rushing back toward him. “Quick, let’s cover the time machine.”

As they threw a heavy tarpaulin over the DeLorean, Doc continued. “It’s your mother,” he said. “Did you tell her where you live?”

“No. I’d be crazy to do that.”

“Then she must have tracked you down by herself. Boy, this dame really has the hots.”

The knock at the door was repeated.

“Should we let her in?” Marty asked.

“We better,” Doc Brown said. “I think she saw me when I looked out. Anyway, if she followed you here, she probably knows you’re inside.”

Marty went to the door and let Lorraine in.

“Hi,” she smiled.

“Mom—I mean, Lorraine. How did you find me?”

“I followed you.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to know where you lived.”

“That makes sense, I guess.”

Lorraine looked around him, smiled tightly.

“Oh,” Marty said, moving aside. “Uh, this is my Uncle Brown.”

“Uncle Brown?” she repeated.

“Emmett,” Doc said.

“Hi.”

Returning her glance to Marty, Lorraine took a deep breath and launched into a brief speech which was obviously rehearsed.

“Marty,” she said, “this may seem a little forward, but I was hoping you might take me to the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance Saturday.”

Marty should have been prepared for the proposal but somehow was not. Clearing his throat nervously, he glanced down at his right foot. “I don’t think I can make it,” he replied. “You see, all that running around this afternoon—I think I twisted my ankle so bad—”

“You walked home without any trouble,” Lorraine interjected.

“Yeah, but I’ve done this before. I know it’ll really be bad tomorrow morning and probably keep me in bed a week or so.”

“I don’t believe you,” Lorraine murmured. Her eyes started to mist over. “I think that’s just an excuse to get out of going with me.”

“No,” Marty cried. “It’s not that. It’s just that…well, I’m a lousy dancer. I’ve got two left feet. Make that three left feet. I get so embarrassed…” He trailed off, trying to appear inept.

“We don’t have to dance,” Lorraine suggested. “If you’re shy about your dancing, all right, but I think you’re just being modest. Anybody who could move around on skates the way you did this afternoon has got to have something.”

It was a good point but Marty decided not to deal with it. Instead he said: “You know who really wants to take you, and I really think you’d hit it off with him—George McFly.”

“I knew you were gonna say that.”

“Because I happen to think it’s true. I think there’s some chemistry there between you two. Maybe you don’t feel it yet, but it’s coming.”

“Maybe, but why should it?” Lorraine asked. “I feel more chemistry with you. Anyway, George already asked me and I turned him down.”

“You did
what?”
Marty demanded. “Don’t you realize what courage it took for him to ask? It was like sky-diving or getting into the ring with Muhammad Ali—”

“With who?”

“Rocky Marciano,” Doc Brown interjected.

“Oh, well, I can’t worry about that,” Lorraine said. “George just isn’t my type. He’s sort of cute and all, but he’s…well…” She moved closer to Marty so that her head was nearly touching his chin. “I think a man should be strong…so he can stand up for himself and protect the woman he loves. Don’t you?”

“Don’t I what?” Marty asked nervously.

Sensing he was procrastinating, Lorraine tossed her head angrily. “Just tell me yes or no,” she demanded. “And it better be yes, because if you don’t take me to the dance, nobody will.”

Marty sighed. Something in her eyes told him she wasn’t bluffing. He looked at Doc Brown miserably.

“It sounds like she really wants to go with you, boy,” he said. “You better say yes.”

“Yes,” Marty said.

“Oh, thank you,” Lorraine smiled, reaching out to kiss his cheek. “You won’t be sorry.”

Then she turned and rushed out of the house, gave him a little wave at the door, and was gone. “A fine mess,” Marty said.

“It does complicate the situation,” Doc Brown admitted. “But at least if she goes to the dance with you, she’ll be there. Now we gotta figure out a way to get George there so they can discover love and enchantment under the sea, whatever that means.”

“Oh, God,” Marty sighed. “That means I have to convince my father to go stag.”

“Either that or get him another date.”

“Doc, you may be a genius with flux capacitors and electricity and space-time continuums, but when you say I have to find another gal for that nerd at this late date, you’re really asking the impossible.”

*   *   *

He caught up with George the next day shortly after lunchtime.

“Hi,” George said, “and congratulations.”

“Congratulations about what?”

“Going to the dance with Lorraine. I checked with her this morning and she said you were the lucky guy.”

Marty exhaled wearily. “Let me explain something,” he said. “She only agreed to go to the dance with me because she knew you’d be there.”

“How can that be?” George asked. “She could have gone to the dance with me if she wanted.”

“She’s really screwed up,” Marty said. “And that gets her in hot water. You know how it is when a person wants to buy something but he wants to keep the price down? So he pretends to find a lot of things wrong with it and maybe even says he doesn’t want it—but all the while he wants it like crazy?”

George nodded.

“Well, that’s the way it is with Lorraine. Deep down she wants you, only she doesn’t want you to know. And maybe a part of
her
doesn’t know it yet. But take it from me, she wants you to be at the dance so that the two of you can get together…”

“Get together?” George mumbled. “I’m for that. Why didn’t she ask? Or say yes when I asked?”

“Some women will accept wonderful things only if they seem like accidents,” Marty replied sagely. “It ties in with what I just said. They don’t want to admit they want them. That’s why she asked me. She doesn’t really want me. She wants you, George. Now all we gotta do is make her realize you’re what she wants.”

“Well, how can we do that?”

“I think we begin by making her see that you’re not a chicken.”

“But…I think I am a chicken.”

“No, George,” Marty said. “Every guy has one thing he’ll stand up and fight for, and I think with you it’s Lorraine.”

“Yeah…but when Biff comes at me…”

“Well, we’re just gonna have to teach you how to handle that,” Marty said. “We’ll start this afternoon, right after school’s over.”

George took a deep breath and nodded. A faint hope seemed to appear in his eyes.

Four hours later, the two young men got together again in George’s back yard. Marty brought along a homemade body bag which consisted of clothes stuffed into a duffel bag until it was solid as a rock. After spending several minutes trying to teach George how to throw hooks and jabs, he offered himself as the target.

“I want you to hit me in the stomach,” Marty said. “Right there. Go ahead.”

He dropped both hands to his sides.

“But I don’t want to hit you in the stomach,” George protested.

“You’re not gonna hurt me. Just give me a punch.”

“Look, I’m not a fighter.”

“How many times do I have to explain it to you?” Marty demanded. “We know you’re not a fighter. You know it. I know it…”

“And Biff knows it.”

“Forget Biff. The important thing is Lorraine doesn’t know it. That’s why we’ve gotta make you at least look like a fighter, somebody who’ll stand up for himself, who’ll protect her.”

“But I’ve never picked a fight in my life!” George cried. “You’re not picking a fight, Dad—” Marty said. “I mean, George. You’re coming to her rescue.”

“It sounds so corny…”

“Girls like corn. Now maybe we’d better go over the plan again. Where are you gonna be at 8:55?”

George sighed. “At the dance.”

“And where am I gonna be?”

“In the parking lot with her.”

“O.K. So right around nine o’clock, she’s gonna get very angry with me—”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why will she get angry with you?”

“Because I’m gonna get pushy. And nice girls get angry at guys who try to take advantage of them.”

“You mean you’re gonna—”

Marty nodded.

A strange sad look crossed George’s face. “Suppose she lets you?” he asked.

“How can you say that?” Marty shot back. “She’s not only a nice girl but she’s my—”

“Yeah?”

“She’s my friend. I couldn’t lay a hand on her.”

“Are you sure?” George asked through narrowed eyes. “I mean, she’s pretty. A guy’d have to be made of stone to say no to Lorraine.”

“Not this guy,” Marty retorted. “Now let’s get back to the plan, O.K.? It’s all gonna be an act, so don’t worry about it. Just remember that at nine o’clock you’ll be strolling through the parking lot and you’ll see us…” He gulped, went on. “You’ll see us struggling in the car. As soon as that happens, you run over, grab the door, yank it open, and say what?”

George opened his lips but no words emerged.

“You’re gonna have to be more forceful than that, George,” Marty murmured.

“I can’t think—”

“Damn it, you shouldn’t even have to think. Here you are face to face with a guy who’s pawing the girl you love. It should be automatic.”

“Yeah…You’re right.”

“Deliver the line, George.”

His jaw working fiercely, exaggeratedly, rather like an old-time vaudeville villain, George spat the line: “Uh…Hey you! Get your damn hands off her!” Then, his expression reverting to type, he asked in a soft voice: “You really think I should swear?”

“Yes, definitely,” Marty nodded. “Then you hit me in the stomach, I go down for the count and you and Lorraine live happily ever after.”

“You make it sound so easy,” George smiled. “I wish I wasn’t so scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll hit you hard and it’ll hurt. And that’ll make you so angry, you’ll slug me back.”

Marty laughed. “Believe me, George, you can hit me as hard as you want and I won’t hit back.”

“Maybe she’ll think it’s a put-up job.”

“That’s why you have to make it look convincing. You have to really hit me. Now give it a shot.”

“O.K.”

As Marty stood still, George took a deep breath and threw a punch at Marty’s gut. It looked like someone swatting a fly.

“No, George,” Marty corrected. “Put some confidence behind that punch. Some emotion. Some anger. Come on. You can do it.”

George threw another punch, slightly better than the first but only marginally so. He seemed satisfied with it, though, particularly with the solid sound it made.

“How was that?” he said. “Pretty good, huh?”

“Well, I guess it’ll have to do,” Marty shrugged. “I’ll tell you what—practice on this.”

He hung the duffel bag on the clothesline T-bar, stepped back and blasted it with a powerful uppercut. The bag recoiled nearly a foot.

“Work on something like that,” he said.

“Sure,” George nodded.

He heaved a punch at the bag, then another. They weren’t championship punches but Marty noted with some satisfaction that at least he was learning to enjoy it.

“Anger,” he prodded. “Anger.”

“Right!” George growled. “Anger!”

Lashing out with all his strength, George mistimed the sway of the bag and missed it completely. Whizzing past its intended target, his fist smashed solidly into the tree behind it.

“Yeeeowww! Goddammit!” he yelled.

“Good,” Marty said. “That’s real anger.” He waved as he walked off. “See you later.”

George watched him go, fuming at his own ineptness.

His right hand continued to throb but the frustration in him was stronger than the pain. Balling his left hand into a fist, he took two steps forward and uncorked a mighty punch at the slowly swaying bag. The shock of solid contact raced up his arm and he knew instinctively that he had finally done something right. He was not prepared, however, for the sight of the bag flying loose from the rope, sailing toward and shattering the window of his own home. Realizing the possible repercussions of the broken window, George did what he always did in similar situations—ran away.

“The weather forecast for this evening, Hill Valley and vicinity…lots of cold wind out of the southwest, generally clear and brisk…Down at the airport, they’re predicting a bit of a thundershower, although it seems awfully late in the year for that…Consensus with the United States Weather Service seems to be that it’ll be getting colder with temperatures dropping to about forty-five tonight but nothing worse…So have a nice evening. Now back to Bill Sharp, who’s gonna give us fifty-five minutes of Eddie Fisher and Patti Page…”

The sounds emanating from the radio of Doc Brown’s Packard were heard only by the few Hill Valley residents who passed by his car early Saturday evening. Doc Brown himself was standing on a ladder at the corner of 2nd and Main Streets, connecting the paddle plug end of a cable to an extension cord tied to a lamp post.

The Packard was parked several feet away from the lamp posts; behind it, covered with a tarpaulin, was the DeLorean.

Whistling softly, Doc Brown completed the connection and looked across at the courthouse. Swaying softly in the light breeze was the cable he had just finished installing a very expensive 500 feet of triple-strength wire from the lightning rod atop the courthouse to the connection he had just made.