Back to the Future (4 page)

“But the past is over and done with,” the editor replied. “How can it be affected?”

“That’s just my point,” Doc Brown had retorted. “The past isn’t over and done with. It’s still there. And once we can find a way to penetrate it, we’ll be able to change things that may happen tomorrow.”

The editor didn’t buy it but he printed the interview anyway. Residents of Hill Valley either ignored the article or complained that valuable space had been wasted printing the ravings of a madman.

Such unfavorable publicity once hurt, but now that was all behind him. “If all goes well…” he murmured as he began to prepare for the evening’s work.

The sentence remained unfinished. Whistling softly, he dressed slowly in a white radiation suit, slipped the hood over his head to test its feel, then took it off, pressing it flat against his back. Checking his image in a mirror, he ruffled his wild white hair even more, perhaps perversely adding to his own reputation as a wild eccentric. He then walked to the front of the garage, opened the rear doors of the oversized step-van on the side of which was lettered
DR. E. BROWN ENTERPRISES—24-HOUR SCIENTIFIC SERVICE
, and peered inside.

It was, of course, still there. Even in the sparse light of the garage, the sleek stainless steel DeLorean with its gull wings shone back at him like a giant Christmas tree ornament. How appropriate, he thought, that the vehicle which would propel mankind into the past and future should be such an extraordinarily beautiful piece of machinery. There was no doubt in his mind as he closed the doors.

“It will work,” he said softly. “And I’ll be famous.”

All that remained was the final countdown check of minor items. Brown would handle that during the few hours before Marty arrived at the Twin Pines Mall and then, together, they would take a step as significant for mankind as the moon landing of 1969.

It was getting dark when Marty turned the last curve in front of his house, but he knew something was wrong long before that. Flashing lights are seldom harbingers of joy, except at Christmas, and that holiday was two months away. Through the trees blocking his home from view, he could see the flashers blinking yellow. Not the police, he thought. That would be blue and red. Yellow was the usual color of wreckers.

He was quite correct. Gliding onto the court, he could make out the tow truck poised like a giant praying mantis near the McFly driveway. In its jaws was the 1979 Plymouth Reliant, looking quite helpless with one set of wheels off the ground. As he drew closer, Marty saw that its front end was completely smashed, as if someone had driven it into a brick wall. Nearby stood Marty’s father and Biff Tannen, watching in silence as the truck driver unhitched the damaged vehicle.

George McFly was forty-seven but seemed much older to Marty. An uninspired man who was generally afraid to take even the tiniest daring step, not having changed his haircut in over thirty years, he was dressed in an equally boring suit he had purchased four years before at Sears. The man standing next to him was a sharp contrast in both sartorial color and demeanor. Just a year older than George McFly, Biff Tannen stood with his potbelly leaning unashamedly over his trouser tops, an attitude that made his loud plaid suit, pinky rings and gold chains seem even more bizarre. Whereas George McFly was reticent, Biff was loud and obnoxious, the type of person who talks loudly in movie houses or yells epithets at players during sports events. He was, in short, an intimidating lout, and no one was more easily intimidated than his friend and associate George.

Now, as Marty approached on the skateboard, he heard the familiar tone of disgust in Biff’s voice as he addressed his father.

“I can’t believe you did this, McFly,” Biff rasped. “I can’t believe you loaned me your car without telling me it had a blind spot. I could have been killed.”

Tell him good, Marty thought, tell him we’d all be better off if Biff Tannen was in traction.

George McFly, of course, could not stand up to Biff’s assault. Instead he replied weakly: “Biff, I never noticed any blind spot before.”

“What, are you blind, McFly? It’s there! How else can you explain this?”

Tell him the driver was lousy, Marty thought. If only his father would stand up to him once!

George McFly looked at the ground and made no direct answer to the irrational question. “Can I assume that your insurance will pay for this?” he asked. It sounded more like begging.

“My
insurance?” Biff returned hotly. “It’s
your
car with
your
blind spot. Your insurance should pay for it. I want to know who’s gonna pay for this.”

He indicated his stained suit.

“I spilled beer all over it when that car hit me,” Biff continued. “Who’s gonna pay the cleaning bill? Tell me, that, McFly.”

Marty couldn’t stand it a minute longer. “Maybe the judge who hears you were drinking while driving will pay for it,” he interjected.

Biff’s eyes narrowed. “Tell your kid to keep outa this, McFly,” he ordered.

George did not issue such an order but he might as well have done so. Pulling out his wallet, he extracted a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to Biff. “Will this cover it?” he asked meekly.

Biff snatched the bill out of George’s fingers and cast a quick triumphant glare at Marty.

“It’s a start,” he said.

“It’ll probably buy two of those suits,” Marty shot back.

Biff flushed. “Shut up,” he said.

Then, turning back to his primary target, he said to Marty’s father: “Where are your reports?”

George McFly paled even more than his usual off-white fishy complexion. “Well, I haven’t finished them yet,” he apologized. “I figured that since they weren’t really due till Monday…”

Biff stepped forward and tapped George’s forehead with his fist, like someone rapping on a door. “Hello,” he said. “Is anybody home in there? Think, McFly, think! I’ve gotta have time to get them retyped. If I turn in my reports in your handwriting, I’ll get fired.”

Marty was furious with his father. Tell him to do the reports himself, he thought.

Once again his father backed off. “O.K.,” he said. “I’ll finish them tonight and run them over first thing in the morning, if that’s all right.”

“Not too early,” Biff muttered. “I sleep in on Saturdays.”

Marty turned away. He honestly thought he was about to throw up. Not only was Biff’s treatment of his father subhuman, but also he had just realized that, with the car wrecked, his date with Jennifer was out the window. It had been the worst of all possible days.

Biff Tannen wasn’t through yet, however. As he turned to leave, he looked down at the ground.

“Oh, hey, McFly,” he said matter-of-factly. “Your shoe’s untied.”

“Huh?” George said, falling for it by glancing down at his feet.

As he did so, Biff’s hand flew up, hitting George in the chin. A grating guffaw split the air, Biff Tannen having executed his idea of a terrific practical joke.

“Don’t be so gullible, McFly!” he shouted. “Boy, you haven’t learned a thing in thirty years.”

George, pleading guilty to the charge with his silence, could only grin weakly.

Oblivious to the fact that Marty viewed him with disgust, Biff pointed to his sparkling new Cadillac nearby and winked. “Hiya, kid,” he said, just as if there had been no bad words between them. “How do you like my new paint job?”

Marty shrugged.

A moment later, Biff and his newly painted car were heading down the road. George McFly started to walk into the house. Marty stepped in front of him.

Raising his hands, George stepped away. “I know what you’re going to say, son, and you’re right,” he murmured. “You’re absolutely right. But he happens to be my supervisor, and I’m afraid I’m just not very good at confrontations.”

“Confrontations,” Marty shot back, “you don’t even practice self-defense.”

George didn’t answer.

“Dad, look at the car,” Marty persisted. “Look what he did to the car. He nearly totaled it. And then he concocted some story about a blind spot. He blamed the wreck on you and you didn’t say a thing!”

“Well, you can’t argue with a person like that,” George said feebly.

“Look at that car,” Marty continued. “It’s a mess. I was counting on using it tomorrow night. Do you have any idea how important this was to me, Dad? Do you have any idea at all?”

Not knowing that Marty was planning to take Jennifer away in the vehicle, it was not possible for George McFly to understand how much the trip truly meant to Marty.

“I’m sorry, son,” he muttered. “All I can say is I’m very sorry.”

For Marty that wasn’t enough and the infuriating events of the day would not let him back off. “Dad, did it ever occur to you to say ‘no’ to people when they start pushing you around? Is that so hard?”

“Son, I know it’s hard for you to understand,” George said with maddening calmness, “but the fact is, I’m just not a fighter.”

“Try it once, Dad,” Marty challenged. “Just one time, say ‘no.’ N-O. ‘No.’ It won’t hurt nearly as much as you think.”

George shrugged.

I give up, Marty thought, I can’t even get him to say “no” to the idea of saying “no.”

George McFly turned away, finding it easier to look at the damaged front of his car than at Marty’s accusing and disappointed eyes. He envied other men, macho types who taught their boys how to fight, encouraged them to be combative, stand up for their rights. These men invariably pushed their male offspring into organized sports, bragging when their boys won a big game, browbeating the lads when they took the final strike of the game with their bats on their shoulders. For his part, George McFly was secretly pleased when his sons Marty and Dave declined to take part in sports. At least he was off the emotional hook.

During his frequent moods of quiet self-analysis, George McFly managed to dissect his psyche, for he did worry about his own lack of grit. He thought it all went back to one occasion in grade school when he was accosted by the class bully. The bully had just punched his friend Billy Stockhausen and for a split second George was so angry he literally saw the red that everyone talks and writes about. Stepping up to the bully, he pulled his fist back—

And couldn’t strike. The bully merely smirked and walked away. Since that moment thirty-five years ago, George had wondered what might have happened if he had followed through. His happiest fantasy was that his single punch would have sent the bully into oblivion. But even if the bully had hit back and he had learned the give-and-take of combat, might not that have been better than the cowardly limbo, never-take-a-chance attitude George had trapped himself in all these years?

He sighed. Why bother to relive that moment…Why bother to try explaining to Marty or anyone else why he was such a pushover? He could barely accept the most favorable rationalization himself.

Now, as if to underscore Marty’s challenge of a moment before, a voice called to him from the window of the house next door. It was that of his neighbor Howard, a forty-year-old, potbellied, generally unpleasant character who, like Biff Tannen, spoke to George only when he needed something or wanted another person to berate.

His voice was less tinged with scorn at the moment, no doubt because he was looking for George’s help.

“Hey, McFly!” he called down. “My kid’s selling Girl Scout cookies. I told her you’d be good for a case.”

“A case?” George replied. “What’s a case?”

“What difference does it make?” Howard shot back belligerently. “Twelve. Twenty-four. Thirty-six. It’s for a good cause, ain’t it? Or do you want me to tell the kid you’re a cheapskate?”

“It’s just that—” George began, then hunched his shoulders helplessly. “Never mind. Sure. Tell her I’m good for a case, whatever it is.”

Marty shook his head and went inside.

His sister, brother, and mother were already seated at the dinner table; none of them looked up when Marty entered and slumped into his chair. For once, Marty was glad they were so wrapped up in their own lives that they didn’t think to ask how the musical audition had turned out. He didn’t feel like explaining why he had lost or seeing their expressions of fake sympathy.

“Meatloaf again,” he said flatly.

His criticism did not keep the jaws from working. Brother Dave, twenty-two, sat opposite him, wearing a Burger King uniform. He kept one eye on the clock and the other on his food, which he wolfed down in large sections, swallowing noisily like a half-starved animal. On Marty’s left sat Linda, nineteen, who was cute in a kind of sleazy way, partly because she invariably wore too much eye shadow. Marty tried to remember when he had last seen her without either purple or green eyelids, and he finally gave up. On Marty’s right was dear old Mom, who was once very attractive and bright. Now, at forty-seven, she was overweight, drank more than was good for her and had more food on her plate than anyone else. The fare, besides the inevitable meat loaf, included Kraft macaroni and cheese, Birds Eye mixed veggies, and French’s instant mashed potatoes.

Dad, the last to be seated, turned the television to an old
Honeymooners
rerun and put papers instead of food in front of him. Marty noted angrily that he had already started doing the “homework” Biff Tannen had so ungraciously assigned him.

For a few minutes, Marty and Dave amused themselves and each other by reciting the
Honeymooners’
lines one beat ahead of the TV actors, a routine that finally got Mom’s goat.

“All right,” she said. “We know you’ve seen it a hundred times. But your father wants it on, O.K.? So let him enjoy it in peace.”

Marty and Dave shrugged.

Silence reigned for a minute until Mom finally looked at Marty, smiled, and said: “Well, Marty, how did the audition turn out?”

Marty exhaled wearily.

“We lost,” he said simply.

Everyone tried to think of something to say, or at least everyone pretended to be thinking.

“It was probably fixed,” Dave said at length, a superficial statement which surprisingly cheered Marty. That, in fact, was what he had been thinking since the sham contest was held.

“Could be,” he shrugged.