by George Gipe
“Then you couldn’t know me,” George said.
“Oh yes, I do…Your birthday’s August 18th and your mother’s name is Sylvia, right?”
George shook his head, not because the information was wrong but because he was amazed. Had the fellow gotten hold of school files or looked through his wallet? Was he a young cop or what?
“Well?” Marty continued. “Isn’t that correct? Isn’t it also true that your father enlisted in World War I as a sixteen-year-old, was sent to France before they found out, and shipped back without firing a shot?”
George nearly choked on his Pepsi. Someone could have gleaned the other information by looking at a questionnaire, but the story about his dad was inside-family material. How had this young man found out?
“Uh-huh,” George replied. “That’s all true. How did you find out and who are you?”
Having enjoyed amazing and confounding the young George McFly, Marty suddenly realized he had no plausible answer to the question. He could not tell him the truth, of course. That was not only implausible but might bring on a new barrage of questions.
In reply, he smiled and tried to look enigmatic.
“Let’s just say I’m your guardian angel,” he said. “All that stuff about your family isn’t really important, though. What’s important is that you shouldn’t let that creep Biff Tannen push you around.”
“That’s a fact, man.”
The reply to Marty’s charge, so rapid and direct, did not come from George McFly, but from Goldie Wilson, a black busboy who was sweeping up several feet away. George and Marty turned to look at him. Pausing in his work, Goldie returned their gazes with an intense, nearly mesmerizing, look of his own.
“Say, what do you let that boy push you around for?” he asked.
George blinked, taken aback by the usually quiet black man.
“This isn’t the first time I saw him treat you like that,” Goldie went on. “I clean up a lot of mess around here, but nothin’ makes me sicker than seein’ him practically spit on you. Why don’t you stand up?”
“Well, uh, he’s bigger than me,” George stammered, his voice whiney and miserable-sounding.
“Everybody’s bigger than you when you’re on your knees,” Goldie replied. “Listen, if you’re gonna make it in this world, you gotta have some respect for yourself. You let people walk over you now, they’ll be walkin’ over you the rest of your life. You want to be a door mat, have people wipe their feet on you till you die?”
George shook his head. It wasn’t a very decisive gesture.
“The man’s right,” Marty said. “And he’s got a lot more reason to curl up and die than you have.”
“That’s a fact!” Goldie nodded. “Look at me. Most people think I’m nothing, but I know I’m something. You think I’m gonna spend the rest of my life, behind a broom in this slophouse?”
The counterman, attracted by the raised voices, had gravitated to the scene. Now he looked at Goldie with a curling lip. “Watch it, Goldie,” he said meaningfully.
Goldie didn’t flinch. “No sir!” he said to George. “I’m not gonna end up here. I’m gonna make something of myself! I’m going to night school. Every night of the week. I’m gonna be somebody!”
“Goldie,” Marty interjected, something suddenly clicking in his mind. “Would that be Goldie Wilson, by any chance?”
Goldie nodded. “That’s me,” he said. “And you can just remember that name, because, like I said, it’s gonna mean something one day.”
The counterman chuckled.
“He’s right,” Marty said. “As a matter of fact, he’s gonna be Mayor of Hill Valley someday.”
Goldie looked at Marty closely, frowning, searching for the hint of sarcasm that would normally accompany such a remark made by a white man. There didn’t seem to be any guile, however. This fellow was either sincere or the world’s greatest actor. In either case, Goldie decided not to be put off by the comment but to accept it as a challenge.
“Mayor?” he said. “That’s a good idea. I could show folks how to run this town. I wouldn’t be a cheap politician on the take all the time. I’ll be honest and efficient.” Then, looking at Marty, he said: “You got a crystal ball or something? How do you know I’m gonna be mayor?”
“I just know, that’s all.”
“When’s it gonna happen?”
Marty sighed. He had gotten himself in deep again with his knowledge of the future. “Do you really want to know?” he countered.
“Of course, man. Tell me. Why shouldn’t I want to know when it’s gonna happen?”
“Because it’s a ways off. You might not want to wait that long.”
“No, it’s all right. Something like that’s worth waitin’ for. Besides, I’ll know that nothing will happen to me between now and then, right?”
Marty nodded. “You’ll be elected during the late ’70s,” he said.
“My seventies or the 1970s?” Goldie smiled.
“The 1970s.”
“Heck, that’s not too long to wait. My mother worked forty years and got nothing out of it. So I guess I can work another twenty or twenty-five for a payoff like that…”
As Goldie talked, the nervousness in George McFly began to grow nearly unbearable. It wasn’t the situation or anything that Goldie said. Rather, it was this young man who professed to know everything. He seemed almost from another world, so assured, calm, different from all the other teenagers George knew. And he dressed strangely, wore his hair in an unusual way. George wasn’t a religious person but he was superstitious. The occult, the unknown bothered him more than the concrete promises and strictures of formalized religion. Suppose this man could see the future? Others may have regarded that as a blessing, a way of becoming rich and avoiding life’s pitfalls. Not so George McFly. He didn’t want to know what lay ahead, for him or anyone else. Better to remain in the dark than be forced to think about some unavoidable tragedy or struggle. If this young man somehow knew everything past and future, George wanted to get away from him as soon as possible.
Having arrived at that decision, he took advantage of the conversation between Goldie and Marty to edge his way toward the door. A few seconds later, he slipped around the corner and walked briskly for his bike.
Meanwhile, the counterman, who had listened to Goldie’s speech with increasing frustration, finally managed to break in. “Mayor,” he said. “Ha! A colored mayor of this town. That’ll be the day!”
“You wait and see,” Goldie returned. “Like this man here says, someday I’m gonna be mayor.”
“I ain’t impressed by this man here,” the counterman retorted. “And as for you, just keep sweeping.”
Goldie slid his hands up on the broom handle but didn’t set to work immediately. “Mayor Goldie Wilson,” he said softly. “I like the sound of that.”
Marty smiled, rather pleased with himself for “inspiring” Goldie Wilson, or at least giving him hope. A moment later, the smile disappeared as he realized that George McFly was no longer in the store.
“Hey—” he called, catching a glance of George’s back as he started to cycle away.
He raced out of the store, his arms waving. “George!” he called after the departing figure. “Hey, George! I want to talk to you!”
Either oblivious, out of earshot, or not wishing to prolong their conversation, George McFly moved ahead without so much as a glance over his shoulder. Marty started to run after him, then suddenly remembered that his father had grown up on Sycamore Street, near 2nd. He had driven past it with the family once and pointed it out. Sure that he could locate the house now, Marty slowed to a fast walk.
He wasn’t certain exactly where he wanted his relationship with the young George McFly to go. The man, despite his failings, did survive the next thirty years. That was something. Nevertheless, Marty felt a compulsion to have at least one heart-to-heart talk with him. Perhaps, if nothing else, he could say something that would free George McFly of Biff Tannen’s bullyi
ng for the next three decades.
“Wouldn’t that be a wonderful present?” Marty said aloud as he walked. Playing it back, he was somewhat surprised that he had such kind feelings toward his father-to-be. Could it be because they had a certain kinship now? He had never thought of his father as a young man before. Yet here he was, the same age as Marty. It would be fun, of course, to see his father’s reaction when he told him who he was, but that was impossible. It was also likely to drive George crazy, so Marty dispensed with the notion.
His sense direction took him to Sycamore Street, which was decorated with solid homes built during the 1920s and ’30s. White picket fences were everywhere, framing the neat lawns into meticulously edged walkways leading to the doors. It was a much nicer neighborhood than Marty remembered, having grown seedy by the early 1970s.
George’s bike was leaning against a tree overhanging Sycamore Street but George himself was nowhere to be seen. Marty stood still a moment, debating whether or not to go into the house. In all likelihood, his grandmother would be there, no doubt looking younger than he had ever seen her. Marty wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with that. Granny had been very close to him, and he felt this closeness would betray him. Somehow, even though Marty had not yet been born, he felt she would sense who he was and be terribly frightened by it.
His inner debate lasted only a minute. Looking upward through the limbs of the tree, Marty caught sight of George. He was nearly twenty feet up, perched precariously on a thick branch that jutted far over the street.
“I can’t believe it,” Marty breathed. “That’s the most courageous thing I’ve ever seen him do.”
He soon found out why George had taken such a risk. In his hands was a pair of binoculars, which the young man had trained on a second-story window of the house across the street. The profile of a woman’s head and shoulders could be seen at street level. From the vantage point of twenty feet up, Marty could imagine what was visible.
“I’ll be damned,” he muttered, smiling. “Dad’s a Peeping Tom.”
Two things happened then in rapid succession. George, trying to gain an ever better vantage point, suddenly lost his balance. He slid sideways around the thick branch, grasped desperately for it, missed, then plunged downward toward the street. As he fell, his body struck several smaller branches, which served to lessen his rate of descent and perhaps spare him broken bones. Landing on his hip and receiving a minor blow to the head, he lay limp and dazed in the center of the road.
At that very moment, a car moving quickly around the corner headed directly at the young man’s body.
Marty had no time to yell a warning. Instinctively, he threw himself toward George, delivering a neat cross-body block that sent him free of the car. Marty himself was not so fortunate. Hitting the brakes, the driver swerved to avoid the two youngsters but succeeded only in missing George. There was a loud bump as the car’s fender struck Marty’s shoulder and head.
“Crazy kids!” the driver yelled, not in anger but in horror. “They didn’t give me a chance!”
He was nearly crying as he bent next to the young man who had saved the other’s life. “Please, God,” he prayed. “Let him be all right. I can’t afford to be sued.”
● Chapter Six ●
The next thing Marty saw after the shiny car bumper was a soft white lacy pattern, slightly out of focus, falling away from a table top. He blinked, looked around at the bedroom he had never seen before. Far away, a wall was decorated with unfamiliar pictures and pennants; to their right was a window, through which an outside street lamp poured sharp and painful light. He closed his eyes again.
His head was cold and felt the pressure of something resting on it.
“I think he’s going to be all right,” he heard a soft feminine voice say. It was a familiar sound.
“Mom? Is that you?” Marty whispered.
Gentle hands moved the cold object against his forehead, touched his cheeks.
“Shh. Everything’s going to be all right.”
It was his mother. Marty opened his eyes despite the pain but all he could see was a silhouette. The voice had been unmistakable, though.
“God, what a terrible nightmare,” he said. “I dreamt I went back in time…”
“In time for what?” the voice asked.
It was his mother, all right. Always so comfortingly literal. Marty started to sit up, but leaned back again when he experienced a slightly dizzy sensation.
“Take it easy, now,” his mother said. “You’ve been asleep for almost nine hours. Better not hop right out of bed. Better to take it slowly.”
“It was terrible,” Marty continued. “It was a terrible place to be. The music was awful—they didn’t have Huey Lewis. Our neighborhood hadn’t even been built yet, except for our house. Everything was so weird looking and the people acted so strange.”
“I see…You dreamed you went back to another time.”
“Yeah.”
“How far back?”
“Thirty years.”
“All the way to the flapper days? That must have been interesting. But there’s no need to worry. You’re safe and sound, back where you belong, in good old 1955.”
“Nineteen fifty-five!”
Forgetting the discomfort, he sat up and turned on the bedside lamp.
“Oh, my God!” he said.
The young woman was the same one George McFly had been spying on. But that was only part of it.
“What is it?” she asked, concerned.
“You’re my . . . my m—” Marty began.
“Your what?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
His head fell back against the pillow.
“My name’s Lorraine,” the girl said. “Lorraine B—”
“Baines,” Marty continued.
She smiled. “How did you know that?”
He shrugged. “I get around,” he said cryptically.
Lorraine lifted the cold compress. “I’ll get you some new ice,” she said.
As she stood to leave, Marty released an involuntary gasp of surprise, causing her to eye him cautiously.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah.”
“What was that sound for?”
“It’s just that you’re so thin,” Marty replied.
“Thanks, I guess,” she said. “I’ve always been on the thin side.” She patted her flat stomach. “You don’t think I’m too thin, do you?”
“No. It looks great,” Marty said sincerely.
“Thank you, Calvin,” she smiled.
“Calvin?”
“Yes. Isn’t that your name?”
“No.”
She frowned. “That’s funny. I was sure it was. Your name isn’t Calvin Klein?”
“No. It’s Marty.”
“Then why does your under—” She blushed, looked away.
Marty suddenly became aware of his pants folded across the chair in the opposite corner. Reaching down beneath the covers, he realized he was clad only in his underwear.
“We took your pants and shirt off when we put you in bed,” Lorraine said, a trifle embarrassed. “I’ve never seen purple underwear before, much less purple underwear with a man’s name written on it.”
“Oh,” Marty replied. “That isn’t my name. Calvin Klein is the name of the underwear manufacturer.”
“And your name’s Marty?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Marty,” she said, sitting next to him on the bed. Her attitude seemed different now, much less motherly, more seductive.
“And what’s your last name?” she smiled.
The word “McFly” formed on Marty’s lips, but he managed to avoid saying it. That would have been hard to explain, McFly being a rather uncommon name. Instead of trying to deal with that, Marty winced as if a sudden rush of pain had just struck him.
“Oh, you poor boy,” Lorraine whispered. She reached out to touch him but he moved away. “Are you
all right?”
“Yes,” he said, exhaling softly as if the pain had passed.
“Is it O.K. for me to sit here?”
Marty gulped. “Uh, sure,” he replied. But even as he said it, he involuntarily moved as far away from her as he could without falling off the bed. He held the blanket tight around his waist, his eyes apprehensive. Lorraine continued to stare at him, fascinated, apparently oblivious of his nervousness.
“That’s quite a bruise there,” she said finally, reaching out to touch his forehead. Smiling weakly, he submitted, until she began running her fingers through his hair. When she started doing that, Marty found himself inching farther and farther away until—
Whump. Suddenly he was on the floor, stark naked except for his underwear. He reached for the blanket. Lorraine giggled naughtily.
“Lorraine! Are you up there?”
The voice was accompanied by the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs outside the bedroom.
“Yes, mother,” Lorraine said.
Grabbing Marty’s pants off the chair back, she tossed them at him. Lying on his back, he struggled into them as the steps came closer.
“How’s the patient?” Stella Baines asked as she entered the room. Then, looking around, she added: “Where’s the patient?”
Marty looked up over the edge of the bed. Stella Baines, forty, his grandmother-to-be, stared back at him. She was pregnant and looked terribly young. If Marty remembered correctly, she was carrying her last child, the one born after Uncle Joey the jailbird. She had the same pleasant eyes as when she was older, very pale blue and rather sad.
“Marty, this is my mother,” Lorraine said, tossing him his shirt.
He put it on from a sitting position. “How do you do?” he smiled.
“Feel up to having something to eat?”
Marty nodded.
“Then come on downstairs.”
Marty found his shoes, put them on and started out of the room after her. As they walked down the hall, Stella Baines regarded him with a half smile.
“So tell me, Marty, how long have you been with the circus?”
Marty could only stare. Lorraine made a sound that was half sigh, half snort of anger. “Mother,” she said. “How could you?”