Back To The Future

by George Gipe

  “Really?” George asked.

  “Yep. All you gotta do is go right over there and ask her.”

  “Now? Right here, in the cafeteria?”

  “No time like the present.”

  “But she’s with friends. There are lots of other people around! What if she bursts out laughing? Or just says no? I’d hate to be rejected in front of all those…”

  He trailed off, a nervous mess.

  “George, I’m telling you, if you don’t ask Lorraine to the dance, you’re gonna regret it for the rest of your life…and I’m gonna regret it for the rest of mine.”

  “Why you?” George asked.

  “Uh…Let’s just say I have a rooting interest in you and Lorraine getting together.”

  “You mean, like a bet?”

  “Something like that, only more important.”

  “I don’t know,” George temporized. “I’ve got a feeling she’d rather go out with somebody else.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  George nodded.

  “Who?”

  “Biff,” he replied miserably.

  Marty blanched. Was George’s assertion a product of his overdeveloped paranoia or a fact? The very thought of his mother going out with a first-degree creep such as Biff Tannen made his flesh crawl. He had never considered her a mental heavyweight, but she did have a certain amount of common sense and taste. Even allowing for youthful ignorance, Marty simply could not imagine Lorraine at any age being attracted to an insensitive clod like Biff.

  “I don’t think so,” he said simply.

  “He’s with her now,” George replied.

  Marty looked across at Lorraine’s table. Standing behind her with his hands on her shoulders was Biff. His mother did not look happy, however. Turning sideways to avoid him, she wrestled his fingers loose. Smiling roguishly, Biff replaced them.

  “He’s there, but I don’t think she wants him there,” Marty said.

  Getting up, he walked across the cafeteria until he was close to Lorraine’s table.

  “Quit pawing me, Biff!” he heard Lorraine say. “Leave me alone.” And once again she pried his fingers loose.

  She spoke in a rasping whisper, as if trying not to attract the attention of others nearby. Biff made no effort to play down the scene. Putting his hands back on her shoulders, his voice was embarrassingly loud.

  “Come on, Lorraine,” he said. “You want it, you know you want it, and you know you want me to give it to you.”

  Still the same old subtle swine, Marty thought.

  “Shut your filthy mouth,” Lorraine replied. “I’m not that kind of girl.”

  “Maybe you are and just don’t know it yet,” Biff leered.

  “Get your meat-hooks off me!”

  “Come on, you love these meat-hooks.”

  Marty took several steps forward until he was standing right next to Biff, close enough to tell that the greasy hair tonic he wore was a different brand than his own…close enough to see the mottled complexion and couch his warning in a firm but intelligible whisper.

  “She said to get your hands off her.”

  Biff turned, his jaw slack and eyes full of anger. “What’s it to you, butthead?” he said.

  “Never mind. Just clear out.”

  “Says you and what army?”

  “Just me.”

  “You know, you’ve been looking for—” Biff began, his body coiled as if to strike. In midsentence, however, he paused; his eyes avoided Marty’s, instead looking over his shoulder. In fact, they were focused on the domineering figure of Gerald Strickland, who had entered the cafeteria and, having sniffed out a trouble spot, was walking inexorably in their direction. Biff’s expression softened from hostility to abject terror.

  “Since you’re new here, twerp,” he muttered, “I’m cutting you a break today. So why don’t you make like a tree and get outa here.”

  Marty, not seeing Mr. Strickland approaching, simply stared at Biff. Lorraine, also unaware of the despot’s entry on the scene, looked at her hero with wide love-filled eyes.

  Biff turned and walked off.

  “Oh, Marty!” Lorraine cried. “That was so wonderful! Thank you!”

  Marty shrugged.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  The voice was the familiar rasp of Mr. Strickland, who was now at Marty’s side. Marty coughed, looked into the eyes which resembled a pair of slit trenches.

  “Marty,” he said.

  “Last name.”

  “Uh…Brown.”

  “Well, here’s some friendly advice for you, Mr. Uh-Brown. Don’t slack off in my school.”

  “Slack off, sir?” Marty murmured, his tone questioning.

  “In the vernacular, that means don’t screw around,” Strickland said. “Understand?”

  “Yessir. And thank you, sir.”

  Strickland turned and marched away just as the bell rang. Lorraine hopped up, collected her books, and ran over to Marty.

  “Thanks again, Marty,” she smiled. “Maybe I’ll see you later?”

  It sounded more like a prayer than a suggestion. Marty nodded and pretended he was late for class.

  Returning to Doc Brown, he noted that once again George McFly had flown the coop.

  “He said he had a class,” Doc Brown explained. “But he looked like he was getting ready to have a good cry, if you ask me.”

  “This is getting ridiculous, Marty murmured.

  “That’s the way life is, my boy. Try to be a hero or impress somebody and everything goes wrong. But when you’re not trying, you can fall down the toilet and come up with gold.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what’s next?”

  “I guess I just have to keep after George. He’s the key. Until we can get him to ask for the date, nothing’ll happen.”

  “Maybe we can get your mother to ask him,” Doc Brown suggested.

  “No. That won’t work.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because girls in 1955 never asked guys for dates. At least that’s what Mom says. They never called them on the phone, asked them out, or did anything that was fun until the boy thought of it.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “I’ll grab him again after school,” Marty said. “It’s the only thing we can do.”

  Doc Brown nodded. “You know, it might be better if you took a shot at him alone,” he suggested. “It could be he feels cramped with both of us around, particularly since I’m an old guy of thirty-five.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Marty shrugged.

  “I’m gonna go back and study those tapes you made,” Doc said. “They may tell me something I need to know about how the time machine runs. If we’re gonna blast you back to ’85 Saturday night, I’ll have to know everything possible about that boat and how she operates.”

  He waved and started for the door, his steps light. Marty knew Doc was happy now, anticipating tinkering with the machine he would invent someday.

  The afternoon went slowly. Marty wandered around the halls, did some reading in the library, and spent the last period looking in classrooms for George McFly. When he finally located him, he leaned against the wall until his father came out.

  When their eyes again made contact, George looked as if he wanted to run. Who is this person, he thought, and why has he been put on earth just to harass me?

  Turning away, he tried to make it to the door by walking briskly and pretending he hadn’t seen Marty. But his guardian angel soon caught up with him.

  “Hiya,” Marty said. “I’m sorry that thing in the cafeteria turned out the way it did.”

  “Me too,” George replied. “That Biff Tannen is a real jerk. I hated to see him paw Lorraine that way. If only I’d had the—”

  He paused, sighed.

  The words ending the sentence rushed through Marty’s mind. Nerve? Courage? Guts? Whatever, they all meant the same. George McFly simply had no stomach for conflict, mental or physical. He wanted
a soft warm cocoon to crawl into and spend the rest of his life, preferably asleep. Much as he disliked him for having that attitude, Marty was now dedicated to helping George dispel his fears and anxieties. Until he summoned up the courage to ask Lorraine for a date he was doomed to a life of self-loathing and unhappiness. And unless the two fell in love, Marty had no future at all.

  As they walked, Marty tried to think of a new and exciting approach. Nothing came. The best he could manage was suggesting that he ask Lorraine for George, a la Cyrano, but he knew that wouldn’t wash. Even George McFly had some pride.

  “This is gonna be a tough day for me all around,” George said finally.

  “How so?”

  “Well, first there was my chickening out with Lorraine—”

  “I wouldn’t say you chickened out,” Marty soothed. “It was more a matter of—”

  “No, I chickened out,” George retorted, a hint of real anger in his voice. “I really wanted to rush over and ask Lorraine for a date. And then when Biff was pawing her, I wanted to run over and sock him on the jaw. But I chickened out in both cases. I couldn’t move.”

  Marty didn’t answer. In fact, he couldn’t think of a comforting thing to say.

  “And now I gotta talk to Dad about college,” George continued.

  “What’s so awful about that?”

  “He’ll say it’s no good. You know, give me all the reasons why I shouldn’t go. And I’ll believe him and end up not going.”

  “Sounds like a self-fulfilling prophecy to me,” Marty observed.

  “What?”

  “You oughta stand up for what you believe in. What do you want to major in at college?”

  George’s eyes shone as he spoke. “I’d kind of like to study writing or journalism. Writing those stories is about the most fun I have. If I could learn to make a living doing something like that…”

  “Then tell your father that.”

  “Oh, no. He’d laugh if I mentioned the stories. The idea of college is terrible enough.”

  “Well, anyway,” Marty urged, “you gotta fight. Stand up to him.”

  “I will,” George replied. “This is important to my future so I’ll do it.”

  They soon arrived at the house with a placard hanging from the porch. It read THE MCFLYS. A bit tacky for 1985 but probably chic for 1955, Marty thought.

  Arthur McFly was outside waxing the car. He waved his rag as the boys approached.

  “Go and talk to him right away,” Marty urged.

  “About what?”

  “About college.”

  “I’ll get to that. I’ve gotta introduce you first.”

  “No,” Marty said, stopping at the edge of the sidewalk. “I’m not moving until you talk to him about college.”

  “Sure…” George said hesitantly.

  He walked over to his father, looked back over his shoulder at Marty. In order to make him feel more secure, Marty meandered toward the porch of the house so that he was out of George’s line of vision. He was actually closer around the corner of the house, however, and could hear the conversation quite clearly.

  “Who’s your friend?” Arthur McFly asked.

  “A new guy from school,” George replied. “Listen, Dad, I have an important decision to make and, well, I really need some advice.”

  Only a C-plus beginning, Marty thought, although the bit about needing advice was probably good psychologically.

  “Gee, son, I’m kinda busy here,” George’s father said. “Couldn’t it wait a few days?”

  “Not really,” George replied. “You see, I’ve filled out an application for college and the deadline for sending it in is midnight tonight. I can’t decide whether I should send it in.”

  Wrong, Marty thought, that makes it sound so wishywashy.

  “Well, if you want my advice,” George’s father said, “I’d say no. College is hard, son. And there’s a lot of competition to get in. You’d be competing with the smartest kids in the state. Why would you want to put yourself through that kind of aggravation?”

  “Well, I might get in,” George responded. The tone of his voice, however, was not brimming with confidence. “Son, you’re a longshot,” Arthur McFly said. “And most of the time longshots don’t work out. The chances of you getting into college are mighty slim.”

  “Why?” George asked.

  What a miserable counterpuncher you are, Marty fumed. Tell him you can do it.

  “Why, son? Because you’ve never done anything like that before. You’re just kinda average. Now if you send this application in and get all excited about it, what’s gonna happen when they turn you down? I’ll tell you what: you’ll mope around the house, feeling rejected, and maybe your marks at school will suffer. If you want to know what I think, I suggest you go about your business and forget this whole thing.”

  Instead of fighting back, George waited a long moment and then nodded. “Yeah, Dad, that makes sense,” Marty heard him say. “Thanks.”

  It was too much for Marty. He sighed, put his head in his hands.

  Meanwhile, Arthur McFly put the finishing touches to George’s ambitions with a rationale for failure disguised as homespun philosophy. “When you get to be my age, son,” he said, “you’ll realize that certain things just aren’t meant to be.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s right,” George murmured. Marty started to walk away.

  “What do you think of the car, son?” he heard Arthur McFly say.

  “Looks pretty good, eh?”

  “Looks real good, Dad…”

  Simultaneously, a crack of thunder split the afternoon quiet and rain began to pour down. Marty broke into a fast trot.

  “Good,” he said as he ran. “I hope the rain spoils his wax job.”

  He was soaked by the time he arrived at Doc Brown’s garage laboratory but, underneath, Marty was still seething at the thought of George’s weakness. Doc had the Twin Pines Mall videotape running and was working on modifications to the DeLorean as Marty entered.

  “How’d it go?” he asked, not looking up from his work.

  “Terrible,” Marty sighed. “He’s just the same as when I knew him. A Milquetoast. He makes up his mind to do one thing and then gets talked out of it. But at least I’m starting to find out why.”

  “Why the kid’s got no self-confidence?”

  “Yeah. No wonder he won’t ask my mom out, or any girl for that matter. All he ever hears from my grandfather is that he’s going to fail. No one ever tells him he can succeed at anything…”

  “A familiar tale,” Doc Brown philosophized.

  “Jeez,” Marty said, “if he got that kind of support from Grandpa, no wonder Dad gave me such rotten advice.”

  Doc Brown looked up for the first time. “In my own vast years of experience,” he remarked, “I’ve made it a principle never to take advice from anyone—particularly if that someone is older than I am.”

  “Hey, Doc, that’s good advice,” Marty smiled.

  “Thank you. Now take my advice and don’t take it,” he laughed.

  “Not even from you, huh?”

  “Actually, I may be the exception in your case. In the future—or in the past—if you ever need anything, need to talk to anybody, I’ll always be there for you.”

  “Yeah, Doc. That’s great.”

  The words were barely out when a sudden look of panic crossed Marty’s face. Glancing at the TV monitor, he realized that the dramatic climax of the Twin Pines episode was about to unfold. Already the black van was in the picture.

  “It’s them,” Doc Brown was saying on the tape.

  “Who?” Marty’s off-camera voice yelled back.

  “They found me,” Doc Brown continued. “I don’t know how but they found me.”

  The tape ended abruptly. Marty, remembering what happened after that on that dark night in 1985, felt his body shiver with pain.

  He looked at the Doc Brown of 1955, who had poked his head back into the DeLorean. “Doc,” he said halt
ingly, “there’s something I haven’t told you about what happens…on the night we make that tape…”

  Doc Brown looked up. “Fascinating device, that camera,” he said matter-of-factly. “I can’t believe it’s made in Japan.”

  “Doc,” Marty continued. “There’s something I haven’t told you about what happens…on the night we made that tape…”

  He didn’t know why, but he felt that he ought to warn his friend about the terrorists. Perhaps it was the violent way he died; no one should be forced to go that way if it’s possible to prevent it.

  But Doc Brown was already holding up his hand.

  “Please, Marty,” he said, “don’t tell me anything. I don’t want to take any more chances of screwing up the space-time continuum. No man should know too much about his own destiny. If I know too much about the future, I could endanger my own existence, just like you’ve endangered yours.”

  “Yeah,” Marty said. “Maybe you’re right.”

  There was certainly a great deal of logic to what the man said. This way, if Marty said nothing, Doc Brown at least had thirty years to live. Being told that, however, might make him so careless he would endanger himself and possibly even die earlier. So Doc’s rule about not screwing around with the space-time continuum seemed to make a lot of sense. Pondering it and his own situation, Marty withdrew his wallet and again took out the family picture.

  “Good God,” he whispered.

  The image of his brother Dave was almost completely gone. Only his feet could be seen in the photo.

  Doc Brown was studying him. “Bad, huh?” he said.

  Marty nodded.

  “That’s nature’s way of saying, get your ass moving,” Doc said. “I guess seeing your brother fade away like that must be pretty scary.”

  “Tell me about it,” Marty grimaced. “I feel like I’m in an episode of the Twilight Zone.”

  “Twilight Zone?” Brown repeated. “That’s an interesting phraseology. It’s a perfect description of where you are, as a matter of fact…in a zone of twilight, neither here nor there…a middle ground, between light and shadow, between things and ideas…”

  “Yeah, I know,” Marty said. ‘“There’s the signpost up ahead…You’ve just crossed over—”

  “If you get back, maybe you could make a movie out of this,” Doc Brown smiled.