Back To The Future

by George Gipe

  Doc Brown never flinched, the consummate verbal escape artist. “Some new specialized weather-sensing equipment,” he replied.

  “Looks like a car,” the cop said.

  “Well, it has wheels,” Doc answered. It has to have wheels so I can move it. Anyway, officer, why do you ask? Does it make a difference if it’s a car or a portable laboratory?”

  “If it’s a car, it’s parked illegally,” the cop pointed out. “There’s a red line.”

  “Yessir. I won’t do that again, even though it’s not really a car. But if you don’t mind, I need to leave it there temporarily.”

  He came down from the ladder, his work completed, and smiled genially at the officer.

  “You got a permit for this?” the cop asked, not returning the smile.

  “Of course I do,” Doc Brown replied. Reaching into his pocket, he took out his wallet and withdrew a fifty-dollar bill. “A permit straight from Washington,” he added.

  “You’re not gonna set anything on fire this time, are you, Dr. Brown?” the cop asked, looking around nervously as he allowed the bill to slide from Brown’s palm to his.

  “No, sir,” Doc Brown replied. “This experiment is child’s play.”

  “In that case,” the cop said, “good luck.”

  “Thank you, officer.”

  The cop nodded, crossed back over the street and continued testing the doors of the shops along 2nd Street. “Well done,” Marty said. “I thought for a minute there one of your many variables was gonna screw us up.”

  “I had a twinge myself,” Doc Brown said. He looked at his watch. “Say, kid, you’d better pick up your mom and get going.”

  “Yeah, I guess I’d better,” Marty mumbled.

  “You look a little pale. Are you O.K.?”

  In fact, Marty didn’t feel so good. There was so much to do! And nothing could go wrong. First he had to get his mom and dad together, then time his run just right, attain the fastest speed anybody had ever done on Main Street, and hope that Doc’s calculations were correct. For the first time, he felt that he was truly balancing a tightrope between three separate worlds—1985, 1955 and…death. If the lightning bolt did not function in exactly the same manner as plutonium, Marty would end up buried in the back wall of the Bank of America. Or perhaps he and the DeLorean would be hurled in some sort of imperfect time-space orbit that would deposit them in Kansas, Afghanistan, or Irkutsk. Strangely, however, he knew that he could face those tests. What bothered him more than anything was having to deal with his parents, particularly Mom.

  “What is it?” Doc Brown asked, sensing his mental turmoil.

  “I don’t know, Doc,” he replied. “I guess it’s this whole thing with my mother. I don’t know if I can go through with it.”

  “Why not? What’s the problem?”

  “Hitting on her is the problem.”

  “Hitting on her?” Brown repeated, frowning. “You didn’t mention beating her up. I thought George was supposed to beat you up.”

  “It’s an expression,” Marty explained. “Hitting on a girl means trying to me her, you know…”

  “Yes. Take liberties. What’s so terrible about that?”

  “She’s my mother!”

  “Not yet, she isn’t.”

  “That doesn’t make a difference.”

  “All right. I see your point. But if you consider it from a strictly practical standpoint, you’ll be a lot closer to her than whatever you do tonight.”

  “Yeah, but as a baby. Don’t you see, Doc? This is the kinda thing that could permanently screw me up!”

  “How?” Doc Brown asked. “Pardon my denseness.”

  “What if I get back to the future and end up being gay? It sounds like a little thing, but copping a feel from your mother could change a guy’s whole life.”

  “I see,” Doc nodded. “But there’s a difference. Copping a feel for pleasure is one thing. Copping a feel to accomplish a serious and moral purpose is another. Therefore, I don’t think you have to worry about a damaged psyche. Especially if you put the feel in the same category as setting her leg after an accident…”

  Marty brightened a bit. “Or performing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation,” he added.

  “Sure,” Doc replied. “Whatever that is. Now you better get going.”

  Marty nodded, took a step and then paused. Once again, with morbid fascination, he took out his wallet and looked at the family snapshot.

  Every bit of his sister Linda was gone except her feet.

  “Doc,” Marty said slowly. “I just had another thought. Suppose I start fading out on this picture sometime before we’re finished? Do you think when the head goes in the photo my brain will cease to function?”

  Doc Brown looked Marty directly in the eyes and responded without the slightest hesitation.

  “Beats the hell outa me,” he said.

  ● Chapter Twelve ●

  “Enchantment Under the Sea” was well underway. The Hill Valley High School gymnasium still looked basically like a gymnasium, but there were enough displays and artifacts to create a pleasant illusion. The lighting was blue with silver sparkles created by glass mobiles cut in the shape of fish. Against the walls were various papier-mâché attractions—a sunken ship, undersea caverns, a treasure chest, masses of seaweed, and a diver suspended by a long cable stretching to the ceiling. As an example of contemporary humor, a single school locker labeled “Davey Jones” occupied one corner of the huge room.

  Onstage was the band, Marvin Berry and the Starlighters.

  All five men were black, consisting of drummer, piano player, sax and bass, with Marvin himself playing guitar and singing. Now he was rendering the popular melody from the motion picture Three Coins in the Fountain. On the dance floor, several hundred young men and women, elegantly dressed, leaned against one another and moved in torpid-time to the music.

  Watching them, wearing artificial smiles of enjoyment, were three chaperones appointed by the school—the inevitable Gerald Strickland, standing stiff as a ramrod with his eyes darting quickly back and forth; a chubby algebra-geometry teacher named Dexter Gore; and Miss Deborah Chambers from the library. Strickland’s chief occupation seemed to be looking out for trouble or hands that moved suggestively; Gore seemed most interested in glomming refreshments while no one was looking; Miss Chambers took it upon herself to get the wallflowers up and circulating.

  “Walk around and at least talk, ladies,” she said at frequent intervals. “Remember, a body in motion is more exciting and enticing than a body just sitting there.”

  One of the male wallflowers was George McFly, looking distinctly uncomfortable in a tight collar, white tux, and bow tie. Most of the time, George just stood and watched the other dancers, but every once in a while he bopped out of time to the music. He tried not to think too much about Lorraine, who looked more beautiful than he had ever seen her. He also tried not to think too much about the scenario that was supposed to take place at nine o’clock.

  “How the heck did I get involved in this?” he sighed. “I wish I was home.”

  Of course, he could have left, but Marty had already seen him and winked knowingly. To have walked out after that actually required more courage than staying, so George hung around. Over and over he thought: it’ll be done with soon. Maybe it’ll work and maybe it won’t but it won’t be any more embarrassing than some of the problems you’ve had with Biff.

  The selection ended and was immediately followed by a faster number. On the dance floor, Marty looked at his watch. It was 8:45, time to start the ball rolling.

  “Let’s sit this one out, O.K.?” he said to Lorraine.

  She nodded, a seductive smile illuminating her features. She headed for the row of chairs along the side of the floor but Marty deftly steered her toward the door.

  “Outside is better,” he suggested.

  “I’m with you,” she said.

  Going out to the parking lot was not as easy as it sounded. Mr. Strickland kep
t a sharp watch for who left the dance area and how long they stayed away. He seemed to have a computer in his head which told him exactly who was missing and how long they’d been gone. As a result, Marty and Lorraine had to hang around the entrance, waiting for Strickland to look away before they were able to leave. It was ten of nine when they slipped into Doc Brown’s Packard.

  “Uh, you don’t mind if we…uh…sit here a few minutes, do you?” Marty’ asked,

  “Why do you think I’d mind?” Lorraine replied.

  “Well, I don’t know. Some girls just…don’t like…you know…”

  “Marty, I’m almost eighteen years old,” his mother said. “It’s not like I’ve never parked before.”

  With that, she scooted over, very close to him, and put her hand on his leg. Marty felt his face turn crimson and very hot.

  “You seem nervous, Marty,” Lorraine said. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Uh, no…”

  “Usually you’re so cool, like when you took care of Biff and his friends. But I hear that’s the way it is with a lot of strong, silent men. They get a little nervous with women.”

  “No. It’s all right.”

  “Well, just in case,” Lorraine smiled. “Why don’t you have some of this? It’ll help you relax.”

  She opened her purse and took out a pint bottle of gin.

  Marty gasped. His mother? Not even his mother as a grown woman, but as a teenager! It was a bit more than he could accept.

  “What are you doing with that?” he whispered.

  “I’m opening it.”

  “But…where did you get it?”

  Lorraine giggled. “Oh, I swiped it from the old lady’s liquor cabinet.”

  She put the top on the dashboard, tossed her head back and took a nip.

  “Lorraine,” Marty muttered. “Is this the first time you’ve done this?”

  “Done what?” she asked. “Sat in a car with a boy, had a slug of gin, or sat in a car with a boy and drank?”

  “Drink,” he replied. “Are you doing this just…to show off or something?”

  “No,” she said, looking insulted. “Certainly not. I do it because I like it.”

  “But you shouldn’t drink,” Marty scolded, realizing even as he said the words how much he sounded like an old-fashioned parent.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, it’s just not healthy.”

  “Don’t be so square, Marty,” she laughed. “Everybody who’s anybody does it.”

  Marty sighed. He looked at his watch, saw that it was almost time to make his move.

  Lorraine passed the bottle to him. He decided to take a swig to humor her.

  As he was doing so, his mother pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. Marty gagged on the gin, he was so shocked.

  “Jesus!” he cried, his voice sounding terribly strident. “You smoke, too?”

  Lorraine looked at him and rolled her eyes to the top of her head.

  “I’m serious,” he said. “You shouldn’t do it. Cigarette smoking is danger—”

  “Come on,” she said. “I sort of understand that it’s not exactly ladylike to drink, but smoking is nice. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

  “Are you kidding? Everything’s wrong with it.”

  “Like what?” she countered.

  “It’s unhealthy.”

  “Then why do doctors advertise it on TV?”

  “Because the cigarette lobby’s too powerful—”

  “Oh, bull,” she replied. “Everybody knows smoking’s good for your circulation. It also calms your nerves and soothes the heart.”

  “Soothes the heart! My God, it’ll give you all sorts of heart problems. And lung cancer. Look! It says right here on the pack—”

  He took the cigarette pack from her and looked for the Surgeon General’s warning. It was not there. Instead, there was a line, obviously written by the cigarette manufacturer, which read: “This fine blend of Turkish and domestic tobaccos calms the nerves, improves the circulation, gives you a sense of well-being.”

  “Good God!” Marty whistled.

  He handed the pack back. Somehow he’d avoided smoking all his life and he wasn’t about to start now.

  Lorraine regarded him with an irritated glare. “You know, you sound just like my mother,” she said. “It’s really stupid the way parents don’t understand their kids and try to run their lives for them. When I have kids, I’m gonna let them do anything they want. Anything. And I’m not gonna lecture them or say how it was different back in the good old days when I was young. No, sir, they’re not gonna get any of that crap from me.”

  “I’d sure like to have that promise in writing,” Marty smiled.

  The remark went over Lorraine’s head.

  They sat silently for a few moments, Lorraine occasionally sucking on the gin bottle while Marty continued to look at his watch or out the rear-view mirror. It was already past the appointed time. Where the hell was George?

  “Are you looking for somebody?” Lorraine asked.

  “Uh…yeah. Strickland. Just wanted to make sure he’s not out on patrol.”

  “He’s got enough to worry about inside,” Lorraine smiled. Putting the bottle back in her purse, she slid closer to him. “So tell me what your parents are like? Are they as square as mine?”

  “Lately,” Marty said softly. “I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t know anything about them.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  George felt weak and cold and on the verge of fainting, like the time he’d stuck his finger in the gears of a portable cement mixer his father had rented and nearly severed the end of it. Fifteen minutes before the time he was due outside, his abdomen had been wracked with serious pain, causing him to rush to the men’s room twice. Now, as the hour of nine rapidly approached, he experienced a new wave of spasms too powerfully unrelenting to ignore. He knew it was a bad case of nerves, that his cowardly body and mind were collaborating to keep him inside, away from possible embarrassment or failure. Knowing this, however, did not lessen the pain. If anything, it intensified it. Bent nearly double, he stumbled toward the men’s room for the third time.

  Inside, class prankster Mark Dixon and several other boys were sneaking a smoke and talking. Suddenly, the bathroom door slammed open so hard it seemed as if a raid were in progress.

  “Jesus!” Dixon shouted, dropping his cigarette into the urinal.

  Instead of Gerald Strickland, they saw only a white-faced George McFly. He grimaced at them and moved quickly to a stall.

  The terror in Dixon’s eyes changed to annoyance and then amusement.

  “That son of a bitch made me lose my last weed,” he said. “Look at that.”

  He pointed to the cigarette floating and slowly disintegrating in the urinal. “He’s gonna have to pay for that,” Dixon said. “Comin’ in here like the riot squad.”

  Motioning with his head, he ambled toward the stall in which George sat.

  Acutely aware that there is a fine line during which a woman can be romanced successfully, Marty sat nervously in Doc Brown’s Packard, Lorraine’s hip firmly pressed against his. She was ready to be kissed and then touched, hopefully just enough to insult her, create fear and anger and the need for a new champion to rescue her. Marty’s dilemma was one of timing. If he went after her too soon, he would be forced to continue the assault until George came—and perhaps it would be over too soon. If, on the other hand, he continued sitting here like a genial lump, Lorraine might conclude that he was either retarded or that she had no appeal. In either case, her next logical move would be out of the car, back to the dance and out of his life, probably forever.

  Where the hell is that chickenshit father of mine, Marty thought.

  Lorraine noticed the veins in his neck standing out and his jaw twitching. “Marty, why are you so nervous?” she asked.

  He took a deep breath. “Well, have you ever been in a situation,” he began, “where… well, you know you have to act
a certain way, but when you get there, you don’t know if you can go through with it?”

  “You mean like how you’re supposed to act with someone on the first date?”

  “Uh…yeah.”

  “Very polite and sweet and like that?”

  Marty nodded.

  “I don’t worry about that!” Lorraine gushed.

  With that, she threw her arms around his neck, reached up and kissed him passionately.

  “Come on, guys, let me outa here.”

  George pushed as hard as he could against the door of the stall, but it was just too heavy to budge with three guys leaning against it.

  “You’re gonna stay there and stew in your own stink,” Dixon said.

  “Why? What did I do?”

  “You made me lose a very valuable cigarette.”

  “I’ll buy you a whole pack,” George promised. “Let me out.”

  “Maybe,” Dixon smiled. “When can I have the pack?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “No. I want them tonight.”

  “But there’s no place at school I can buy them and most of the stores are closed.”

  “Then the hell with you,” Dixon said. “You can stay in there all night.”

  “Look, it’s silly for you to keep me prisoner like this,” George pleaded. “You got dates. They’re probably wondering where you are.”

  “True,” Dixon conceded. “So two of us will hold you in while one goes out and gets reinforcements. We’ll set up a system of watches, ten-minute shifts, so that we can enjoy the dance and still keep you in here until it’s time to leave.”

  “Why are you doing this to me?” George whined. “Come on, guys…”

  “No,” Dixon vowed. “You’re a pain in the ass, McFly, and pains in the ass should stay just where you are.”

  His pals hooted. George sighed, sat down, and looked at his watch. It was ten after nine.

  Lorraine continued her passionate assault on Marty for perhaps a minute before realizing that something was wrong. Moving away from him, she looked at him closely.

  “This isn’t right,” she said.

  “Doing this?” he murmured.

  “No. What’s wrong is we’re not doing it right. I don’t know what it is…but when I kiss you, something’s wrong…”