by George Gipe
“With you or me?”
“I’m not sure. Something’s missing. It’s like…I’m kissing my father.”
Marty looked at her, his eyes wide.
“I guess that doesn’t make much sense, does it?” she said.
“Believe me. It makes perfect sense. Maybe you got it reversed, but the picture is right.”
“What do you think it is?”
“Uh…I don’t know.”
She dropped her hands into her lap. “Damn,” she muttered. “It seemed too good to be true.”
“Yeah…”
The sound of footsteps alarmed both of them, each for a different reason. Lorraine was afraid some faculty member had spotted the gin bottle and would tell her parents; Marty now had no idea what to do when George arrived. Should he make a quick grab at Lorraine now in a desperate attempt to give George a chance to rescue her? Somehow it didn’t seem appropriate. As Lorraine moved farther away from him on the seat, it didn’t even seem possible. Hoping to avoid the person who was approaching, she was practically out the passenger’s door.
Marty decided to make a lunge for her. As he did so, the driver’s door was opened and a hand reached in to grab his shoulder.
Marty turned to look and was surprised to hear himself gasp.
The face looking into his was not that of George, but Biff Tannen. Behind him stood 3-D, Skinhead, and Match, their faces wreathed in menacing smiles.
“You caused $300 damage to my car, you son of a bitch,” Biff rasped. “And I’m gonna take it outa your ass…Hold him, guys…”
Lifting Marty bodily out of the car, Biff spun him roughly into the arms of Skinhead, who grabbed one of Marty’s arms just as 3-D grabbed the other.
“Good work, guys,” Biff said. “Skinhead thought that was you, sneaking out to the parking lot. We might never have got you alone otherwise.”
He drew back his fist.
“Let go of him!” Lorraine yelled from inside the car, sliding over to the driver’s side. “Leave him alone, Biff! You’re drunk!”
Biff regarded her with a smile that was very close to a leer. “Well, lookee what we have here,” he said. “Maybe I’ll take part of it outa your ass.”
Marty slammed his foot down on Skinhead’s toe, causing him to shout with pain. Then, jack-knifing forward, he threw his elbow up and back, striking 3-D’s jaw solidly. Both boys released their holds but only briefly. Although struggling mightily, Marty was soon helpless in their grasp.
Biff, meanwhile, had leaped into the Packard and grabbed Lorraine.
“Let go of me!” she screamed.
“Oh, no, baby, you’re staying right here with me,” Biff laughed.
Marty pulled his tormentors nearly a foot forward as he tried to get at Biff. “Take your filthy hands off her, you bastard!” he ordered.
Biff smiled coolly at Marty, confident that he could make no trouble. “I’ll take care of you after I take care of her,” he said.
“You want us to start?” Skinhead asked.
“No, not yet,” Biff answered. “That’s one party I don’t want to start without me. Take him around back. I’ll be there in a minute.”
When 3-D and Skinhead pulled Marty only to the edge of the rear bumper, Biff whirled around and shouted at them. “This ain’t no peepshow! Get the hell outa sight while I…romance this lady.”
As they dragged Marty farther behind the car, Biff slammed the door and reached forward to kiss Lorraine. A moment later, all Marty could see and hear through the rear window was the struggling form of his mother accompanied by her muffled screams.
Inwardly, he cursed himself nearly as much as he cursed Biff and his friends. If it hadn’t been for Marty, Lorraine would be enjoying the dance instead of having to fight to avoid being raped.
There was also enough anger left over to direct at George. If that simpering chicken hadn’t reverted to form at the last moment—
But the time for recriminations was short. Dragging Marty bodily, 3-D and Skinhead noticed a Cadillac parked with its trunk open near the side of the school.
“Hey!” Skinhead suggested. “This guy’s more trouble than he’s worth. Let’s lock him in that trunk.”
“Good idea!” 3-D replied.
As he spoke, he reached down to grab Marty’s legs. It took the two young men nearly a minute to wrestle him to the side of the car, but finally they were able to push him into the trunk. Before he could start to scramble out, Skinhead slammed the lid shut.
The sound and jolt brought Bob Jordan back to earth with a bang. Seated behind the wheel of the Cadillac, the young black man was enjoying a marijuana cigarette while awaiting the rest of the band. As the drummer of the group, he had moved his gear out early while Marvin Berry did his familiar solo guitar closing. Halfway into the joint, he had grown sleepy and contented, so much so that he hadn’t heard the scuffling feet and voices until they were accompanied by the trunk lid slamming.
Leaping out of the car, he walked quickly over to the two white boys.
“Say, what you messin’ with my car for?” he demanded.
“Beat it, spook,” 3-D shot back. “This don’t concern you.”
“It sure does if you’re screwin’ around with my car trunk,” Jordan said in a firm, slightly raised voice. “And who you callin’ spook, peckerwood?”
Despite being outnumbered, he advanced toward 3-D and Skinhead, who took a step backwards. A moment later, Marvin Berry and the other three band members appeared from the back entrance of the gymnasium.
“What’s goin’ on?” Berry asked.
Skinhead and 3-D looked fearfully at the five black men.
“They called me spook,” Jordan said. “And I was about to ask them if they wanted a couple of new breathin’ holes in their faces.”
“Hey, I don’t want to mess with no reefer addicts,” Skinhead muttered.
“Reefer addicts, huh?” Berry said, taking a step toward them.
By that time, Skinhead and 3-D were ten feet away and running as fast as they could.
“Lemme out!”
The black men exchanged glances. The muffled voice and beating sounds were definitely coming from inside the Cadillac’s trunk.
“They musta dumped somebody in there,” Jordan said.
“Hey, Reginald, where’s your keys?” Marvin Berry asked, looking at one of the others.
Reginald checked his pockets, frowned, and shook his head.
“Can’t find ’em,” he said.
“They’re in here!” the faraway voice cried. “The keys are in here.”
Marvin Berry glared at Reginald. “Dammit, boy,” he yelled. “You did it again! That’s the third time you left them suckers in the trunk!”
“All right! What’s going on here?”
To George McFly, the grating sound of tyrannical Gerald Strickland’s voice was simultaneously welcome and infuriating. Having been kept prisoner in the High Valley High gymnasium men’s room for close to twenty minutes, he had no desire to continue in his present state; on the other hand, the perverse action of his tormentors did provide him with a built-in excuse not to carry out Marty’s plan. Even more important was that the excuse was acceptable to George himself. When he had entered the men’s room, there was still time to play his part; now it was unlikely he would have to do so.
“Nothing, sir,” one of George’s captors replied fearfully.
“I smell cigarette smoke. Does anybody here have cigarettes?”
“No…sir.”
“I’ll give you one chance to hand over the packs now. If I search you and find cigarettes, it’ll be a lot harder on you.”
In his cubicle, George heard the sound of material being torn and thrown in the trash can.
“That’s better,” Strickland said. “Now clear out of here.” George gently pushed open the door of the stall and stepped out. Strickland eyed him coldly.
“What’s been going on here, McFly?” he asked.
“Nothing, sir.”
>
“Bull droppings. I saw you go in here twenty minutes ago. Why were you here that long?”
“Nothing important, sir. We were just fooling around. You know…”
“Well, never mind. The dance is just about over. You’d better get back to your—never mind, I don’t suppose you have a date.”
He made a motion toward the door. George took the cue and darted out of the men’s room. As he moved through the hallway outside of the gymnasium, he saw that the dance floor was almost completely crowded and the lights very low, indicating that the final number was about to begin. Although he doubted that Marty was still manhandling Lorraine in the parking lot, George decided to make a dutiful appearance and explain the reason for his delay.
Walking briskly onto the parking lot, he headed for the spot where Marty had parked the Packard. At first, his eyes caught no sign of a struggle but just as he sighed with relief he realized he was in the wrong lane. Doubling back, he walked toward the correct area, approaching the Packard from the rear.
“Damn,” he whispered.
The scenario was still in progress, just as if time had stopped for more than twenty minutes so that he could accomplish his mission.
Taking a deep breath, he began to run toward the car.
Through the windows he could see arms and even what he judged to be legs flailing. Lorraine was screaming as the male figure pressed his body against hers and groped wildly with his hands.
“Holy cow,” George muttered. “It looks like Marty is going all out.”
Arriving at the car, he adjusted his pants and took a couple of steps, John Wayne-style. Then, reaching out to grab the door handle, he jerked it open as roughly as possible, thrust his head into the car and said in a loud, forceful voice: “Hey, you! Get your damn hands off—”
The face of the attacker twisted in his direction and George immediately recognized it.
“I think you got the wrong car, McFly,” Biff said.
“George! Help me!” Lorraine cried.
For a moment, George stared in dumbfounded amazement. A hurricane of partially formed thoughts rushed through his mind. Was Marty behind this? Was there a slim possibility Biff was in on it, too? Should he run? Or was it too late to back out now? He stared into the angry eyes of Biff Tannen, searching for clues, but saw only hostility. And—yes! there was a flicker of fear there, too. He had been caught in a potentially damaging situation that cried out for immediate action. George McFly must be frightened away and later intimidated into silence. If he ran and brought help—
“Just close the door and walk away, McFly,” Biff said evenly.
George didn’t move. A part of him had already reached the verge of panic, but another part of him simply would not allow his feet to move. He saw a quick flash of that scene in grade school five years ago when he had been unable to come to the aid of his friend Billy Stockhausen. Since that moment, he had feared physical combat, had learned to anticipate it and avoid it. But there was no avoiding this crisis unless he just turned and ran. The look of utter fear on Lorraine’s face prevented that.
“Are you deaf, McFly?” Biff demanded, his voice losing all restraint. “I told you to close the door and beat it! Now do it!”
George took a deep breath.
“No!” he said. “You let her alone.”
Lorraine sighed. At last someone had come to her assistance. He wasn’t Marty, but in some ways he was even better. Her lips started to form the words “Thank you” even as Biff removed his hands from her body and started to get out of the car.
“All right, McFly,” he snarled. “You had your chance. Now I’m gonna teach you a lesson.”
He moved toward George, one large hand reaching out to grab any part of the interloper’s body. It brought back a large section of sleeve with George’s arm enclosed. Twisting, Biff had the satisfaction of hearing George groan and saw fear register in his eyes. As he applied even greater pressure, a flailing fist moved slowly toward his head. It struck Biff on the shoulder, causing no damage or pain at all.
“Help!” Lorraine shouted.
George wanted to yell the same thing, but managed to grit his teeth and choke off the cowardly word. Twisting his body back and forth, he attempted vainly to get out of Biff’s clutches. One arm of the bully encircled George’s neck; the other forced his arm up his back so hard George was sure he would hear the snap of bone at any moment.
“Stop it, Biff!” Lorraine shouted. “You’ll break his arm!”
“That’s right, baby!” Biff shot back. “That’s just what I’m going for.”
He applied more pressure. Then, far on the periphery of his circle of awareness, he heard a sound…like faraway riveting…or was it running footsteps? Partly distracted, he allowed his grip to relax.
Desperate with pain, George reacted to the split second respite with blind instinct. Pulling himself from Biff’s grasp, he turned and, with both eyes firmly closed, threw the hardest punch of his life.
To his—and Biff’s—surprise, it landed flush on the jaw of his attacker, driving his entire head up and backwards like it had suddenly been struck by a flying two-by-four. Biff’s moan immediately followed the sharp crack of bone meeting bone.
Delightfully reminiscent of the duffel bag, Biff Tannen dropped to the asphalt like an inanimate object. A referee could have counted to at least a hundred before there was the slightest movement of his body.
“Oh, George! You were wonderful!”
Lorraine’s sparkling eyes stared at George’s, projecting a message of total adoration. George shook his head, looked down at his fist and then at the crumpled form of Biff Tannen near his feet. He couldn’t believe it!
Nor could Marty, who, followed by the five black musicians, had just arrived on the scene. But the picture was clear and perfect, with every detail in place—Lorraine’s torn dress, the prostrate form of the bully and nervously grinning face of the unlikely hero. Others arriving on the scene immediately grasped the significance of the scene and were touched by it.
“Who is that kid?” one male voice asked. “Does he go to our school?”
“It’s George McFly,” another answered. “He’s been in our homeroom for two years.”
“Never noticed him before…”
“Look at that guy out cold, will you? What a punch that little guy must have!”
“Way to go, Georgie!”
Reaching out to his father, Marty grasped his hand and shook it.
“Great work, Dad,” he said. “I mean, George.”
“Thanks.”
A disquieting thought rushed through Marty’s mind his work wasn’t done yet. Not only had he to make his getaway; he still had to get his mother and father together, have them kiss romantically on the dance floor. But the final number had been played and a few couples already left, although the vast majority of the young people were still hanging around, talking.
“It’s not too late,” Marty breathed. Then, in a louder voice, he said: “Hey, everybody! I think we should have one more dance just so this nice couple can celebrate!”
A shout of approbation mingled with the sound of distant thunder.
Marty looked at the sky, grabbed Lorraine with one hand and George with the other. “Come on, gang!” he shouted. “We’re going back in for one more number.”
The group rushed back to the gymnasium, passing the Starlighters on the way.
“Hey, you guys!” Marty said. “How about giving us one more number?”
“Dance is over,” one of them said.
“Forget it,” mumbled another.
Marty reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet. “Here,” he said, taking out all his money. “It’s yours for just one dance.”
The musicians looked at each other indecisively.
“It’s O.K. with me,” said Reginald, “except that Marvin cut his hand opening the car trunk.”
“Yeah,” Jordan added. “He can’t play with it like that. And we can’t play without Marv
in. He plays lead guitar, man. You can’t do anything without that.”
“But you’ve gotta play!” Marty urged. “That’s where they kiss for the first time—on the dance floor! If there’s no music, they won’t kiss and fall in love! And if they don’t fall in love, I’m a goner!”
The black men looked at each other. “What the hell’s this guy talking about?” one of them asked.
“Hey, man,” said Reginald, handing the money back. “The dance is over…unless you know somebody who can play guitar.”
Marty smiled.
“Of course!” he said. “I can do it.”
“Come on…”
“Trust me,” Marty said.
Reginald smiled. “Why not?” he suggested. “It might be worth it just for the laughs.”
Grabbing their equipment, the musicians followed Marty and his friends back into the gymnasium. The surge created a ripple of interest among the other students which soon became a tidal wave. Within two minutes, the entire gymnasium was again filled with bodies.
“What’s going on here?” Gerald Strickland shouted over and over. Grabbing arms, he tried to force the students out of the hall but his efforts were ineffectual.
Meanwhile, Marty had set himself up with the band in the far corner, plugged in the equipment and shouted into the microphone. “One more dance,” he said. “A special number for my parents.”
He and the Starlighters launched into “Earth Angel” and the students paired off to dance. Lorraine slipped into George’s arms, put her cheek against his.
At first following the band and then confidently taking the lead, Marty looked around. The musicians were casting quick glances his way, glances that told him they admired the job he was doing. He could see his parents dancing just a few feet away, their heads together. Now it was just a matter of time…All was going well.
During a brief sax solo, he put down his guitar and looked at the family snapshot in his wallet. Sister Linda and Dave were gone but his own image was intact. Then…as George and Lorraine’s lips moved toward each other, Marty thought he could see Linda beginning to reappear.
“Great…” he breathed.
His moment of exultation was short-lived. No sooner had the positive transformation taken place than it reversed itself. Linda faded and Marty’s right hand disappeared from the photo.