That night Marty Mcfly slunk through his father's neighborhood like a cat burglar carrying a stuffed backpack. He was desperate. He had tried for weeks to get his mother to fall back in love with his father neither of them were cooperating. Desperate times call for desperate measures, he'd heard once. It was just past midnight when he arrived, there. He went through the back yard. Several dogs were barking in the distance, but other than that nothing was stirring in this part of Hill Valley this late at night.
Marty stopped at the back door, praying that his grandparents hadn't changed much over the years. There was a large white rock to the left of the back door.
“Bingo,” Marty whispered to himself. He lifted the rock and there it was, the spare house key. “Thank God that old habits die hard in the Mcfly family.” He said to himself.
He then set the backpack on the ground and began laying out the contents. First, his yellow radiation suit, then an electric hair dryer taken from 1985 Doc Brown's suitcase. A Walkman radio with headphones. Check. An Edward Van Halen Cassette. Check. He was
ready.
George was sleeping soundly in his bed when Marty crept in and made his way to the foot of the bed, towering above in his yellow suit. He had wrapped his belt around his waist and tucked the hair dryer under it like a holster. He took out the Walkman. It was difficult to insert the Van Halen cassette in wearing the heavy radiation gloves but he finally managed it.
Marty took the headphones, plugged them into the Walkman, went over to the side of the bed, and gently placed them over the ears of the sleeping George. Readying himself, he cranked the volume on the Walkman and then hit play.
A thunderous noise of heavy drums and screeching distorted electric guitar woke George out of a sound sleep with a start. George bolted upright in the bed, backed himself against the headboard, disoriented and trying to focus on the yellow figure standing before him. Marty turned the tape off. George was still groggy but starting to look alert.
“You again!” George shouted, pointing.
Marty almost dropped the Walkman, this wasn't the reaction he expected. “Who the HELL are you?” George demanded, reaching up and grabbing at the headphones.
Marty hit play again and the music didn't seem to startle George, it only appeared to make him more angry.
Marty hit stop. “Silence EARTHLING,” Marty said, trying to keep up the facade. “I am Darth Vader of the Planet Tattooine!”
George ripped the headphones off of his head and jumped out of bed. “The LAST time you said you were from the planet Vulcan!” He screamed, lunging at Marty. In doing so he knocked the walkman right from his hand.
The two boys started wrestling. Marty began to regret giving George boxing lessons because the kid could hit hard. Marty was feeling his punches right through the protective helmet. George somehow got a good grip on the head covering and ripped it right off of Marty's head.
George stepped backward gaping at him in shock and outrage. “YOU!” He wailed. “IT WAS YOU ALL ALONG!”
Marty stammered, searching for words.
“You're crazy,” George pointed an accusatory finger at Marty, “you're completely INSANE!” “George, please,” Marty pleaded, “let me explain.”
“Just take that... thing,” George pointed at the walkman and the headphones, “whatever the hell that thing is, and get the HELL out of my house before I call the police!”
Marty could hear his grandfather scrambling for the gun case down the hall. His grandmother was shouting something about the phone.
Marty reached down, grabeds his walkman and jumped out the second story window, feet first. He landed and did a roll. His Walkman and the hair dryer went flying across the lawn. He stumbled up and scrambled to gather them up. Inside he could see the lights going on inside and hear his father explaining to his grandparents that he was just having another nightmare.
“No more Science Fiction Theater for you!” Shouted Marty's grandmother as Marty scurried off and away from the house.
* * * * * * * * * *
Back at the Brown Estate, Marty cames in, confused and upset, still wearing the suit, with the hood under his arm. Doc was waiting there in the workshop/garage. He was holding a magnifying glass staring at something. He looked up at Marty, quizzically.
“Where have you been dressed like that?” He asked.
“It's a long story Doc,” Marty replied abruptly, “needless to say, I think I really blew it this time with my Dad. I bet he never talks to me again.”
“That's truly unfortunate Marty,” said Doc, handing him the magnifying glass and his family photo,” “because look!”
Marty looked and his brother Dave was completely gone. “Holy shit!” Marty exclaimed. Doc nodded. “By my calculations, at the rate your siblings are disappearing in the photo you had exactly one month to the day from the moment you had the fist fight with Biff. That's the date of the boiling point.”
“The date of the fire!” Marty added.
“It's been almost three weeks now since the fight with Biff and you've made no progress at all getting your parents to interact in a meaningful way!”
“I know, “ Marty shook his head, “you don't have to remind me. In fact, I think I might be making things worse.”
Doc nodded again in agreement.
“It appears to me, Marty, that your only chance now may be to see to it that the future unfolds exactly the way it did before.”
“I told you, Doc, I don't have a clue about the fire,” Marty said, moving away and resting on the Delorean. “My parents would never talk about it in detail.”
“You don't even know the location?” “No!”
Doc shook his head, frustrated. “Well then, you may have to pick a place, start a fire yourself, and arrange for your father to be there.”
“What Doc?” Marty was shocked at the suggestion. “I can't believe you're suggesting that! I can't do that!
“Barring that,” Doc said, ignoring Marty's surprise, “the best you can do is keep up with your efforts.”
“I told you Doc,” said Marty, “I seriously screwed up tonight, I doubt my Dad is going to ever talk to Calvin Klein again!”
“Then you have to concentrate your efforts on your mother.”
“My mom? Doc, are you crazy, my mom is all over me every time I turn around, I can't encourage her, you said so yourself!”
“I didn't say encourage her,” Doc explained gravely, “you might have to discourage her.” Marty straightened at what Doc seemed to be suggesting. “Are you saying I need to be mean to my mother?”
“Not mean,” Doc suggested, “not necessarily mean, just, well, maybe not at first, but you have to show her that you're a complete loser and that compared to George you are a bad seed.”
“Doc, I don't know if that's going to work, I'm starting to think that my mom goes for the bad boys.”
Doc thinks this over. “It's Hollywood! They glorify rebels. The James Dean syndrome, I call it.”
“Ya,” Marty agreed, “Doc she told me that James Dean is her favorite actor.” “Then you have to be less James Dean and more James Cagney. “
“Doc I don't even know who that is,” Marty lamented.
“Marty,” Doc said ominously, “the way I see it you have about a week to get your mother to respect your father and forget about Calvin Klein, or your entire future is history!”
18. THE REVELATION
The next day at school, Marty approached George boldly, but cautiously at his locker. George had gone back to wearing his old dull and boring outfits, instead of wearing the clothes Marty bought for him.
“Hey, George,” Marty said. “Nice threads.”
“Leave me ALONE psycho!” George snapped as he slammed his locker and stomped away.
“I'm sorry, George, I got carried away,” Marty apologized, following his father down the hall, “it won't happen again.”
“Stay AWAY from me and QUIT FOLLOWING ME AROUND!” George shouted without turning around, his back to Marty. Marty stopped and stared after, looking very much like a kid being rejected by his own father.
Down the hall, another kid walked past George and with an evil grin slapped him on the back and said, “Hey Mcfly how's it goin?”
Marty started to move forward, seeing the kid has just put a “kick me” sign on George's back, but before he could say or do anything, George Mcfly grabbed the sign off his back and pinned it to the kid's chest. “You leave me alone too, I'm sick of these juvenile pranks.”
Marty stopped again, his eyes glowing with pride. It dawned on him that George was transforming himself. He was no longer the sniveling coward, the brunt of all the other kid's jokes.
“Maybe there's hope for you yet George Mcfly,” Marty muttered.
“Hello Marty.” He heard a sweet voice behind him. His head dropped and he turned around. It was, of course, Lorraine.
His eyes narrowed. She was smiling up at him so sweetly. This was going to be difficult but it had to be done. He sighed, took a deep breath, then steeled himself.
“Get lost,” he said to Lorraine and stomped away himself leaving her looking confused and crushed.