Back to the Future

Here, in the living room of a peaceful house in the suburbs, a typical family sits quietly. Dad reads the evening paper, unaware that disaster is about to strike. Mom cleans the dinner dishes, oblivious to the fact that in a few seconds their world will be reduced to a whirlwind of splinters and atomized debris. The children are in their rooms, doing their homework, little knowing that only a few moments of life are left to them, that they will never have to worry about homework again. The mightiest force ever created by man is about to be unleashed on them and there is nothing on earth they can do about it…

Five…four…three…two…one…

A second later, there was a flash of white and the unnamed family were enveloped in a surge of power that tore their tiny frames to pieces, bending them curiously out of shape before separating bodies from heads, arms from torsos, legs from abdomens. The solid-looking house simply crumpled into thin shreds of pulp and instantly ignited into a raveling avalanche of flame. A wind-tunnel effect then whisked the body parts and wreckage of furniture and plaster into a horrible whirling mass that was sucked into the tortured atmosphere. A long silent moment followed, the noise of the blast diminishing to a soft echo evoking the end of life on the planet.

The class was not impressed by the violent display and aftermath. At least there were no visible signs of amazement, horror, or even acute involvement.

Nevertheless, the announcer—probably long since gone to his own last resting place—continued his narration of the film on atomic power, circa 1955.

You have just seen how this mighty force can utterly destroy a society unprepared for its use. For this reason, some have protested the utilization of any form of atomic power. But it is too late to go back now. The potential for good of this force outweighs its potential for evil. A vital source of energy that may someday replace that created by coal or even conventional electrical power…

Most of the class listened to the illustrated lecture with only one ear. It was late in the day, much too late to pay close attention, and they had all seen the film before. Some thought of other things: a few drew pictures on the covers of their books in the semidarkness.

One student, the most daring and enterprising of the class, listened to stereo rock music. His eyes were nearly closed and his limbs had to struggle to remain still rather than follow along with the beat, but he gladly accepted this limitation as his lips quietly formed the words of the song.

Got to have your love…

Scientists predict that by the year 2000, at least half the homes in America will be run by atomic power…

Got to have you in my arms…Need to hold you…

There’ll be atomic cars with an engine the size of an acorn. Ships with nuclear dynamos will be able to travel without refueling for indefinite periods, perhaps as long as a year. Finally, the idea that giant rocket ships powered by atomic fuel, going to the moon and even farther, will become a reality rather than science fiction.

Give me one more chance…Won’t you please get up and dance?

This is our opportunity. The chance of a lifetime…

Give me one more chance…

Let us not fail…

Let’s have one more dance…

The closing music of the film ended, followed by popping noises from the projector and then a soft solo baritone voice.

“Let’s have one more dance…”

Twenty heads swiveled in the direction of the singer. Unfortunately, one of them was that of Mr. Arky, the social studies teacher. His sense of direction told him immediately that the singer was Marty McFly, but his decided myopia veiled certain specifics. For one thing, he didn’t see Marty deftly remove the headphones from his ears and return them to the hollow book, which also contained a tiny but powerful Walkman cassette player. Nor did Mr. Arky see the sly smile Marty exchanged with Jennifer Parker, the attractive 17-year-old who sat next to him.

“What was that, McFly?” Mr. Arky challenged.

“Nothing, sir. I was just saying I hope we all have one more dance.”

“Indeed.”

For a long moment, Mr. Arky surveyed the young man, scanning his features for signs of arrogance or rebellion that he could convert to a reason for punishment. Singing in class was technically sufficient, but even Mr. Arky felt that a single line could be excused.
If
that had been all. He fixed young McFly with his most intimidating gaze, hoping to panic him into either a confession or further punishable arrogance. Instead, the infuriatingly good-looking face framed by medium-length brown hair simply stared back. After a moment of indecision, Mr. Arky backed away from the confrontation as gracefully as he could.

“Now, as you all saw in that film,” he intoned, “the attitudes about nuclear energy were quite a bit different in those days…You also—”

He was interrupted by the heavy rustling sound that always preceded an announcement over the school’s antiquated public address system.

“Marty McFly, please come to the office,” the PA voice mumbled, barely above the threshold of intelligibility. “You have an emergency telephone call. Marty McFly.”

“Must be my agent,” Marty murmured to Jennifer and the others within earshot.

He was wise enough to remain in his seat until a reluctant motion of Mr. Arky’s hand released him. Then, gathering up his books, he walked quickly out of the room.

In the nearly deserted hallway between classes, his mood vacillated from the joy of being dismissed early from Arky’s post-film debriefing and concern that there really was an “emergency.” What could it be? An accident or death in the family? At 17, his life so far had been serene; he therefore had no premonition of disaster. In addition, being a genial and optimistic person, he was not disposed to consider life darkly. Then, nearing the office, his mind clutched at the worst possible calamity this particular day could offer—cancellation of his band’s audition!

“No,” he said aloud. “Don’t let it be that!”

Suddenly he found that his steps had taken on a new urgency, that he was nearly running.

The band was everything. At least for the moment it was his chance to be somebody different from everyone else. It was his opportunity to excel, impress, win friends and influence people. He knew he had talent, that the possibility existed of his becoming a rock star. Yet there was something deeper than that, a feeling of freedom when he was jamming with the group. At those times when they were really going well, he experienced the excitement of doing something new, of courting disaster and somehow coming away not only unscathed but also glorified. It was an out-of-body experience, bringing with it a sense of weightlessness, a feeling that no world existed outside the sphere reached by his music.

Jennifer was terrific, of course. He was quite taken by her, even felt that he “loved” her in the most adult sense. She was beautiful and fun to be around and she loved his music. Yet somehow she was not quite as important to Marty as the musical experience. Perhaps in time she would grow to be vastly more valuable to him, but for the moment Jennifer was of this world and his music was of the next.

The school office was quiet, populated only by the usual mousy staff and one student who sat hunched in a corner of the waiting room. Nevertheless, the secretaries went about their business very slowly and deliberately for more than a minute before one of them looked up enough for Marty to get her attention.

“Emergency call for me,” he said.

The chubby woman in her fifties, whose name he had never learned, motioned for Marty to come into the office area and use the phone on her desk. Then with studied politeness she moved to a faraway desk so that he could speak and listen with greater privacy.

Such was not the case with Gerald Strickland, the school disciplinarian who took his job as seriously as any prison warden. Five minutes ago, he had taken the so-called “emergency” call himself. Phony, he had thought at the time. The breathlessness and urgency were there in the man’s voice on the other end of the line but there was something that struck him as decidedly fake. Strickland considered himself a student of human nature, a master of detecting the deceitful maneuver. Though over sixty and nearing the end of his long career in education, he relished each day’s mental combat with the selfish young men and women who regarded him as nothing but an evil obstacle to their willfulness. Strickland knew they laughed at him behind his back, chuckled at his wearing a bow tie every day, and considered him a tyrant. But, by God, they didn’t laugh when he was looking at them. No smart remarks emanated from their lips when he interrogated them. They knew he had the power to make their lives temporarily miserable and they respected him for this.

Now, timing his motions with Marty McFly, whom he could see across the room through his half-open door, Strickland picked up the receiver of his telephone at the same time as the young man.

“Hello,” he heard Marty say a bit nervously.

“Marty, it’s me,” the other voice said.

“Doc!”

Strickland experienced a momentary pang of doubt. Doc? Was it possible the caller was actually a physician about to inform McFly of some genuine emergency? If such was the case, he would not only be deprived of the opportunity to confront and punish the young man; it would be a severe setback to his own confidence in his ability to combat deceitfulness. The pulse of anxiety passed as quickly as it came, however, the relaxation caused by the casualness in McFly’s tone. How many teenagers call bona fide adult physicians “Doc”? No, it was too familiar. Doc, whoever he was, was a personal friend. Strickland, the moral bloodhound, was on the right track after all.

“I told you never to call me here,” Marty continued. “I’m in school.”

“I know,” the man called Doc replied. “I had to get in touch with you.”

“Why? What’s so important?”

“You’ll see. Listen, can you meet me at Peabody’s Farm around 1:15?”

“Peabody’s Farm? Where’s that?”

“I’m sorry,” Doc amended. “I mean Twin Pines Mall. I still think of it as Peabody’s Farm, but I guess that was before your time.”

Marty looked up at the large clock on the wall. “But it’s after 1:15 already,” he replied.

“I mean 1:15 in the morning.”

“Tomorrow morning? About ten hours from now?”

“Yeah.”

Gerald Strickland smiled. Whatever the “emergency,” it was obviously something that could have waited until the young man was out of class, school, and had arrived home. He had seen through the sham after all and he experienced a surge of pride in his continuing ability to outwit those nearly fifty years younger.

“Let me get this straight,” Marty said into the phone. “You want me to meet you at Twin Pines Mall at 1:15 tomorrow morning?”

“Right. I’ve made a major breakthrough and I’ll need your assistance.”

“Can’t you tell me now?” Marty asked.

Gerald Strickland found himself nodding in response. Yes, he thought, do explain more. Whatever it was sounded definitely shady and perhaps illegal. Most students are notoriously lazy, not at all likely to be awake at such an early hour. What could they be engaged in? He licked his lips, fascinated at the possibilities in this telephone call. It had made his otherwise dreary day.