Sliding down in the seat, he watched as the patrol car passed quietly by. Then he got out, walked to the garage door and tried to open it. It was locked.
“Damn,” he muttered.
On a whim, he reached into his pants pocket and took out his key ring. Thirty years was a long time for a lock to remain operative, but it was worth a try…
He whistled softly as the key slid into the lock and turned. “That’s better,” he said. “I was beginning to think this wasn’t my day.”
Opening the garage door, he got into the DeLorean and backed it onto the pristine concrete slab. A moment later, in his normal street clothes, he walked out of his house and down the road toward Hill Valley.
Somewhere in the town below him was the key to getting back to 1985. Wherever it was, he had to find it.
| | ● Chapter | |
| | Five ● | |
| | | |
Although most of the streets around his 1955 home were not yet constructed, it was comparatively easy for Marty to find his way from his house into Hill Valley. His sense of direction was good, and there were enough benchmarks for him to find his way through woods and across lots that later became streets and housing developments. Keeping his eyes fixed on the courthouse made it simple, of course, and as he drew closer to the center of town, the streets and buildings had changed less over the years.
At least it looked that way from a distance. As he moved closer, Marty realized that practically every building would undergo a change of identity from 1955 to 1985. Overall, the area seemed cleaner now, more vibrant, bustling with activity and excitement. The people who moved about appeared to know each other and be friendlier. But if this was true, it also worked against a stranger such as Marty. Several times he noted people watching him, staring at his clothes in a suspicious manner. He could almost hear them asking themselves—who is that young man? Why is he wearing green shoes? Is he some kind of pseudo-sophisticated showoff from New York?
The attitude bothered Marty but only briefly. As he neared the Town Square, he found himself quite caught up in seeing, live and in living color, genuine history. Even more fascinating was the fact that no one here could possibly share his feelings of amazement. To them it was humdrum, perhaps boring. The passing parade of subjects and styles was something they saw every day and took for granted. To Marty it was a museum that was one hundred percent accurate and throbbing with life.
The first object to greet his eye was the large sign at the corner of the square, at 2nd and Main streets.
WELCOME TO HILL VALLEY
, it read.
A NICE PLACE TO LIVE, PLEASE DRIVE CAREFULLY
. Symbols for the Jaycees, Optimists, and Future Farmers of America decorated the sign like medals on an old soldier’s chest.
Turning right on Main, Marty strolled past Lou’s Cafe, the “soda shop” he associated with his mother and father’s growing-up years. Painted a sickly light green, the shop was largely empty now, probably because it was still quite early in the morning. Marty could imagine the place teeming with young people, though, ordering Cokes and malts, sundaes and burgers just as his mother had described the scene. Now the store was occupied only by a counterman and one or two coffee-drinking customers.
Turning away from the soda shop, Marty continued walking past Roy’s Records, another hangout for Hill Valley teens. Out front was a sandwich-board poster which announced:
JUST ARRIVED—THE BALLAD OF DAVY CROCKETT, 16 TONS, MANY MORE…
Color posters in the window showed four women singers who called themselves The Chordettes; others promoted “Patti Page in the land of Hi Fi,” “Eydie in Dixie Land,” and “Unforgettable Songs by Nat ‘King’ Cole.” There did not seem to be the slightest hint that rock ’n’ roll existed or was on its way.
Next to Roy’s was a Texaco filling station with a large hand-printed sign that proclaimed:
PRICE WAR 19½¢ GALLON
. Chuckling to himself, Marty walked close to the two pumps. One, green and silver, contained Sky Chief “super” gasoline for 21.9 cents; the red pump offered regular gas for just 19.9 cents per gallon. A cigarette machine against the front of the building advertised cigarettes for “20¢ a pack all brands,” while a soft-drink machine offered Pepsi-Cola for a dime.
Continuing to the end of the block, Marty found himself in front of the Essex Theater, a movie house which he had never seen before but felt he knew intimately. According to his mother and father—especially when a few drinks loosened their lips—the Essex was the local petting parlor on Saturday nights during the early and mid-1950s. There, in the balcony or deep recesses of the back rows, many warm and wonderful relationships were spawned. Occasionally, people even went there to see a movie, although old-timers like Mom and Dad never reminisced about what was on the screen. Now it advertised in large red letters:
CATTLE QUEEN OF MONTANA
, starring Barbara Stanwyck and Ronald Reagan. Beneath the marquee floated a banner that read
AIR CONDITIONED
.
Looking across the grass plot of the square, Marty noted that the clock atop the beige courthouse building was actually running. When had it been struck by lightning and permanently immobilized? He tried to recall what the lady with the pamphlets had said earlier that day…
Earlier that day? More like thirty years in the future, Marty thought. At any rate, he remembered that the clock had stopped sometime in 1955. “Right about now,” he mused. “Maybe I arrived here just in time.”
He smiled. The great historical events of other cities were battles or memorable natural disasters; Hill Valley’s claim to fame was nothing more exciting than a clock stopping. Well, at least he would be able to tell his grandchildren, assuming they didn’t question him too carefully about how he happened to be here on the memorable occasion thirteen years before his birth.
Walking across the edge of the square, he turned right on 2nd Street, which was the confluence of routes 395 West and 295 East. Next to the Bank of America—one of the few businesses still operating in 1985 that was also here now—was the Ask Mr. Foster travel agency. It advertised “fabulous 10-day vacations in Cuba.” Once again Marty chuckled. He rather liked sharing history’s little secrets of what was to come.
Adjoining the travel agency was J.D. Armstrong’s realty office, in the window of which was a color ad for Lyon Estates, his past and present home. A total price of $17,500 brought you a three-bedroom, two-car garage house complete with “totally electric kitchen.” Another advertisement offered bomb shelters at equally reasonable prices.
He continued past Zale’s Jewelers, the Hill Valley Stationery Shop, a barber offering haircuts for seventy-five cents, the Bluebird Motel with its room for five dollars (“and up,” of course), a Western Auto store that sold nearly everything from Daisy air rifles to “the world’s smallest radio,” which was about a foot long. Past Ruth’s Frock Shop and its dresses from Paris for $40 was the future Toyota dealership space, now known as Statler Motors Studebaker.
This was the most interesting historical oddity in Hill Valley, at least in Marty’s opinion. He liked cars, new and old, and the Studebaker held a special place in his heart because, like the Edsel, it thrived and became extinct more or less during Marty’s lifetime.
He looked in the showroom for a few moments, then studied the used cars in an adjoining lot.
“These would be worth a lot in 1985,” he murmured, “even the clunker on the right.”
The four used cars on display ranged from $950 to a bargain-basement $395. All were clean-looking and had a brief bit of praise written in white on the windshield: “Sharp, Clean,” “Low Mileage,” “A steal at $450,” and “Runs Good” for the clunker. Marty felt the urge to give them a spin, but he knew no salesman would allow a teenager to do so, especially in this day and age.
Continuing past the Studebaker lot, he stopped in front of the Town Theatre, a marvelously typical piece of art deco from the 1930s. A basic tan-colored tower rose above its green marquee and red tile entrance, which was lined with display shots of its current attractions,
The Atomic Kid
, starring Mickey Rooney and Robert Strauss.
He didn’t know what
The Atomic Kid
was about, but it struck Marty that he could apply that title to himself. Using a small amount of plutonium, he had managed to travel back in time, something no one else had done. The knowledge pleased him, but at the same time he was visited by another thought.
“What next?” he asked aloud. “How long does this go on? How do I get back?”
For the first time, it occurred to him that the time-travel process might not be reversible. The circumstances under which the transformation took place, for example, were hardly scientific, with the scientist being killed and the time traveler literally pursued into the experiment. Now it seemed there was only enough plutonium for a one-way trip. Perhaps this is it, Marty mused darkly.
Who could help him? Who could answer his questions? Certainly no one in 1955, an era which was only tinkering with space travel. Unless—
“Sure!” Marty said, snapping his fingers. “Doc Brown must be somewhere around here.”
He walked briskly back toward the soda shop, which he was sure must have a telephone booth. It being Saturday, the place was largely deserted now. A nerdy-looking kid sat at the counter, eating Rice Krispies and reading a comic book. He did not look up as Marty entered. Behind the counter were signs reading “Hamburger—25 cents,” “Ham and Cheese—30 cents,” “Chocolate Sundae—15 cents.” The prices fascinated Marty so completely that he must have stared at them long enough to convince the counterman that he was undesirable.
“Whatever you’re selling, kid, we don’t want any,” he said abruptly.
“I’m not selling anything,” Marty replied. “I just want to use the telephone.”
Marty nodded and started for the booth at the back of the store. Grabbing the directory, he flipped through the pages until he came to the familiar name. “Brown, Emmett L.” Immediately following was the word, “Scientist,” then Brown’s address and telephone number.
Marty smiled and withdrew a nickel from his pocket.
The phone rang and rang. No answer.
“Damn,” Marty muttered, hanging up. “This just isn’t my day.”
He ripped the page out of the directory and sauntered back toward the counter.
“Can you tell me where 1640 Riverside Drive is?” he asked, when the counterman finally looked his way.
“You gonna order something, kid?”
Marty shrugged. Why not, he thought, if it would get him some information.
“Uh, sure,” he said. “Gimme a Tab.”
The counterman sighed loudly, looked at him askance. “You’ll get that later.”
“What?”
“I can’t give you the tab unless you order something,” the counterman growled.
Marty didn’t get it but just decided to roll with the punches. “Then let me have a Pepsi Free.”
“Kid,” the counterman said, making no attempt to hide his growing irritation, “if you want a Pepsi, you gotta pay for it.”
Am I slow, Marty thought, realizing he had been trying to buy products which had not yet been invented.
The counterman continued to glare at him from beneath bushy eyebrows.
“Uh, well, just give me something to drink that doesn’t have sugar in it.”
The counterman shook his head, left, and returned a moment later with a glass of water and cup of black coffee. Marty did not enjoy black coffee.
“Have you got any Sweet ’n’ Low?” he asked, then quickly added. “Or something like it?”
“Tell me what Sweet ’n’ Low is,” the counterman said, forcing patience into his voice.
“It’s an artificial sugar substitute with no calories,” Marty said.
“We don’t have anything like that.”
The Middle Ages, Marty thought.
“Maybe you better pay for this right now,” the counterman said, eyeing Marty suspiciously. “Sure.”
He reached into his pocket and found only a couple of nickels and a dime. Surely not enough. The smallest thing in his wallet was a twenty-dollar bill. He took it out and handed it to the man.
“A twenty?” he said in horror. “What do you think this is, a bank? I can’t break a twenty for a nickel cup of coffee, kid.”
“Oh, it’s only a nickel?” Marty smiled, relieved. “I’m sorry. I thought it’d be a lot more.”
“How much more?”
“Well, at least fifty cents.”
“Thank God things ain’t come to that,” replied the counterman, taking the nickel. Then his eyes narrowed. “Say, what’s a kid your age doing with a twenty-dollar bill, anyway?”
There were only two possibilities, and since one of them involved illegal activities, Marty decided to plead guilty to the second. “I’m a spoiled rich kid,” he said. “New in town.” It satisfied the counterman. “Tell your old man it would be a lot better if you got a job and learned the value of money instead of his just givin’ you everything,” he said scornfully.
“Thanks. I’ll tell him.”
The counterman walked away.
Marty raised the cup of coffee, took a sip, grimaced and put it down.
“Hey, McFly!” a voice suddenly called.
Marty nearly knocked the cup over. Spinning around on his stool, he looked toward the direction of the voice.
Four young fellows of about seventeen were moving from the entrance of the shop toward the nerdy boy several stools away. The face of the leader looked vaguely familiar. The beady eyes, lips curled into a sneer and beefy jaw presented tantalizing clues but Marty couldn’t solve the puzzle. The other three gave him problems, being nondescript types of the period. One chewed a wooden matchstick and obviously thought it made him appear either cool or tough or both; the second wore his hair in a crewcut that was just this side of being bald; the third peered out at the world through red-green 3-D glasses.
“Answer me when I talk, McFly,” the leader said.
The superior tone in his voice provided the last piece of the puzzle for Marty. Of course! The punk was simply a young version of the biggest punk of them all, Biff Tannen. And the nerdy kid—