Marty looked at him closely. There was no doubt that the nerdy kid was George McFly, his father. The same terrorized look was in his eyes as Biff Tannen approached, the same nervous mannerisms and body language that told you he wanted to be anywhere else but around his tormentor. Unfortunately, there was also the same cowardice which kept him rooted to the spot like a helpless slave.
“Hi, Biff, how’s it going?” young George McFly asked, trying to sound casual but not carrying it off very well. His voice had a distinctly subservient tone.
“What d’you mean, it?” Biff shot back as his cohorts laughed. “What’s
it?”
“Er…that’s just an expression,” George muttered. “I…just wanted to make sure everything was all right with you.”
“Everything?” Biff repeated. “You’re interested in
everything
about me? That’s a lot. You mean, you’re interested in what I had for breakfast, whether I burped afterward or not—”
His pals howled as George forced a smile, then lapsed into silence.
Still the same old punching bag, Marty thought, looking at his future father.
“You got my homework finished, McFly?” Biff asked, “you Irish bug?”
George’s eyes avoided those of his nemesis. “Well, no,” he muttered softly. “I figured that since it’s not due till Monday…”
Biff reached out with his fist and knocked three times on George’s head.
“Hello,” he said loudly. “Anybody home?”
Once again his friends laughed automatically, emulating Pavlov’s dog perfectly.
“Think, McFly,” Biff Tannen continued. “Think! I’ve gotta have time to copy it, right? Do you realize what would happen if I turned in
my
homework in
your
handwriting? I’d get kicked out of school.”
“Yeah,” George smiled. “I guess I didn’t think of that. I’m sorry.”
Marty sighed and shook his head. It was almost too painful to watch, this beginning of a thirty-year torture test which his father continued to fail.
“What are you looking at, butthead?”
Marty suddenly realized the words were directed at him, and not his father. But instead of looking away from the pitiful drama taking place in front of him, he continued to direct a gaze of disgust at both Tannen and George McFly. To his satisfaction, Biff looked away.
“So how about my homework, McFly?” he asked, continuing the badgering session.
George shrugged his shoulders, a gesture that was part resignation and part obeisance. “Uh, O.K., Biff,” he said. “I’ll do it tonight and bring it over first thing tomorrow morning.”
Biff nodded coldly. “Not too early,” he said. “I sleep in on Sundays. If you woke me up, I’d have to mess up your features a little.”
His pals cackled once again, bringing a delighted smile to Biff’s face. George sat tightly scrunched onto the stool, every twitch of his body indicating that he wanted nothing more than to see the last of Biff Tannen on this day.
His joy at Biff’s leavetaking was to be delayed briefly, however. Turning as if to go, Biff suddenly whirled, looked down at George’s feet and said: “Oh, hey, McFly—your shoe’s untied.”
“Huh?”
As George’s glance dropped, Biff brought up his fist, tapping him on the point of the chin. It was a blow that was more embarrassing than painful. “Fell for it again, didn’t you, McFly?” Biff laughed. “Boy, if anybody wanted to coldcock you, they wouldn’t have any trouble.”
“I guess not,” George murmured.
“Come on, guys, let’s go,” Biff announced, leading the way out of the shop.
George and Marty watched them go.
“I can’t believe it,” Marty said finally. “You’re a young George McFly…”
His father-to-be looked at him, puzzled. “Of course I’m young,” he said. “Do I know you from someplace? You don’t look familiar.”
“No,” Marty replied. “But I know you.”
“Not from school.”
Marty shook his head.
“Then you couldn’t know me,” George said.
“Oh yes, I do…Your birthday’s August 18th and your mother’s name is Sylvia, right?”
George shook his head, not because the information was wrong but because he was amazed. Had the fellow gotten hold of school files or looked through his wallet? Was he a young cop or what?
“Well?” Marty continued. “Isn’t that correct? Isn’t it also true that your father enlisted in World War I as a sixteen-year-old, was sent to France before they found out, and shipped back without firing a shot?”
George nearly choked on his Pepsi. Someone could have gleaned the other information by looking at a questionnaire, but the story about his dad was inside-family material. How had this young man found out?
“Uh-huh,” George replied. “That’s all true. How did you find out and who are you?”
Having enjoyed amazing and confounding the young George McFly, Marty suddenly realized he had no plausible answer to the question. He could not tell him the truth, of course. That was not only implausible but might bring on a new barrage of questions.
In reply, he smiled and tried to look enigmatic.
“Let’s just say I’m your guardian angel,” he said. “All that stuff about your family isn’t really important, though. What’s important is that you shouldn’t let that creep Biff Tannen push you around.”
“That’s a fact, man.”
The reply to Marty’s charge, so rapid and direct, did not come from George McFly, but from Goldie Wilson, a black busboy who was sweeping up several feet away. George and Marty turned to look at him. Pausing in his work, Goldie returned their gazes with an intense, nearly mesmerizing, look of his own.
“Say, what do you let that boy push you around for?” he asked.
George blinked, taken aback by the usually quiet black man.
“This isn’t the first time I saw him treat you like that,” Goldie went on. “I clean up a lot of mess around here, but nothin’ makes me sicker than seein’ him practically spit on you. Why don’t you stand up?”
“Well, uh, he’s bigger than me,” George stammered, his voice whiney and miserable-sounding.
“Everybody’s bigger than you when you’re on your knees,” Goldie replied. “Listen, if you’re gonna make it in this world, you gotta have some respect for yourself. You let people walk over you now, they’ll be walkin’ over you the rest of your life. You want to be a door mat, have people wipe their feet on you till you die?”
George shook his head. It wasn’t a very decisive gesture.
“The man’s right,” Marty said. “And he’s got a lot more reason to curl up and die than you have.”
“That’s a fact!” Goldie nodded. “Look at me. Most people think I’m nothing, but I
know
I’m something. You think I’m gonna spend the rest of my life, behind a broom in this slophouse?”
The counterman, attracted by the raised voices, had gravitated to the scene. Now he looked at Goldie with a curling lip. “Watch it, Goldie,” he said meaningfully.
Goldie didn’t flinch. “No sir!” he said to George. “I’m not gonna end up here. I’m gonna make something of myself! I’m going to night school. Every night of the week. I’m gonna be somebody!”
“Goldie,” Marty interjected, something suddenly clicking in his mind. “Would that be Goldie Wilson, by any chance?”
Goldie nodded. “That’s me,” he said. “And you can just remember that name, because, like I said, it’s gonna mean something one day.”
The counterman chuckled.
“He’s right,” Marty said. “As a matter of fact, he’s gonna be Mayor of Hill Valley someday.”
Goldie looked at Marty closely, frowning, searching for the hint of sarcasm that would normally accompany such a remark made by a white man. There didn’t seem to be any guile, however. This fellow was either sincere or the world’s greatest actor. In either case, Goldie decided not to be put off by the comment but to accept it as a challenge.
“Mayor?” he said. “That’s a good idea. I could show folks how to run this town. I wouldn’t be a cheap politician on the take all the time. I’ll be honest and efficient.” Then, looking at Marty, he said: “You got a crystal ball or something? How do you know I’m gonna be mayor?”
“I just know, that’s all.”
“When’s it gonna happen?”
Marty sighed. He had gotten himself in deep again with his knowledge of the future. “Do you really want to know?” he countered.
“Of course, man. Tell me. Why shouldn’t I want to know when it’s gonna happen?”
“Because it’s a ways off. You might not want to wait that long.”
“No, it’s all right. Something like that’s worth waitin’ for. Besides, I’ll know that nothing will happen to me between now and then, right?”
Marty nodded. “You’ll be elected during the late ’70s,” he said.
“My seventies or the 1970s?” Goldie smiled.
“The 1970s.”
“Heck, that’s not too long to wait. My mother worked forty years and got nothing out of it. So I guess I can work another twenty or twenty-five for a payoff like that…”
As Goldie talked, the nervousness in George McFly began to grow nearly unbearable. It wasn’t the situation or anything that Goldie said. Rather, it was this young man who professed to know everything. He seemed almost from another world, so assured, calm, different from all the other teenagers George knew. And he dressed strangely, wore his hair in an unusual way. George wasn’t a religious person but he was superstitious. The occult, the unknown bothered him more than the concrete promises and strictures of formalized religion. Suppose this man could see the future? Others may have regarded that as a blessing, a way of becoming rich and avoiding life’s pitfalls. Not so George McFly. He didn’t want to know what lay ahead, for him or anyone else. Better to remain in the dark than be forced to think about some unavoidable tragedy or struggle. If this young man somehow knew everything past and future, George wanted to get away from him as soon as possible.
Having arrived at that decision, he took advantage of the conversation between Goldie and Marty to edge his way toward the door. A few seconds later, he slipped around the corner and walked briskly for his bike.
Meanwhile, the counterman, who had listened to Goldie’s speech with increasing frustration, finally managed to break in. “Mayor,” he said. “Ha! A colored mayor of this town. That’ll be the day!”
“You wait and see,” Goldie returned. “Like this man here says, someday I’m gonna be mayor.”
“I ain’t impressed by this man here,” the counterman retorted. “And as for you, just keep sweeping.”
Goldie slid his hands up on the broom handle but didn’t set to work immediately. “Mayor Goldie Wilson,” he said softly. “I like the sound of that.”
Marty smiled, rather pleased with himself for “inspiring” Goldie Wilson, or at least giving him hope. A moment later, the smile disappeared as he realized that George McFly was no longer in the store.
“Hey—” he called, catching a glance of George’s back as he started to cycle away.
He raced out of the store, his arms waving. “George!” he called after the departing figure. “Hey, George! I want to talk to you!”
Either oblivious, out of earshot, or not wishing to prolong their conversation, George McFly moved ahead without so much as a glance over his shoulder. Marty started to run after him, then suddenly remembered that his father had grown up on Sycamore Street, near 2nd. He had driven past it with the family once and pointed it out. Sure that he could locate the house now, Marty slowed to a fast walk.
He wasn’t certain exactly where he wanted his relationship with the young George McFly to go. The man, despite his failings, did survive the next thirty years. That was something. Nevertheless, Marty felt a compulsion to have at least one heart-to-heart talk with him. Perhaps, if nothing else, he could say something that would free George McFly of Biff Tannen’s bullying for the next three decades.
“Wouldn’t that be a wonderful present?” Marty said aloud as he walked. Playing it back, he was somewhat surprised that he had such kind feelings toward his father-to-be. Could it be because they had a certain kinship now? He had never thought of his father as a young man before. Yet here he was, the same age as Marty. It would be fun, of course, to see his father’s reaction when he told him who he was, but that was impossible. It was also likely to drive George crazy, so Marty dispensed with the notion.
His sense direction took him to Sycamore Street, which was decorated with solid homes built during the 1920s and ’30s. White picket fences were everywhere, framing the neat lawns into meticulously edged walkways leading to the doors. It was a much nicer neighborhood than Marty remembered, having grown seedy by the early 1970s.
George’s bike was leaning against a tree overhanging Sycamore Street but George himself was nowhere to be seen. Marty stood still a moment, debating whether or not to go into the house. In all likelihood, his grandmother would be there, no doubt looking younger than he had ever seen her. Marty wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with that. Granny had been very close to him, and he felt this closeness would betray him. Somehow, even though Marty had not yet been born, he felt she would sense who he was and be terribly frightened by it.
His inner debate lasted only a minute. Looking upward through the limbs of the tree, Marty caught sight of George. He was nearly twenty feet up, perched precariously on a thick branch that jutted far over the street.
“I can’t believe it,” Marty breathed. “That’s the most courageous thing I’ve ever seen him do.”
He soon found out why George had taken such a risk. In his hands was a pair of binoculars, which the young man had trained on a second-story window of the house across the street. The profile of a woman’s head and shoulders could be seen at street level. From the vantage point of twenty feet up, Marty could imagine what was visible.
“I’ll be damned,” he muttered, smiling. “Dad’s a Peeping Tom.”
Two things happened then in rapid succession. George, trying to gain an ever better vantage point, suddenly lost his balance. He slid sideways around the thick branch, grasped desperately for it, missed, then plunged downward toward the street. As he fell, his body struck several smaller branches, which served to lessen his rate of descent and perhaps spare him broken bones. Landing on his hip and receiving a minor blow to the head, he lay limp and dazed in the center of the road.