“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 Marvin. 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.
“What the hell—” he began.
Looking toward his parents, he saw the cause of the reversal. Just as the couple were about to kiss, a rough hand had been placed on George’s shoulder. It was Dixon, wearing his usual malevolent expression.
“Beat it, McFly,” he ordered. “I’m cuttin’ in.”
On the bandstand, the sax solo had ended and the full orchestration started again. Marty joined in, but his right hand couldn’t seem to follow. Instead, fishlike, it flopped along the strings like a numb or completely dead object.
“Hey, man,” Bob Jordan whispered. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t play,” Marty murmured. “I don’t know how to play the guitar!”
He lifted the offending right hand and gasped with horror. He could see through it!
Bob Jordan, losing the beat himself, stared at Marty’s wide eyes and open-mouthed expression.
“What kinda drugs is that cat on?” he whispered.
Marty closed his eyes, struggled to his feet. “I…don’t feel so good…” he mumbled.
On the dance floor, many of the young people were so wrapped up in the magical moment they failed to notice the band’s disintegrating sound. George McFly in particular was totally oblivious to mere music. Having been shunted aside, he saw Dixon encircle Lorraine’s waist with one arm as he prepared to take her hand.
Lorraine looked helplessly at George.
George’s hesitation was brief. Taking along stride toward Dixon, he said simply: “Excuse me.” It came out in the best Clint Eastwood tradition, a soft phrase with underlying tones of businesslike, very confident menace. Reaching out with one hand to shove Dixon ten feet away, he took Lorraine with the other and folded her to his chest. Turning her chin upward, he kissed her gently on the lips.
Marty felt a surge of new energy race through his entire body. Jolted upright as if struck by an electrical shock, he looked at his right hand and arm again. No longer were they transparent!
“Thank God!” he smiled.
Whipping the family photograph from his pocket, he laughed, did a little pirouette on the bandstand, and grabbed the guitar again. Linda, Dave and himself were all back in the picture, completely intact, and the feeling in his hand told him his musical powers had been restored.