Back To The Future Read online

  It was none other than Mr. Strickland himself.

  “Damn!” Marty hissed.

  There was no way of convincing him that a misunderstanding existed. He didn’t even have time to debate the pros and cons of simply splitting and taking the consequences. No sooner had he spotted Strickland than the piercing eyes honed in on him like enemy radar.

  “Come in, McFly,” Strickland ordered.

  Head down, Marty walked into the room. It was a typical classroom in the school which had been built at the end of the Great Depression. Green blackboards had replaced the old black types and the walls, desks and ceiling had been repainted. A new sprinkler system had been added, too, but the place still had a dreariness that Marty found almost terminally depressing. The expressions on the faces of the ten other students enduring punishment indicated that they regarded the place with equal misery. All stared glumly ahead or down at the desk top in front of them. One of the victims, a thin-faced kid named Weeze, had a skateboard tucked beneath his books, almost as if he expected Mr. Strickland to confiscate or destroy it.

  His fear, if he harbored it, was not mere fancy. At the front of the room stood Strickland, ten Walkman units lined neatly on the desk next to him. Those who had been through it before knew what was about to happen next, a fact which did not make it much easier.

  “Now…” Strickland smiled sadistically, “we are going to see how we deal with those who violate our ‘no Walkman’ rule.”

  Gently, almost reverentially, he lifted one of the units and placed it in the jaws of a woodworking vise mounted on the corner of the desk. He then began tightening the jaws until the set broke in half, the sound approximating that of bones breaking. As bits of plastic and mangled parts trickled to the floor, one student winced as if the pain were being inflicted on his own body. Strickland, well aware of which unit belonged to each student, smiled wickedly at the horrified young man.

  “Now then, Stevenson,” he said. “You may come up here and claim your stereo.”

  Stevenson got up and knelt down to pick up the shattered remains of his set.

  With gleeful deliberation, Strickland continued the crunching orgy. Marty’s set was fourth in line for execution but he was more concerned about the passing time than the fate of his Walkman. He could still make it to the audition if Strickland released them early.

  Fat chance, he thought. Then, after a moment of black despair, he forced his mind to think. There must be a way out, a scheme clever enough to create panic or some legitimate emergency. His eyes scanned the room. Only a sprinkler system offered possibilities, but he couldn’t formulate a workable plan of attack.

  “This is yours, isn’t it, McFly?” Strickland interrupted Marty’s thoughts. “Number three?”

  “Four,” Marty said evenly. He was determined not to let the creep see how much he hated to lose his Walkman.

  With a brisk smile, Strickland dispatched the next set and then reached for Marty’s stereo with something like renewed passion. The jaws of the vise pressed in, causing a low scraping sound; almost as if the set were crying out in pain. Then, with a particularly loud snap, the Walkman’s splintered remains shot out of the vise in all directions. Momentary panic crossed Strickland’s features as shards of plastic flew past his eyes and head.

  “It’s all yours, McFly,” Strickland said, quickly regaining his composure.

  Marty got up to collect the broken pieces of his set. As he did so, the hint of a smile played around his lips, for he had conceived a daring plan that was at least worth a shot. He switched the shattered bits of plastic to one hand, then made a detour on the way back to his seat. Passing by the Carousel slide projector on a side table, he paused long enough to reach out and surreptitiously slide the lens into his pocket. Busily involved in the execution of the next Walkman, Strickland did not notice Marty’s quick movement.

  Returning to his seat, Marty reached into the pencil pouch of his loose-leaf binder, withdrawing a rubber band and book of matches. He then reached into his pocket, unwrapped a stick of gum and began to chew. His chewing, however, was not that of a person seeking pleasure; rather, it resembled a chore that had to be accomplished as quickly as possible.

  A minute later, taking the gum from his mouth, he opened the matchbook cover and spread the soft sticky gum on the back side like a tiny pancake. Next he “loaded” the cover into the rubber band and waited. He had always been a deft shot with rubber band-launched objects but never had so much depended on his accuracy as the shot he planned now. Above him, perhaps a dozen feet away, was the smoke detector connected with the sprinkling system. It was small, hardly an inviting target, but Marty knew he had to try. If he was successful, phase one of his two-part plan would be accomplished. If he missed…well, at least he had made an effort. If Strickland saw him, he could probably expect to remain in detention until well past Easter vacation.

  The heck with it, he thought. I’ve gotta gamble.

  He waited patiently until Strickland put the screws to the tenth and final Walkman. Just as it shattered, Marty aimed at the valve, pulled the rubber band back as far as it would go, and let fly.

  Like a rocket, the matchbook raced up to the ceiling and hung there, the gum making a tenuous connection.

  A miracle, Marty thought.

  Phase Two was rather less dramatic but nevertheless contained a great potential for being caught. Withdrawing the Carousel projector lens from his pocket, Marty adjusted it so that the bright slanting rays of the afternoon sun struck it and were refracted onto the matchbook stuck to the ceiling. Glancing upward even as he pretended to study from the book on his desk, he was amazed at how well the plan had worked so far. A sharp pin prick of white was focused on the matchbook. If only the sun would hurry up and do its thing!

  The clock now read 3:52. He would be late for the audition but by only a few minutes. His hand was getting tired, holding the lens in an unmoving position, but he dared not rest even a second. Did he see a wisp of smoke? He squinted, decided it was his imagination.

  Then he saw something that definitely was not imaginary. Getting up, Mr. Strickland strode to the back of the room and began pulling down the blinds.

  “No!” Marty nearly shouted.

  He twisted his head almost completely around, noting that the three rear rows of the room were now in semidarkness as a result of Strickland’s action. As he watched, the next three rows fell beneath the dark cloud.

  But now there was definitely a wisp of smoke slinking downward from the matchbook.

  “Come on, come on,” Marty whispered. “Burn, you sucker, burn.”

  A couple boys near him had already discovered what was going on. They watched in awe and amusement as the smoke grew more violent, a half circle of red crawling up the edge of the matchbook cover toward the double row of matches.

  With a snap, Strickland released the next-to-last set of blinds.

  “Poof!”

  Just as the last strip of bright sunlight disappeared from the classroom, a mini-explosion of flame from the matchbook started a chain reaction. Smoke curling around the ceiling detector immediately triggered the sirens and sprinkler system. Panic, or something very close to it, followed.

  “Fire!” somebody yelled. “Let’s get outa here!”

  “Stop! Wait!” Mr. Strickland’s voice shouted above the din. “We must file out in an orderly fashion!”

  He raced toward the front of the classroom as fast as he could, arms raised above his head. But heavier shoulders and faster, more muscular bodies rushed past, sending him spinning sideways against the wall.

  “Wait!” he shouted again, just as a sprinkler valve went into action directly above his head, dousing him with cold water. The rest of his words were indistinguishable.

  Marty, more prepared for the confusion than anyone else, was halfway down the hall by that time. As soon as the alarm sounded and the rain began to fall, he leaped to his feet and grabbed the skateboard belonging to Weeze.

  “Let me bo
rrow this,” he shouted back over his shoulder at the bewildered student. “I’ll bring it back tomorrow.” Less than a minute later, he was skateboarding down the front steps of the high school, gliding in a wide arc onto the main drag of wide sidewalk bounding Town Square. Glancing nervously to his right, he passed the Hill Valley Bank’s time and temperature board just as it changed from 3:57 to 3:58. A man making a transaction at the Versateller leaped to avoid the oncoming figure, tripping himself and falling backwards in the process. Then it was Marty’s turn to gasp, a car bearing down on him so rapidly he had to pirouette like a ballerina to maintain his balance. For a half block after that, he raced out of control, his arms flailing and body tipping to 45-degree angles until he slowly managed to right himself.

  Just ahead, the YMCA building beckoned. Leaning forward to gain even more speed, Marty pivoted at the steps, grabbed the skateboard and ran into the building.

  His group, known as the Pinheads, was already set up. Nearby, Jennifer also waited, nervously checking her watch. As he raced onto the stage, she let out a noisy sigh of relief and Marty winked at her.

  A fat man, also glancing meaningfully at his watch, stared intently at Marty.

  “Are you ready?” he asked coldly.

  Marty nodded. His guitar, amp and microphone were already set up for him. Sitting quickly, Marty took a deep breath and tuned up in the shortest amount of time possible. Then, grasping the microphone, he looked toward the dance committee and spoke with a voice that rang with confidence. “All right,” he said. “We’re the Pinheads, and we’re gonna rock ‘n’ roll!”

  The band kicked into a hot number, Marty’s fingers dancing across the strings and frets in a complicated lead line. Keyboard, bass and drums followed, embellished his thematic figures, hit the rhythm harder, preparing for the transition into Marty’s first variation.

  “Fine,” a metallic voice called out. “That’s enough. Thank you.”

  Marty could hardly believe his ears. In fact, he continued to play even as the rest of the Pinhead sound dribbled off into confused silence.

  “Thank you,” the fat man repeated. “May we hear the next group, please?”

  Marty came down off the stage in a daze. Had he gone through an afternoon of hell for this?

  “What happened?” he asked Jennifer.

  “I don’t know,” she muttered. “You sounded great. Maybe they’re looking for something else. Something more like Lawrence Welk.”

  Ten minutes later, as they walked home, he was still in a state of shock. Jennifer put her hand on his ann. “Marty,” she said comfortingly. “One rejection isn’t the end of the world. You’re good and you’ll succeed one day.”

  “I don’t know,” he murmured. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for music.”

  “Sure you are,” she persisted. “You’re really good and so are the rest of the guys. The audition tape you made is really great.”

  She handed him the cassette he had lent her a few days before. “Promise me you’ll send it to the record company before you decide to quit.”

  “But what if they hate it?” Marty sighed. “What if they say, ‘Get outa here, kid, you got no future’? Why should I put myself through all that anxiety?”

  Jennifer didn’t answer.

  “Jeez,” Marty said finally. “I’m starting to sound like my old man now.”

  Jennifer looked at him quizzically.

  “He’s kind of a pushover,” Marty explained. “No guts. People are always using him.”

  “Well, they say all our emotional anxieties come directly from our parents,” she smiled. The words coming out of her mouth sounded a bit strange even to her. Where had she heard the phrase? Sociology class? People magazine? She wasn’t sure, but it sounded plausible.

  “In that case, you can kiss me off right now,” Marty muttered.

  “I’ll just kiss you instead,” she said, reaching up to peck his cheek.

  They walked hand-in-hand for a while. “Is your father really that bad?” Jennifer asked finally.

  Marty shrugged. “I think deep down inside he means well,” he said. “But the man just can’t get it together.”

  They had reached Town Square, and the presence of the big Toyota dealership, with its gleaming recessed windows and spotless showroom, made Jennifer think of happier things. “Well, at least your dad’s letting you borrow the car tomorrow night,” she smiled. “That’s a major step in the direction of getting it together.”

  Marty nodded.

  They stopped at the edge of the glass and looked inside at the salesmen circling potential customers like lions readying their attack on smaller beasts. “How come there are no used car saleswomen?” Marty asked. “I’ve never seen a woman selling cars, have you?”

  Jennifer shook her head. “Maybe women can’t lie as well as men,” she offered.

  Marty laughed, turned his gaze to a tricked-out four-by-four pickup truck in the showroom.

  “Hey, check out that four-by-four,” he said. “Wouldn’t it be great to take that up to the lake tomorrow night? We could put our sleeping bags in the back…make out under the stars.”

  “Mmmm,” Jennifer replied.

  “Someday, Jennifer, someday,” Marty said.

  Looking at her smooth profile and even white teeth was starting to make him feel better. Perhaps music wasn’t everything after all.

  “What about your mother?” Jennifer asked as they turned away from the window and continued walking. “Does she know you and I are—”

  “Are you kidding? She thinks I’m going camping with the guys.”

  “Would she mind if she knew the truth?”

  “Yeah,” Marty replied. “If she found out I was going camping with you, she’d freak.”

  “I’m that bad, huh?”

  “It’s not you. It’s a moral thing. She’d give me the standard lecture about how she never behaved that way when she was in high school. She must have been a real goody-two-shoes, I’ll bet.”

  “Most people then were, weren’t they? I mean, that was way back in the 1950s, before the pill or rock ‘n’ roll or a lot of things that were really good.”

  Marty nodded. “Yeah, I guess it wasn’t easy, growing up in those primitive days.”

  They were opposite the former Courthouse Building of Town Square, which had seen better days. The 1950s, in fact, had been the heyday of this part of town. Then people gathered at Town Square to socialize, do business, simply pass the time of day or evening. There had been a Texaco station here then, a soda shop, florist, the Essex movie house, a record store, a realtor’s office, women’s dress shop, Studebaker dealer, barber’s, an Ask Mr. Foster travel agency, stationery store, Western Auto appliance center and numerous other small businesses. Now nearly all were gone, victims of progress and lack of adequate parking. Many of the building facades were boarded up, covered with peeling notices and signs. One set of election posters read: RE-ELECT MAYOR “GOLDIE” WILSON. HONESTY, DECENCY, INTEGRITY. The picture beneath the inspiring words showed the face of a black man, about fifty years old with a gold front tooth. “This was where Mom used to hang out,” Marty said.

  “There used to be a soda shop here.”

  “I guess you couldn’t get in trouble there,” Jennifer smiled. “Anyway, maybe she’s just trying to keep you respectable.”

  “She’s not doing a very good job, is she?” Marty laughed, sliding his arm behind her back. “Terrible…”

  “Wonderful…”

  They were standing with their hips touching, about to kiss…

  “Save the clock tower!” a grating voice suddenly ordered, causing them to jerk apart.

  Simultaneously, a donation can was placed between the two teenagers. It rattled hollowly, as if there were only two or three lonely coins inside.

  “Save the clock tower!” the voice repeated.

  Jennifer and Marty turned to look at the person who had interrupted them. She was a middle-aged church-type woman with prematurely blue hair. Her
upper lip, Marty noted with just a touch of revulsion, was covered with nearly enough fine hair to provide an aspiring young man with a decent mustache. Under her arm were dozens of printed flyers.

  “Please make a donation to save the clock tower,” the woman said, rattling the can again.

  “Lady, can’t you see I’m busy here?” Marty asked. Ordinarily, he would have been pleasant to the interloper, but the events of the day had worn his nerves to a frazzle.

  The woman was not put off by his lack of interest, however. Stepping between the two youngsters, she addressed them with swiveling head.

  “Mayor Wilson is sponsoring an initiative to save or repair that clock,” she intoned, pointing to the stopped clock mounted high on the old courthouse tower. “We at the Hill Valley Preservation Society think it should be preserved exactly the way it is, as part of our history and heritage. Thirty years ago, lightning struck that clock tower and the clock hasn’t run since. We at the society feel it’s a landmark of scientific importance, attesting to the power of the Almighty.”

  Marty took a deep breath, preparatory to interrupting her spiel, but apparently that was it. They had heard the complete speech.

  “All right, lady,” Marty said, relieved that they didn’t have to listen to even more. “Here’s all I have at the moment. A quarter. Is that O.K.?”

  “We’re delighted with anything,” the woman smiled, revealing badly stained dentures. “A good cause can get by with nickels and dimes because it has the backing of the people. A bad cause, even if funded by millions from evil sources, is nevertheless bound to fail.”

  Marty nodded, started to leave with Jennifer.

  “Don’t forget to take a flyer,” the woman urged. “It tells the whole story of the clock tower.”

  Marty took the flyer from her hand.

  “And here’s something for your friend.” the woman continued, thrusting yet another flyer at him.