“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—
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.