Back To The Future

“Look at this twenty-dollar bill,” he said. “Series 1981…And here’s a picture of me, my sister, and my brother…”

“So?”

“So look at the girl’s sweatshirt. Class of ’84, it says, right?”

Doc Brown nodded, then shrugged. “Pretty mediocre photographic fakery,” he said. “It looks like they cut off your brother’s head.”

Growing increasingly irritated, Marty thrust the picture back in his wallet without bothering to look at it. If Doc Brown didn’t believe his story, who would? It was both ironic and annoying that the man behind his dilemma would not believe his own success.

“Please, Doc,” Marty said passionately. “You’ve gotta believe me! I’m telling the truth.”

Doc regarded him through narrowed eyes. “All right, future boy,” he smiled. “Let me give you a little test. Who’s going to win the 1956 World Series?”

Unfortunately, Marty had no encyclopedic knowledge of sports events, although he was as interested as most young men his age. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “That was almost thirty years ago.”

“No, it’s one year in the future,” Doc Brown said quickly before realizing they were approaching the date from different perspectives. “All right,” he continued. “I’m a Brooklyn fan. How many pennants and World Series do they win during the 1960s and ’70s?”

“I don’t think they win any,” Marty replied. “Brooklyn’s not even in the league.”

Doc Brown laughed derisively. “No Bums?” he said, shaking his head. “No Brooklyn? I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s crazy. Who wins the pennants then?”

“The Miracle Mets won an exciting World Series in 1969,” Marty said. “But I’m a San Diego Padre fan. I like the Chargers, too.”

“Mets?” Doc repeated. “Who are the Miracle Mets? And San Diego? Are you kidding me?”

“No. Teams get changed around a lot.”

“Yeah, but not that much,” Doc muttered. “I haven’t recognized a team you mentioned. Who are the big teams in football?”

“The L.A. Raiders…Miami Dolphins…Dallas Cowboys…San Francisco 49ers.”

“Finally,” Doc Brown said. “One team I recognize. This is incredible. How about this: Who’s gonna be President of the United States in 1985?”

“Ronald Reagan.”

“Ronald Reagan the actor?” Doc Brown asked, shaking his head.

Marty nodded somewhat ruefully. He wished Doc Brown had asked another question.

“Why, that’s the most insane thing I’ve ever heard,” Doc muttered. “Surely you could have made up a better answer than that.”

Picking up his Brainwave Analyzer, Brown started toward his garage. The joke was over as far as he was concerned. He had no idea what it had accomplished, but if someone had gotten a laugh at his expense, they were welcome to it. Marty followed him.

“Please leave me alone,” Doc Brown said over his shoulder as he moved out of the room.

Marty, thinking furiously for the thing he could say that would convince the man, suddenly remembered what day it was: Saturday, November 5, 1955. Hadn’t that been the day Doc had slipped off the toilet and—?

“Sure,” Marty exclaimed. “He’s even got the bruise to prove it.”

Racing after Doc Brown, he began to speak in a rapid-fire patter. “Doctor Brown, listen to me!” he said. “That bruise on your head—I know how you got it! It happened this morning! You were hanging a clock and fell off your toilet and hit your head on the sink…”

Doc Brown whirled to look at him.

“What have you been doing—spying on me?” he demanded. “Haven’t I even got privacy in the bathroom? When I sit down now, do I have to worry about some idiot with binoculars looking at me!”