Back To The Future

“Must be a long movie,” he said to himself.

Einstein, the large dog curled on the passenger seat, hopped up as soon as the van stopped and poked his wet nose against the window.

“No, Einstein,” Doc Brown murmured. “Not yet. We have a few minutes, so make yourself comfortable again.” Einstein yawned, curled his tongue back into his mouth and tried to scratch beneath the collar he was wearing. The battery-operated digital clock attached to it undulated in the moonlight, changed from 00:07 to 00:08, then came to rest as the dog either satisfied its itch or gave up trying to scratch where he couldn’t reach.

A few minutes later, several dozen people emerged at once from the mall’s interior and moved to their cars. A series of starting engines, blinking lights and squealing rubber enlivened the vast treeless plain for a few minutes. Then all was silence again. The faint smell of gasoline fumes hung in the thick air as the tiny specks of light disappeared into the early morning darkness. In comparative solitude once again, Brown felt better. People made him feel vaguely insecure.

He was dreamily anticipating public reaction to his coming experiment when he suddenly realized he had forgotten one of the most important tools to be used.

“Damn,” he muttered.

Fortunately, it was 1985 rather than the old days, when he would have been forced to find a public telephone booth somewhere in the mall. Reaching under the dashboard, he pulled out his telephone and began to dial.

Marty was not asleep, partly because he had every intention of meeting Doc Brown, and partly because his mind was filled with dark unsettling thoughts. As far as Jennifer was concerned, of course, the damage had been done. He had forgotten to call her. Looking at his watch, he decided it was too late to give her a buzz, especially since he didn’t know if she was still at her grandmother’s or had gone home. Possibly this was a rationalization for his being too lazy. In any event, he dropped his wrist down across his chest and closed his eyes once again.

In the light from the single lamp, it was possible to see that the room’s occupant was heavily into rock music, cars and sound reproduction. Covering the walls were posters of rock stars and new cars, particularly Toyota four-by-fours. A tape recorder, portable home synthesizer and sizable stack of lead sheets were packed in one corner while a bass guitar and amp sprawled in another.

Although he was weary from all the running around, Marty couldn’t sleep. He continued to think of the shoddy treatment he had gotten at the hands of the section committee and began to wonder if he would ever get anywhere in the recording business. After twenty minutes, he got up and walked to the desk near his bed. He picked up the submissions form with R & G RECORDS on the letterhead, read it over, and put it in the accompanying envelope along with his demo cassette.

It’s worth a try, he thought. Just send it.

And then another darker side of him hesitated. Send it for what? Another rejection? Spend postage just so he could live with hope for another few weeks before his bubble burst once more?

Shrugging, he dropped the cassette and letter into the waste basket and fell back into bed. His mind, occupied with depressing thoughts, eventually released him into a deep sleep that ended shortly after midnight.

Beep. Beep-beep.

Marty shook his head and reached for the cordless telephone next to his bed. “Hello.”

“You didn’t fall asleep, did you?” Doc Brown asked on the other end.

“Uh, no. Course not.”

“You sound like you just woke up.”

“I was thinking,” Marty said. “What’s up? I don’t have to leave for a while yet.”

“Uh-huh,” Brown replied. “I was just wondering. I forgot my video camera. Could you stop by my place and pick it up on your way to the mall?”

“No problem, Doc. Key still in the same place?”

“That’s right. Under the potted plant.”

“That’s not a very good place,” Marty said. “First spot a burglar would look.”

“I haven’t been robbed yet. Anyway, the place looks so junky. Nobody’d ever suspect there’s a billion dollars’ worth of research in there.”

“O.K., Doc. I’ll see you in a half hour or so.”

“Right.”

Marty hung up, put his shoes back on, grabbed his jacket, the skateboard and his new Walkman, which he carried with him wherever he went. Then, retracing his steps to the bed, he shoved some extra pillows under the covers to make it seem as if a body were lying there, sound asleep. Even as he did it, he wondered why he bothered. This wasn’t, after all, a prison. The guards didn’t patrol every hour making a head count. But somehow it just seemed the thing to do when you were heading out of the house late at night.

Whistling softly, he closed the door quietly behind him and tiptoed down the stairs.

Letting himself out the front door, Marty walked a half block before putting down the skateboard and using it. He had discovered once, to his chagrin, how much noise they could make on a quiet evening. On that occasion, about two years ago, he had been sneaking out to meet the guys when his mother heard the sound and came after him in the car.

There was no such repetition tonight. Safely out of earshot, he whirred quickly along the back streets and around corners until he approached the dilapidated garage that was Doc Brown’s place.