“When’s it gonna happen?”
Marty sighed. He had gotten himself in deep again with his knowledge of the future. “Do you really want to know?” he countered.
“Of course, man. Tell me. Why shouldn’t I want to know when it’s gonna happen?”
“Because it’s a ways off. You might not want to wait that long.”
“No, it’s all right. Something like that’s worth waitin’ for. Besides, I’ll know that nothing will happen to me between now and then, right?”
Marty nodded. “You’ll be elected during the late ’70s,” he said.
“My seventies or the 1970s?” Goldie smiled.
“The 1970s.”
“Heck, that’s not too long to wait. My mother worked forty years and got nothing out of it. So I guess I can work another twenty or twenty-five for a payoff like that…”
As Goldie talked, the nervousness in George McFly began to grow nearly unbearable. It wasn’t the situation or anything that Goldie said. Rather, it was this young man who professed to know everything. He seemed almost from another world, so assured, calm, different from all the other teenagers George knew. And he dressed strangely, wore his hair in an unusual way. George wasn’t a religious person but he was superstitious. The occult, the unknown bothered him more than the concrete promises and strictures of formalized religion. Suppose this man could see the future? Others may have regarded that as a blessing, a way of becoming rich and avoiding life’s pitfalls. Not so George McFly. He didn’t want to know what lay ahead, for him or anyone else. Better to remain in the dark than be forced to think about some unavoidable tragedy or struggle. If this young man somehow knew everything past and future, George wanted to get away from him as soon as possible.
Having arrived at that decision, he took advantage of the conversation between Goldie and Marty to edge his way toward the door. A few seconds later, he slipped around the corner and walked briskly for his bike.
Meanwhile, the counterman, who had listened to Goldie’s speech with increasing frustration, finally managed to break in. “Mayor,” he said. “Ha! A colored mayor of this town. That’ll be the day!”
“You wait and see,” Goldie returned. “Like this man here says, someday I’m gonna be mayor.”
“I ain’t impressed by this man here,” the counterman retorted. “And as for you, just keep sweeping.”
Goldie slid his hands up on the broom handle but didn’t set to work immediately. “Mayor Goldie Wilson,” he said softly. “I like the sound of that.”
Marty smiled, rather pleased with himself for “inspiring” Goldie Wilson, or at least giving him hope. A moment later, the smile disappeared as he realized that George McFly was no longer in the store.
“Hey—” he called, catching a glance of George’s back as he started to cycle away.
He raced out of the store, his arms waving. “George!” he called after the departing figure. “Hey, George! I want to talk to you!”
Either oblivious, out of earshot, or not wishing to prolong their conversation, George McFly moved ahead without so much as a glance over his shoulder. Marty started to run after him, then suddenly remembered that his father had grown up on Sycamore Street, near 2nd. He had driven past it with the family once and pointed it out. Sure that he could locate the house now, Marty slowed to a fast walk.
He wasn’t certain exactly where he wanted his relationship with the young George McFly to go. The man, despite his failings, did survive the next thirty years. That was something. Nevertheless, Marty felt a compulsion to have at least one heart-to-heart talk with him. Perhaps, if nothing else, he could say something that would free George McFly of Biff Tannen’s bullyi
ng for the next three decades.
“Wouldn’t that be a wonderful present?” Marty said aloud as he walked. Playing it back, he was somewhat surprised that he had such kind feelings toward his father-to-be. Could it be because they had a certain kinship now? He had never thought of his father as a young man before. Yet here he was, the same age as Marty. It would be fun, of course, to see his father’s reaction when he told him who he was, but that was impossible. It was also likely to drive George crazy, so Marty dispensed with the notion.
His sense direction took him to Sycamore Street, which was decorated with solid homes built during the 1920s and ’30s. White picket fences were everywhere, framing the neat lawns into meticulously edged walkways leading to the doors. It was a much nicer neighborhood than Marty remembered, having grown seedy by the early 1970s.
George’s bike was leaning against a tree overhanging Sycamore Street but George himself was nowhere to be seen. Marty stood still a moment, debating whether or not to go into the house. In all likelihood, his grandmother would be there, no doubt looking younger than he had ever seen her. Marty wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with that. Granny had been very close to him, and he felt this closeness would betray him. Somehow, even though Marty had not yet been born, he felt she would sense who he was and be terribly frightened by it.
His inner debate lasted only a minute. Looking upward through the limbs of the tree, Marty caught sight of George. He was nearly twenty feet up, perched precariously on a thick branch that jutted far over the street.
“I can’t believe it,” Marty breathed. “That’s the most courageous thing I’ve ever seen him do.”
He soon found out why George had taken such a risk. In his hands was a pair of binoculars, which the young man had trained on a second-story window of the house across the street. The profile of a woman’s head and shoulders could be seen at street level. From the vantage point of twenty feet up, Marty could imagine what was visible.
“I’ll be damned,” he muttered, smiling. “Dad’s a Peeping Tom.”
Two things happened then in rapid succession. George, trying to gain an ever better vantage point, suddenly lost his balance. He slid sideways around the thick branch, grasped desperately for it, missed, then plunged downward toward the street. As he fell, his body struck several smaller branches, which served to lessen his rate of descent and perhaps spare him broken bones. Landing on his hip and receiving a minor blow to the head, he lay limp and dazed in the center of the road.
At that very moment, a car moving quickly around the corner headed directly at the young man’s body.