:-November 5, 1955-:
A scientific experiment is a success when it can be replicated. When a person can go back and see what you saw, do what you did, and have their heart skip the same way yours did when you first saw the results.
However, if there are any variables for which a scientist cannot account, it is when the experiment is sociological. To put an individual into a second situation identical to the first does not dictate identical responses. This is particularly true if the individual put into the situation is not precisely the same person he was the first time the experiment was conducted; Marty McFly was transported to the year 1955 twice. Twice he looked at the date on a newspaper; twice he walked into Lou's Diner; twice he ripped out a page in a phone book; and twice he was asked to order something.
Once he accepted, awkwardly sitting down by the man who would become his father.
But this time he decided action was the most reasonable way to find the Doc. He rubbed the back of his neck and said, "Uh, no thanks. I gotta get going. I gotta be somewhere." and walked out the door.
:-:-:
"All right, McFly. You gotta focus. You can't just sit around here all day. What is it Dad said? 'Inaction is a course of action'. Right. So all you gotta do is find someone to tell you where 1640 Riverside Drive is. No sweat, right? Piece of cake."
This probably would have been true, were he not a strangely dressed, nervous young man who was talking to himself. Between this and a misdirection that led him to the west side of town, it was settling into darkness by the time he found himself knocking on Doc's door.
The Doc burst from the doorway, head adorned with a lighted, multi-legged contraption. What happened after this was almost unnaturally similar to what had happened (or, rather, was at that moment happening), in a November 5, 1955 that was already much different from their own.
"Marty, have you interacted with anybody else today, besides me?"
"Well, yeah—I mean, I kinda I talked to the guy in the diner, when I got your address, about where you lived."
After Marty reenacted the conversation, they both agreed it was an entirely insignificant indiscretion.
:-November 6, 1955-:
"Marty, I'm extremely concerned about the ignition."
"Nothing we can do about that, Doc. It's the car. They're shit in DeLoreans."
"Why would I use such an unreliable vehicle when it comes to time travel?"
"Beats me. You said something about the stainless steel and flux dispersal."
"Nevertheless... Please, would you try to start it for me?"
"Sure." Marty slid halfway into the car, then stopped. "What's with the stop watch?"
"Nothing, nothing."
Marty shrugged, sliding all the way behind the wheel. He started the car.
"Good," Doc said. "We'll try again, later."
Later, much later, the Doc would explain he'd had the intention to average the amount of time it took to start the car and subtract it from the time he set on the alarm clock. It turned out that the DeLorean started more often than it stalled, and as such it was illogical to favor the minority by altering the time; it was pure luck that the DeLorean reached the clock tower at the precise second it was supposed to.
:-November 7, 1955-:
"For the sake of stabilizing future events, I must ask how it is that we established a rapport."
Marty grinned at the attempt to mask curiosity in science. Being so alive, so similar, to the Doc he always knew, it was hard to imagine that, in what amounted to mere days, the Doc would be dead. Marty swallowed heavily. He sidled closer, his fingers touching Doc's sleeve. "My mom made me work for you because you're Calvin Klein's uncle."
The Doc leaned out, past the DeLorean to look at Marty. "Who?"
"Calvin Klein?" He explained what he could, "Oh, um, he was staying at your house? He's how my folks met, so she felt she, y'know, owed you."
"I don't know any 'Calvin Klein'--certainly not a nephew..."
"Well, I don't know, Doc."
The Doc hummed to himself, his entire face seeming to furrow.
:-:-:
It was amazing just how little of their time was spent actually working on the DeLorean. Rather, it was fascinating how quickly the time went while they were working. Their conversation started benignly, between twists of a wrench and pants of exertion. The Doc wanted to know about his academia, then quietly muttered to himself about 'common terminology' before proudly asking about school.
"Oh, uh, I'm not going. I mean, I dropped out. To work on my music."
"Marty! A formal education is extremely valuable, especially when the mind is young; impressionable; as yours is!"
"I know, Doc. You said the same thing last year."
A bout of uncomfortable silence led to the topic of families; the secondary conversational comfort zone of strangers, after weather (Then perhaps this wasn't applicable, as they weren't strangers and the weather was of the utmost importance.). As they worked, Marty rattled on about his own, unable to find it in himself to just stop. Doc was fascinated by the entire account, popping in frequently with disbelieving comments--not to prove he was listening, as seemed the way with most people, but to have honest interests addressed. Even the idea of a color television astounded the Doc (he relayed the idea of the color converter with contempt). It was the most jointly fascinating discussion either had ever had as it veered from family life to life itself. Somewhere in the middle, Doc took to recording the conversation. It had seemed perfectly serious at the time, extremely educational, but when the Doc played the tape back later, it sounded surprisingly thick with muted laughs and wide smiles.
:-November 8, 1955-:
"Here, Doc, look: these are my folks." Marty pulled a picture of his parents from his wallet, holding it out for the Doc to see. "My old man's getting a novel published. I told you, right? Well-- He let me read some of it; it's pretty good." Glancing at the picture himself, he said, "Must be an old picture; I don't remember him ever wearing glasses." He continued, "Look, no offense, but, Doc... Doc—I mean, since I'm stuck here, it's gonna get real boring. Look at this, I'm showing you pictures of my parents!"
"Well, never mind, that, Marty. We have plenty to do by Saturday--" The Doc squinted at the photo. "Are you positive your pop never wore glasses?"
"No, never. But, I mean, it's probably an old picture. I never look at it. Besides, I don't--" Marty trailed off awkwardly, but, prompted by the Doc's gaze, concluded self-consciously, "see him that much. What, with his writing and the band and everything. He could wear glasses, sometimes. So, uh, hey. What is it we got planned for today?"
The Doc discreetly pocketed the photo. "Unfortunately, I don't have the amount of cable necessary for such a project. I'm going out to buy supplies. I'll be back shortly. Remember: you must not leave this house."
Marty remembered. He waited, like a puppy, for the Doc to return; the second he did, Marty burst with information that the man had most probably heard before.
:-November 9, 1955-:
The DeLorean was completed, and the outside world was as prepared for time travel as it would ever be. The conversion, such as it was, wasn't a difficult one by itself. Still, even in the fifties there were rumors. It was just that, then, neighbors peered through blinds rather than come rooting through trash to piece things together. It was best in any time to do what they could in the dead of night, especially considering so much of their project was being put together outside; measurements of wires, cables, road, and DeLoreans were all best done under the cloak of darkness, as their bodies pressed together and they whispered to each other, voices traveling straight to the other's ears.
"I hate to admit this, Marty--particularly as the conclusion of this endeavor renders this problem irrelevant!--however, thirty years is quite a long time for this," he gestured broadly to and around Marty and the DeLorean, "to come to…" He paused, hand to forehead, looking for the most appropriate word. With a sigh that seemed to indicate he was settling, he finally said, "fruition."
Marty gravitated naturally towards the Doc. He gripped Doc's elbow. "But this isn't the only thing you do, Doc. This isn't even the best. This, this is nothing, Doc. Just wait. Someday you're gonna make something great."
The Doc smiled honest thankfulness, like that one compliment would tide him over until the completion of the time machine. Marty's stomach fluttered; this seemed so visible to him that he immediately blurted out, "So, uh, you think this'll work?" as a distraction.
"I'm positive."
:-November 10, 1955-:
Marty awakened with the realization that his father was a nobody. He was not a world-renowned author, not someone about to make their big break, not even someone who cut his submissions out of magazines and stuck them onto the fridge. His mother didn't play tennis the last Saturday of every month, instead investing her time in drinking. He couldn't account for Linda or Dave. They were simply empty spaces. They didn't work at a boutique or an office, but they didn't do anything else, either.
But he could account for himself.
And as he thought about himself and his life, a sudden cold went from throat to toes; his head remained sickly hot in contrast.
He always had tapes in his pockets for the same reason people carried gum or cigarettes. It was a simple addiction that was both comforting and distracting just to have pressed against him. He fished through his pockets from the day before. 'Van Halen'; 'Hendrix'; then, 'Pinheads'. His fingers were cold, clammy, and shaking as he slid the tape into his Walkman.
He listened to his guitar playing, dragging it forward from the rest of the band's music.
'Great,' he thought. 'It's fine.' It wasn't Pete Townshend or Mick Taylor, but it was good. It was radio good. Touring good. He sank into the nearest chair, his fingers moving against the armrest, mentally playing along.
The change happened rapidly, deteriorating from the sound of the next great rock star to an amateur strumming a painfully wailing guitar. The sound ripped fiercely into his eardrums; Marty pulled the headphones from his ears, whipping them down onto his legs. The guilt that pooled in his stomach for making the band put up with… that was immediate and sickening. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.
"Marty?"
Marty spun in his chair. "Doc." He stood immediately, his Walkman clattering to the ground. It was a strange, awkward sense of relief that flooded him: There stood Doc, stable in the midst of the clutter of the house and the rubble of Marty's life. "Doc," he repeated earnestly. When he stepped forward, his arms were already half-spread, expectant of an embrace. The Doc accepted as smoothly as he could.
The Doc's coat was floury beneath Marty's fingertips. He smelled exactly like the house, exactly like a library. Marty stood there, touching, smelling, thinking, and trying desperately not to think. He wondered where Dave and Linda fit in to his life--
He wondered where the Doc fit in.
He'd known before. He'd known where everything had fit into place before. Everyone had a job. Everyone was focused, had goals set and were meeting them. Hadn't they? What the hell was going on?
--Marty loosened his grip. "Sorry, Doc. I'll get outta your hair."
The Doc made a gentle affirmation.
Marty left the room with bowed head and sheepish smile. Jesus, he'd never been so unsure of himself, either, had he? He tried to goad himself with the word 'chicken', but even this evoked no response--that was what he was.
Doc lifted the discarded Walkman, pressing a headphone against an ear, letting the rest of the song play through. The music was not like anything he'd grown up on, nor was it something he'd often listen to, himself. But the music was steady, strong, and the playing, he decided, was perfectly competent.
The Doc looked in the direction Marty had gone. With deft fingers, he pulled the picture from his lab coat's pocket. George McFly's hair was greasily slicked back; Lorraine's face was heavy from age and drink. Doc watched the picture for a long, long while as the people inside it seemed to slowly be pulling away from each other. The differences of the people and even the background as he had originally seen it and as he was seeing it then became more and more apparent as the night drug on. George and Lorraine continued to smile humorlessly up at the Doc.
Doc shook Marty by the shoulders just before he had once again drifted off to sleep.
"Are you absolutely certain you didn't see anybody, do anything, or talk to anybody before you came here?"
"Positive, Doc. 'Cept to ask for directions."
"It's impossible that that could have such an impact on future events."
"Future events?"
"Marty, your sister—she works at a clothes store, correct?"
"College, Doc."
"And your brother?"
"Burger King." Marty reached up, grabbing the Doc's hands with his own as though to pull the Doc away. He instead insistently held Doc in firmly place. "There's someone else you oughta ask about."
"Marty, you know that learning about my own future could be disastrous.."
"I know." Marty's eyes were heavy-lidded, slow to awaken. "But you oughta ask, anyway.
'Cause I know that, too, Doc, I know what happens."
The Doc stayed silent, permissive. Maybe Doc would allow it, this time. But then again, who was he to tell someone where, when, how they're going to die? Who's he to make someone count down every day for thirty years? It couldn't be he was supposed to let it happen--
"Shit, Doc," Marty continued. He rubbed his fingertips against the back of Doc's hands.
They were still firm, still young, warm with life in 1955. He looked into the Doc's eyes and saw life there, too; it made his own heart beat faster and heavier. Marty's mouth went dry. He leaned toward the Doc, close enough to feel the Doc's breath against his face.
He dropped his hands and looked away--
The Doc was supposed to know, Marty decided. But when they were at a better place, in a better time.
When the Doc left the room, Marty could still feel the hands pressed against his shoulders.
:-November 11, 1955-:
He wrote the first draft of the letter. The second. The third. There was no way to beat around the bush. Carefully, so that it couldn't be misread, he wrote:
Dear Dr. Brown,
On the night that I go back in time at 1:30 A.M., you will be shot by terrorists.
Please take whatever precautions are necessary to prevent this terrible disaster.
Your Friend,
Marty
He scrawled his instructions across the envelope, paused, then slipped the letter inside.
:-November 12, 1955-:
The streets were wide and empty. His hand sweat against the envelope as he transferred it from his pocket to the Doc's. DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 1985. The wind blew, rattling the tree leaves against each other; natural wind chimes. Marty licked his dry lips. His fingers curled. He looked at the Doc; looked down at his hand, noticed a ink stain in the flesh between thumb and finger; looked back up at the Doc. He wondered if the time was right, if he could....He didn't. He instead pulled the doctor into a hug so tight it hurt them both.
He wondered what would happen, if he stayed.
The Doc had explained this--everything would be normal, up until the second he went back in time, that he'd still have the seventeen years of living with his family, in his memory, and in the future, he'd have 1968 to 1985. He let the Doc go. He missed them now, after a week. A lifetime without his family would kill him.
"I'll--see you," Marty said; the Doc registered no reaction; his words were lost in the wind.
"Hurry!" Doc yelled, arms waving.
Marty stepped into the DeLorean.
One short drive later and he was home.
:-October 26, 1985-:
He drove the DeLorean to the Doc's house first, with Doc in 'DR. E BROWN ENTERPRISES 24 HR. SCIENTIFIC SERVICES' van behind him. He wondered if it was a legitimate business; he'd never seen the Doc around town helping people, which had as much to do with Doc's reclusive nature as it did the town's general dubbing of 'nutcase'. Then again, Doc had to get money somewhere and it wasn't like just anyone could get an in with Libyan terrorists, was it? Or maybe they could. Libya was small, wasn't it? Maybe they couldn't afford to be exclusive or have those high-end NASA-type scientists in on a bomb deal. Christ, he had to just forget about it. And maybe brush up on his geography.
"Doc," he said before the Doc had a chance to finish parking next to him, "You mind if I sleep here? I'm bushed."
:-:-:
Marty woke to the sound of banging metal, the echoing clatter of tools falling to cement. The clang, clang, bang was both jarring and surprisingly rhythmic. He got up slowly, trying to work the knot out of his back. It hadn't been comfortable, but it was certainly the most restful sleep he'd had in thirty years. There was something about being home, where and when you were meant to be, that put your mind at ease. He padded, barefooted, across the garage toward the sound.
His mouth formed the words, "Christ, Doc!" before his eyes had accepted the sight.
"Oh! Marty! I forgot all about your staying--"
"--What the hell're you doing? You're taking it apart!" Though he wouldn't throw himself in front of the car in protest, he did touch the DeLorean's hood fondly.
"Yes! It's making a magnificent mess, isn't it?"
He took his hands from the body to face the Doc, "But—Christ, Doc! Why?"
"Make yourself something to eat," Even this, Marty thought, Doc said too enthusiastically, given it was in the wake of destroying his life's greatest accomplishment.
"I'll demonstrate while you're having breakfast."
"Demonstrate what?"
"I'll be right there!" The Doc called instead as he rushed about the garage, "I've just got to wash up first!"
:-:-:
Marty's breakfast consisted of a sandwich and a warm can of Pepsi Free, both of which tasted stale. He sat backwards in a chair, leg ticking mechanically. Mouth full, he asked,
"What was it you wanted to show me?"
Doc swept several years' worth of clutter from the counter onto the ground. "Here!" he shouted triumphantly, slamming something down in the newly-emptied space.
"It's, well, it's an apple."
"Correct!"
"Doc…"
"Now, assume that this apple is time; space; history! as we know it."
"Sure, Doc."
The Doc lifted a kitchen knife dramatically. "And assume that this knife is the time machine." With that, he plunged the knife down. Marty winced as the apple was swiftly cut into two halves. "You made me realize something, Marty."
Marty eyed the Doc cautiously. "What's that?"
"Even without taking a metaphoric bite and thus—intentionally or not—altering the shape and appearance of history, the act of cutting through time in and of itself may lead to repercussions we cannot fully comprehend."
"Yeah, but, Doc, what about what you were saying? About how useful time travel could be? And... what changes? We didn't change anything, I mean, besides me being in 1955 a week, but no one knows about that, right?"
"You mean you're fully unaware of what happened?"
"Happened? Doc, what happened?"
"Marty, I'm sorry, but if you're not aware, then it's probably better for you not to know."
This ought to have been infuriating, but it was then that Marty remembered that without the alterations, Doc would have been dead. He smiled gratefully. "Okay, then, Doc, but what about all the good things you talked about?"
"Certainly there are benefits, Marty. However, these are quantifiable benefits against unquantifiable detriments. Quite simply, it's not worth the risk."
Marty watched the Doc's wild gesticulations fondly. It was astounding, watching a dead man move so fluidly about the room.
It was then, Marty realized. It was that time, and that place. Where and when they were both so alive. Maybe even more alive for having destroyed the thing that had kept them that way.
"Doc," Marty said. He pressed his palm against the back of the Doc's hand. He stood with deliberate slowness, trying to calm his heart by calming everything else. "I gotta tell you something."
:-End-: