Disclaimer: Based off the first draft by Robert Zemeckis and Bob Gale. This is not an actual scene from the script. Copyright anyways 1981.
Poverty had many definitions. It could define your surroundings. It could define your bank account. It could define your physical appearance. Whatever it meant, all those definitions were branches to one big statement.
Failure.
The third level of the Orpheum Theater now served as a home. Once this theater had been booming with Hollywood's creations. It was sad to think that that had only been thirty years ago. Thirty years later and a lab replaced the storage room. Borrowed tables served better as worktables. Worktables cluttered with chemicals, vials, and test tubes. All cracked, all old. Nothing was new here. Nothing was bright here.
Other worktables housed inventions. Creations of Professor Brown. His miracles and his failures. Most of them were failures.
Failure.
Professor Brown sat in the armchair. He had rescued it from the creditors. The memory of that day in 1962 still burned. He had just stood there. Stood there and watched the creditors, the blood-sucking Neanderthals, waltz in and take everything they laid their eyes on. They took and took and took and he just stood there. Not a word escaped his mouth until one of the blood-sucking Neanderthals asked for some coffee. To which, he replied with a "No."
The armchair wasn't even worth the smuggle. The rip had grown twice in size and the professor was beginning to suspect fleas. He stood up when he felt a twitch on his leg. Dust from the floor shifted under his feet. It also caked all the inventions.
Failure.
Professor Brown mused about his lab. More bad outweighed the good. What was good? What were the good things about this goddamn place?
Seclusion for one. The professor decided to list them:
1. Seclusion
2. No rent
3. Free power and utilities
4. Optimum space
5. Marty
Professor Brown's lips twitched into a somewhat smile. That kid sure was something. He didn't have much to compare Marty to, having no children of his own, but it didn't take a brain like his to see Marty was something. The kid was seventeen but never talked back. Once in awhile, he added a little snark of wit. The professor had noticed that these were aimed at his back whenever a school exam was upcoming. Nevertheless, the kid was helpful. At fourteen, he showed up here. At sixteen, he came up with a way for both of them to get a profit. Now, at seventeen, the kid had made him enough to keep living.
The question was, was he wasting that money?
His finger traced the physical outline of a past creation. It was supposed to be a the second stage of a prototype. A portable electronic shoe cleaner. One that you could just put in your pocket or briefcase. A gentleman would just take it out, activate the brush, and a once muddy shoe would be spotless. It would work on all types of material, even suede. He was still slimming it down.
He moved past that worktable and toward the window. There were several here, more than there should be for a storage room. Professor Brown didn't care. He rarely looked out the windows because of what he saw. Monroe Avenue, a glorius place of commerse was decaying out of existence. Each building looked like a crooked tombstone. Boards and Out of Business signs were plastered all over. The professor spotted a bum walking the inebriated stroll. He stared at the bum. Then turned to the mirror that was in his living quarters.
The only word that he would use to describe his reflection was old. He took another glance at the bum. From this height, he could not see the specific facial attributions but the rumpled clothes and all around tiredness… If he had vodka slopped all over himself, they could be twins.
Failure.
"Pro!"
A huge failure.
"Pro! Let me in, man!"
Professor Brown thought nothing as he walked over to the door. He unlocked it and let the kid inside.
