Chapter Three
Tuesday
October 29, 1985
12:40 AM
After Marty drove Jennifer home around nine ("Bye Mrs. McFly! Bye Mr. McFly!" she had said—such a contrast), he retired alone to his room and tried to work on his homework.
Tap, tap, tap.
Marty awoke with a start. He looked at his clock. 12:41. He wasn't even aware that he had gone to sleep.
Tap, tap, tap.
The noise was coming from the living room. A little apprehensive, Marty slowly tiptoed out of his room.
His father was seated in the large chair in the far corner, an electric typewriter on his lap, a pile of papers scattered around him, and an old, leather-bound notebook of some kind to his right.
George pulled the current piece of paper out of the typewriter and stared at it. Then, with an angry little grunt, he crumpled it into a ball and threw it in Marty's direction.
Marty smiled. The sight was a familiar one, a comforting one. Yet at the same time, it was something he had never seen before.
He watched as his father put a new piece of paper into the typewriter and began typing again. Marty wasn't sure what he should do. He felt the urge to tell his father about what happened—he had always and yet had never talked about heavy things with him.
He found himself clearing his throat before he even had a chance to think about what he was doing.
"Oh, hi son," George said. "Can't sleep, huh?"
"Uh, no," Marty said, "Not really."
"I know the feeling," George said. He set the typewriter on the floor. "You want to sit down?"
"Uh, sure," Marty said.
George gathered some papers off the couch and put them in a pile, leaving Marty room to sit. He sat down.
"You've seemed a little off ever since you got back from the lake," George said. He definitely sounded concerned.
"It was just an unusual weekend," Marty said.
George put his hand on Marty's shoulder.
"Marty," he said, "You know I've always been there for you. You can tell me anything."
For Marty, that statement seemed simultaneously true and false.
"I'm not sure I can tell you this one, Dad," he said. He immediately felt nervous, as if he shouldn't have said that.
George leaned back in his chair and considered for a moment, touching his finger to his chin. Finally, he asked, "Did something happen at the lake?"
"What?" Marty said, nearly shouting. "No. God, no!"
"Hmm," George replied. "Then I guess there's only one other possibility." He thought for a moment, then reached over and grabbed the leather-bound notebook.
"You said you had an unusual weekend," George said. He began thumbing through the notebook. "I had an unusual weekend, thirty years ago. The week your mother and I got together, in fact. You know the story right?"
"The basics," Marty said. He tried to catch a glimpse of what was in the notebook. "What's that?"
"My journal," George said. "I've kept a journal every day since my fourteenth birthday, more or less. Including Tuesday, November 8, 1955. Have your mother and I ever told you about Calvin Klein?"
Marty did his best to sound confused. "Calvin Klein? The fashion designer?"
"Different Calvin Klein," George said, not looking up from the notebook. He stared at it intently, as if he couldn't believe what he was reading. "Calvin Martin Klein. He told Lorraine he was a relative of Doctor Brown's, actually. He saved my life on the fifth, and then spent the rest of the week telling me I absolutely had to ask Lorraine out to the dance. We even came up with a plan. Then Biff intervened, and after that night I never saw him again."
Marty nodded slowly, as if he hadn't heard this story before. But something bothered him.
"Speaking of Biff," he said. "Why do you keep him around?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, he tried to rape Mom!" Marty said. "I wouldn't want a guy like that anywhere near me!"
"What would make you say that? We never told you that."
Oh shit! Marty could feel that he was breaking out in a sweat. "Oh. I, uh, just figured it out. Based on what you guys have told me."
"Are you sure that's it, Marty?"
Marty tried not to panic, and did his best to look indignant. "What else would it be, Dad?"
"Something that sounds insane," George said. He gestured at his notebook. "If I wasn't reading it out of here, I wouldn't believe it myself. You know where the story behind Match came from, right?"
"Uh," Marty began. "A Match Made In Space?" He tried to retrieve the answer from his dueling memories. Finally, he came up with the answer. "You had a dream about an alien coming to visit you when you were thinking of asking her out."
"Not exactly," George said, handing Marty the notebook.
Marty took the notebook. The top of the right page read:
Tues. Nov. 8 — Last night I had my first alien encounter! I can hardly believe that it was real, but I know it to be true. Last night, I was visited by an extraterrestrial named Darth Vader, from the planet Vulcan!
"'Darth Vader'," Marty said. "That's weird, Dad." He handed back the notebook. "But what exactly are you trying to say?"
"I was actually visited by someone that night, Marty."
"Ooookay," Marty said, slowly nodding. He was doing his best to sound concerned, worried. To sound like he thought his dad was crazy.
George frowned. "Perhaps I shouldn't have told you this."
"Why not?"
George reached out with his right arm and, in a large sweeping motion, scratched the back of his head. An odd tic of his father that Marty was grateful hadn't changed. "It might not be time, yet," he said. He started to stand up. "I probably shouldn't have said anything. I might make it worse…"
"Dad, wait," Marty said, reaching out and touching him on the shoulder. "I think it is time."
George sat back down. "Is it?"
Marty thought for a moment. "What happened was something that's not supposed to happen in real life. So it's going to sound crazy. But I think you need to say it."
George took a deep breath. "You traveled in time," he said.
Marty felt a burden lift from his shoulders. "I traveled through time."
"You traveled in time!" George shouted, jumping forward and pulling his son into a hug.
"Okay, Dad," Marty said nervously, patting his father on the back. "Calm down."
"Calm down?" George looked at his son as if he was crazy. "I've been waiting thirty years for this! This is incredible!"
"No kidding," Marty said. He looked around at the living room. "It wasn't like this when I left."
"The living room?"
"Well, everything, Dad. I mean, you! You—."
Marty hesitated. He wasn't sure he should tell his dad about his "old self". Would that wreck his confidence again?
"Well, you were a complete loser, Dad," Marty said. "Before I went back to 1955, you had never stood up to anyone in your life!"
"Never?"
Marty sighed. "Everything sucked where I came from. Biff was your boss, Mom was a drunk, Dave worked at Burger King, and Linda was just pathetic."
"So you changed history."
"Well, yeah."
George nodded, seemingly with satisfaction. This confused Marty.
"What is it?" he asked. "You're not surprised?"
"Well, as a writer of science fiction, I'm just considering all the implications. And you remember how things were 'before' you changed history?"
"Both," Marty said, rubbing his brow. "The Doc says I'm going to feel weird for a few days, but I'll eventually mostly just remember the way things are now. Or were now. Whatever."
George nodded. "So that's why you thought the car was wrecked—because it was?"
"Yeah, Biff 'borrowed' it."
"So I was working for Biff, huh?" George touched his chin again. "Why did I get into auto detailing?"
"No, you were at an office, and he was your supervisor. And he made you do all his work for him." Marty shook his head. "It was so painful seeing him do that to you in '55. That it had been going on since high school."
"Interesting," George said.
"Yeah, it's great you remembered all my advice from back in '55," Marty said. "But did you know, all this time? Why'd you write the story about aliens if you knew it was time travel?"
"Well," George said, "I didn't really know, but after '77 I was pretty sure."
"'77?" Marty asked.
"When Star Wars came out," George said. "You would have been, what, nine years old? I guess you don't remember me freaking out when Darth Vader was introduced. Anyway, it was always possible that George Lucas was visited by the same alien. But still, just who would be so interested in me and Lorraine getting together? Who would be so sure that our kids would love his music? Who would call me 'daddy-o'?"
George laughed. It was the same short, barking laugh he had in the original timeline. "Who else would have 'Calvin Klein' written on his underwear? Lorraine did eventually tell me about that. I figured it had to be a descendant of mine, and Dave's just too tall. I only knew 'Calvin' for a week thirty years ago, so my memory wasn't perfect, but by the time you were twelve I was pretty sure it was you."
Slowly, Marty nodded.
"As for Match," George continued, "I wrote it about aliens because I like aliens. Besides, I already did time travel with my Captain Timestar series, and my agent and I thought it best that I try something different for my first actual novel." George gestured at all the paper in the room. "Timestar is the subject of my next novel, you know."
Marty struggled for a moment to find his new memories of Captain Timestar. After going over it for a minute, he said, "There's quite a bit to the story, actually."
"I imagine," George said. "You showed up on Sunday dressed like a cowboy. You know, I always thought the actor Clint Eastwood was using a stage name and had named himself after our Clint Eastwood, but I'm guessing it's actually the other way around."
Marty laughed, "Yeah, that was terrifying. But I guess I should start from the beginning."
George nodded.
And Marty told his story. From the demonstration at what was then Twin Pines Mall, to traveling to 1955, to going to 2015 to impersonate his own son, to the alternate 1985 and his return to 1955, and finally, facing down Buford "Mad Dog" Tannen in 1885.
George seemed incredibly disturbed by the story of 1985A, and particularly what the alternate Biff was capable of.
"He killed me?!" he said. "I held that bastard's hand all the way through AA!"
He also was very interested when told that Marty had met his great-great-grandfather.
"So you got to meet Seamus," George said.
"Yeah."
"Funny, because he got to meet you, remember?"
Marty was taken aback. "What do you mean?"
George frowned. "He died when you were nine days old. June 21, 1968. He met you and held you the day previously. Marty, we've told you that story your entire life. It wasn't that way when you left?"
"Uh," Marty muttered. He scratched the back of his head. He couldn't find any memories of that, either in his old memories or his new memories. Weird. "I guess he knew who I was, on some level, and wanted to meet me. How old was he?"
"A hundred and eight," George said. "I guess he really wanted to meet you."
"Weird."
"We have the newspaper clipping in your baby book," George said. "I'll look for that tomorrow."
It took Marty nearly an hour to finish his story. His father asked no more questions; he seemed content just to listen.
"Can I see the time machine?" George asked.
"Uh, no," Marty said. "The original was destroyed on Sunday." He then explained about how Doc built a time machine out of a steam train back in the 1880s and 90s, and how he was planning to stay away from Hill Valley for the most part until 1994.
George was clearly disappointed. "Well, next time he comes into town, make sure I get a chance to see it. My first story was about time travel, you know."
"Right," Marty said, yawning. He didn't know why, but he felt a lot of relief now that he had told his father. It was so strange; he had never been close to his father, not in the old world. But a quick review of his new memories showed that he always had been. Maybe that was it.
Marty stood up and stretched. "I'm gonna go to bed," he said. "If you have any more questions, you can ask me tomorrow, okay?"
"Sure," George said, smiling. "Oh, and Marty, we probably shouldn't tell your mother about this. You know, considering…"
"Yeah," Marty said. "Yeah, I think she'd be really creeped out about everything. 'Night, Dad."
"'Night, son."
