Disclaimer: The Back to the Future Trilogy and all related characters and themes belong to Universal. Star Wars and all related characters, titles, and themes belong to George Lucas.
Vignette Four: Empire Strikes Back
(Twin Pines)
Dorks. A word to describe someone when you're too lazy to get to know them. Dorks. Geeks. Nerds. Lone rangers. The kind of people who would walk around not giving a hoot about their label. Or they would walk around in complete obliviousness of their label. Whatever the case for those cases, not one of those labels described these two. One of the fathers and sons of Hill Valley, sneaking into the next showing at the local theater.
"Pops, I'm telling' you that there's no way they could squeeze another sequel outta this."
"I don't know about this son…"
"C'mon how many ideas can a writer have?"
"Well, a lot…"
Dave McFly stopped shuffling down the alley. "Jeez, then we can do this with my kids when the 42nd Star Wars comes out."
The alley was hot and sticky. Fumes were practically visible from the garbage cans. The bricks seemed to be sweating along with the two. All the while, Dave was counting his steps toward the secret door. The not-so-secret door that he had found out about from his brother. The lock was busted and you could just pop it open and slip through. The alley was such an obstacle of trash and stink, that the employees of the Essex Theater probably thought it wouldn't be worth it.
Ten seconds later and Dave's father was at it again.
"I don't know about this son…"
"Dad," Dave said as he tapped around for the door. "You wanted to see Star Wars Episode V and, damn it, you're going to see Star Wars Episode V!"
George picked at the broken zipper of his jacket. His eyes wouldn't meet his first born. "I still think we should of paid the…"
The man's words trailed off as a barrage of cinema explosions that came out of the door. Jedis scrambled across the screen. Galactic guns burst left and right. Robots were blown up, their parts flying off. All the characters from the first one were still there. George counted them. It may not have been crystal clear on their this far away, but it made the trash enzymes on his pants slightly worth it.
"What about Darth Vader, do ya think he's the same guy?" Dave asked as they shifted along the rows of seats.
"We wouldn't know." George answered. Darth Vadar never removed his mask. True, they'd never know. "I think I stepped in gum."
"Shhh!" Dave whispered. "Just act casual."
George had never acted "casual" in his entire life. He did his best, which resulted in his upper body pumping up and down and his legs stepping out awkwardly. All Dave could do was shake his head and pray the viewers thought his Pop was a hipster. Fortunately, the viewers were too enamored with the movie to bother glancing.
Even behind a fat guy and a beehive-sporting woman, they could see the action.
"Man, can you believe those graphics?" Dave muttered.
"Huh?" George said. "Oh, yeah, the graphics. Far out."
"Totally far out," Dave agreed.
"Shhh!" An old man hissed behind them.
0 0 0
Kids were screaming with after-movie euphoria as they ran into the lobby. Their parents weren't far behind, sharing their educated thoughts. Teenagers came out in one big group. One big loud group ready to find something else to do. Even some old people hobbled out, rubbing their ears and their eyes. George and Dave McFly were the last ones to exit the theater.
"Wowie," Dave said as they went out the door. "Only thing that was wrong with that one was the ending."
"I guess," George said, but he stopped dead. Dave accidentally walked ahead of him and had to double-back.
"What's wrong, Pop?" Dave asked. A booming voice at the start of the sidewalk answered the question.
"Hey McFly!"
Dave shook his head at the man yelling at his father. The cheesy smile and the garish jewelry were the signiture alarm. The polyester suit lumbered toward them. Like an excited bull, Dave thought. He looked at his father only to see the sick and pained expression on his face. Oh jeez…
"What you doing at the picture show?" Biff asked in a mocking tone, which turned to serious. That is, if you could be serious while wearing maroon plaid pants and a pea green sports jacket. "Shouldn't you be at home, getting my proposal ready for the big boss. The meeting's on Monday, ya know."
"It's not just any movie, Biff." Dave said, trying to sound defiant. "It's Star Wars Episode V."
Biff feigned a giant gasp. He acted like he had just embarrassed a grand king. "Well, excuse me!"
"You're excused," George said. His eyes went wide and he almost slapped a hand over his mouth. Biff glared at him and George shrank at least two inches. Dave watched on, trying to think of something to divert disaster.
"What'd you say?" Biff demanded. He waltzed up to George and Dave noticed the man's hands. They were twitching, like they were ready to snatch something. If this were a Gangsta epic of the Prohibition decade, there would be a shot of the pea green jacket lifted to reveal a shiny black pistol. Well, Dave didn't see a pistol, but the hairy thick hands could do just as much damage.
Biff was now three feet away from Dave's father. George was taking on the look of a turtle. His face was nearing green and his eyes were scrunched closed, like he wanted to hide inside himself. Would Biff really pummel his co-worker outside the Essex Theater? Dave looked around and realized very few people were walking around the town square. Little to none, actually. Mom wasn't here. There was no chance of a Luke Skywalker zooming in and swinging a light saver at Biff. What was a seventeen-year-old to do?
"Whoa, what's that thing in the sky?" Dave yelled and pointed toward the night stars. Biff actually turned his head and Dave grabbed his father.
"Run!" He hissed.
Slap! Slap! Slap! Their shoes made noises all down Courthouse Square. The thundering footsteps of Biff made their adrenaline shoot to the extreme. Both had been chased dozens of times and, being skinny, always had the advantage. Biff's rampage died down after a couple blocks. Dave came to a stop on Miller Road. George gave him a look that made the teen start running again. Years and years of dealing with this stuff was enough to plot out a route.
"Did he go for the car?" Dave huffed at his father. George was inhaling air so fast it hurt. The counting reached 50.
"No," George answered. "He only goes for the car when on the street. Through yards and alleys, it's an on-foot chase."
They didn't come to a stop until they counted to safe number was 100, even safer if there was an addition of a ten or two. Their heart rate and breathing almost surpassed those numbers.
"How… far are we… from home?" Dave puffed. He had to inhale deeply just to keep himself conscious. Track had never been a strong point. Apparently, that was something he inherited from his father's side. George was doubled over, putting all his weight on his knees.
"A block or two," He said and gulped. "Are you alright, son?"
"A-okay," Dave gulped. "Just a busted lung and a sweaty shirt. Nothing new. Are you alright?"
"Yeah," George said. They looked at each other, both mentally going over what had happened. The same thing that had happened over and over in each lifetime. The same thing that wouldn't change. Dave wanted to ask the question out loud but Dad would probably just pretend he didn't hear it. Still, he thought it.
What made McFlys so fun to chase?
