Disclaimer: Gerald Stricland is an interesting character. You can't just watch him and label him a dick. Re-watch the film and look more closer. Try to see something else. Copyright of characters belongs to Universal.
Vignette Eleven: Discipline
Discipline. It was more than a ten letter word. Ten letters of true force. Another version of it was punishment. Regulation. Self-control. Authority. Correction. Chastisement. Order. It meant many things. It controlled many things. Gerald knew this. He also know it should be written in all upper case words. DISCIPLINE. That's how it felt, so that's how it should be written.
"Stop flinching!"
Whack!
In all his eight years, in all the time he spent, and in all the mischievous acts (though there were hardly any), Gerald had DISCIPLINE seared into his skull. One day he just might have it tattooed on the outside. A reminder in case his brain got frazzled by the future.
Whack!
He flinched. He always flinched. The only physical movement of himself right there. His mind was somewhere else. Wondering had never been something he really liked. Actually, very few boys liked it. Except that boy. Gerald thought of him, recalling that boy running all over the place like a circus performer. Running, climbing, rolling over things to see what was under them, jumping, talking a mile a minute, never ever sitting down. Years had gone by since then. Now the boy was dragging science books every which way, examining rocks, testing things, doing weird little "experiments". Gerald never knew the boy beyond observation. His father seemed to know him, or his kind. "Dreamers are slackers." His father once said. "Being lost makes you unaware of what's going on and what people expect of you. Dreamers do strange things and grow up to become strange people. Stay away from that boy, Gerald."
Whack!
Gerald had stayed away from him. That is, until one day when the boy showed up in his backyard. It had been this morning. Early in the morning, too. Gerald had gotten out of bed and snuck out of the house to play on the tire swing. It had been put up on the tree by his uncle. A huge tire on a strong rope, still smelling like it was on a Chevrolet. His father didn't like it. He said Gerald would break his neck. The tire swing had been up since May and no injuries had happened.
Jumping onto it, he swung greatly forward. Warm summertime wind rushed past his body. It was great in the early morning because the hot sun wasn't beating down on you. Here was California and by the middle of the day in July, you had a choice of burning to a crisp or going inside. Most kids preferred going inside for lemonade. Gerald had worn his skin tough from the sun and could stand it. After all, it wasn't like he could stay that long inside his house.
The tire swing started to spin. Gerald stuck out his legs, trying to make it go faster. The early morning backyard blurred. A rushing scene of blue sky, green grass, yellow sun, and white house. Same blur all around until a new color scheme appeared. He tried to guess what it was, not slowing down. It looked like a person…
Gerald stopped the tire swing by digging his heels into the ground. The backyard kept spinning in his head. Once the dizziness settled, the blur of a person became clear.
"Hello."
Whack!
Gerald took a step back. He wasn't sure whether to say: "What are you doing here?" or "Go away, you dreamer nut!" or something else. He said something else.
"Hello." He said and took a good long look at the boy. Usually, the kid was moving so fast that Gerald only caught a glimpse of him. Here he was. Standing right there in his backyard, clothes as worn-in as Gerald's skin. A hefty book, creased and dirty from being dragged everywhere, was tucked under his arm. A satchel filled to the brim with odds and ends weighed the boy down. Gerald noticed a pair of pliers sticking out. Pliers?
"Why do you carry that junk around?" It came out before he could stop it. What am I doing talking to him? Gerald thought.
The boy blinked then opened up the satchel. The noises that were made as he rummaged through it, were noises that Gerald hadn't ever heard in his life. Finally, the boy took out another book. It was smaller than the one he held and was marked Property of the Hill Valley Public Library. Gerald watched the boy open it and flip through it, mouthing some of the words.
"It's all my scientific instruments," The boy said. "All scientists have things like this."
"Oh," Gerald said. Questions like What kind of instruments do you mean? or Is the bag heavy? and even Why are you always traipsing around town like a mad person? With all those questions, all the whirling in his head, all that came out was: "My father says you're a dreamer."
The boy scratched some dirt off his shoulder. His smile dimmed but he didn't show any signs of bursting into infant tears. "I don't just dream. That's half the fun. I create, record, and explore. Actually, more than that…"
The boy went on and on. Words flew out a mile a minute. It wasn't quite bragging because the boy let slip some of his biggest accidents and failures, laughing at them too. Strange, strange, strange. Gerald just stood there. Stood and listened, even though he really didn't want to. This was like being at a circus sideshow. The oddball show Cousin Amy wanted to see but you were uneasy and just sat there and nibbled on a hot dog.
"Gerald!"
Whack!
Next second he was grabbed by the shirt collar and dragged toward the house. The boy stood there, silent, and watching. His eyes were big and wide. That's what Gerald saw as he was brought inside.
Whack!
Whack!
Whack! Whack!
"Go up to your room now."
DISCIPLINE. Gerald thought of it as he left the room and headed towards his own. His back seared with imprints of the belt. He felt the pain all the way up the stairs because he ran. He ran to his room with the view of the backyard. The boy was not there anymore. No sight of him. Gerald leaned against his bed, wincing. He felt his mind start to ache too. An aching to the tune of DISCIPLINE, DISCIPLINE, DISCIPLINE.