"This it?' Marty asked in what was supposed to be a calm voice.
"Yup" Doc said happily
"Yes!" Marty pumped his fist in the air. Sure, he wasn't two years old, but he'd just spent the last two weeks in a train, and, needless to say, his nerves were fraying. It looked like a sign from God when the huge, black locomotive rolled up to bustling Grand Central Station.
"Mista Emmit Brown, private train?" A conductor asked Doc from below the window.
'That's us. Come all the way from California" Doc answered.
The conductor wrote something on a clipboard.
"that seems ta be in orda" He told Doc. "come on."
Doc and Marty rolled back the door leading onto the platform. Though it wasn't the cleanest in the world by any stretch of the imagination, Marty took a deep breathe of fresh air.
"No time to dilly dally Marty." Said Doc with his usual maniac energy, and checking his watch. " We need to get you into town to buy you some newsie clothes."
"what?'
Doc ignored him. "come on, we'll catch a cab."
He led Marty over to a small, horse-drawm carriage, and paid the driver five cents before climbing in.
New York in the late 1800's was still as busy and bustling as in the late 1900's. The only differences were the fact that cars were unheard of, the buildings were tall, brick, and only 5 stories high, and newspaper boys shouted headlines, making the windows rattle
"So that's what a newsie looks like" Marty said to himself as they passed a dirty, skinny boy in brown pants, a white shirt, and a light brown vest. All his clothes had miss match patches on them, and his shoes were kept together with leather string.
Marty tried to picture himself in that crazy outfit, but it was hard to do.
'Here we are Marty!" Doc said cheerfully as the carriage came to a stop.
They found themselves parked outside a faded, wooden building with peeling yellow paint. In gold, loopy lettering, Parkers' Attire was written at the top.
Doc creaked open the door.
Inside, Marty found himself surrounded by shelves upon shelves of neatly folded garments, that looked strange compared to 1980's styles.
An old man with sunken teeth and spectacles came out from a back door.
'Clothes for this gentlemen" Doc told him in what Marty guessed was common language.
"And something simple. Perhaps brown trousers, a white shirt…. A vest."
"Yes sir" the man replied curtly, and began taking things off the shelves.
A few minutes later, Marty found himself in 1890's clothes, looking just like the Newsboy he'd seen on the way over.
He raised an eyebrow.
"Perfect!" Doc exclaimed.
"just one more thing……." Doc bent down and with a loud rip! Made two holes in the knees of Marty's pants.
Either choosing to ignore it or not noticing the look of disgust on Marty's face, Doc triumphantly paid for the outfit and led the way out the door.
So, remind me why I'm doing this again?" Marty asked as he and Doc made their way to The boy's home called Kloppman's
"Well, Marty." Doc began. 'It's not so much a question of if we can stop Biff, but of what his motive is. First things first. So you're going to go under cover as a newsie and find that out."
Marty fidgeted with his neckerchief. "Umm.. What about you?" He asked
"Top secret." Doc whispered. "I'm sorry that I can't tell you, but who knows what futuristic devices biff might have gotten that might be picking up my every word!"
"Right." Marty said. "Just tell me how you're planning to keep in touch?"
At that, Doc pulled out two walkie talkies that were about the size of a playing card each, and besides the usual buttons had on them all sorts of strange knobs.
"2020 model." Doc announced. "Well, here's the boys home. Good luck Marty!"
"But~" Marty's words trailed off as he watched Doc run at breakneck speed in the opposite direction.
The boy's home lobby housed one single desk behind which sat a wrinkled old man, whom Marty guessed was Mister Kloppman, gazing curiously at him.
"rent for the night, son?" he asked croakily.
Marty took a nickel out of his pocket. "uh, sure, thanks…" he said, his head spinning with thoughts on all that had happened. How was he supposed to find out why Biff was doing what Biff always does- seek and destroy. Right now, however, he had bigger things to worry about, as about ten newsies came loping down the back stairs.
"Hey Kloppy!" one called, "how's da business going?' He was a short black haired boy about 17. One of his hands held a newspaper, and the other a very fat cigar.
The boy looked over at Marty, did a double take, and grinned. "new customa? Now dats a surprise! Welcome to tha ranks."
" er.. um, thanks." Marty answered weakly.
'whose the new competition, race?' another with a eye patch and a wicked smile laughed.
The boy called "race" jumped off the last stair and went up to Marty. He was quite a few inches shorter. " yah, whats ya name, anyway?" He asked casually. " well its Clint- I mean, Marty." Marty caught himself just in time. Clint Eastwood was supposed to be dead in California, and he couldn't take any chances.
Race shook his head. "neva houd of a name like dat before. But anyways, meet the guys."
"Hi" all of them muttered, casually giving a name. The kid with the eye patch was named Kid Blink, as Marty learned.
" where ya from… Marty?" one asked. He was about Marty's height, with tan shin and deep brown eyes.
Marty racked his brain for a good story. "er… the west."
All the boys whistled loudly and looked at the boy who had spoken.
"not near Santa Fe, by any chance?" He asked.
Marty, without thinking, blurted out "yah! Santa Fe! That's where I'm from. …."
All the boys stared at the brown-haired boy.
"hear dat Cowboy, Santa Fe!"
Suddenly, to Marty's immense relief, Mr. Kloppman stepped in. " Boys, you might be interested to know that Tibby's closes in 15 minutes."
Race waved his cigar around. " thanks, Kloppy, see ya around, Marty."
All the newsies waved one dirty hand and followed race out the door.
"The room it directly up the stairs, son. Just take a bunk." MR. Kloppman said to Marty once all the newsies had gone.
Marty quickly side stepped toward the staircase. "yah, uh, thanks, thanks a lot." He said
He began to climb the creaky stairs to the room.
It was all like a very strange dream. He shouldn't be climbing the stairs in a run-down building in the year 1885, he should be eating dinner at home in 1985……..
'Doc will die for this." He said to himself.
As if on cue, the futuristic walkie talkie that had been hidden safely in Marty's pocket began to buzz and give off static.
Not believing his luck, Marty whipped it out placed it to his ear.
"Marty?? Over, over" Doc Brown's voice said
"DOC!" Marty yelled "I am going to-
but Doc cut him off
"no time to for casualties, Marty!!" He hissed "we have a urgent emergency!!"
"Yup" Doc said happily
"Yes!" Marty pumped his fist in the air. Sure, he wasn't two years old, but he'd just spent the last two weeks in a train, and, needless to say, his nerves were fraying. It looked like a sign from God when the huge, black locomotive rolled up to bustling Grand Central Station.
"Mista Emmit Brown, private train?" A conductor asked Doc from below the window.
'That's us. Come all the way from California" Doc answered.
The conductor wrote something on a clipboard.
"that seems ta be in orda" He told Doc. "come on."
Doc and Marty rolled back the door leading onto the platform. Though it wasn't the cleanest in the world by any stretch of the imagination, Marty took a deep breathe of fresh air.
"No time to dilly dally Marty." Said Doc with his usual maniac energy, and checking his watch. " We need to get you into town to buy you some newsie clothes."
"what?'
Doc ignored him. "come on, we'll catch a cab."
He led Marty over to a small, horse-drawm carriage, and paid the driver five cents before climbing in.
New York in the late 1800's was still as busy and bustling as in the late 1900's. The only differences were the fact that cars were unheard of, the buildings were tall, brick, and only 5 stories high, and newspaper boys shouted headlines, making the windows rattle
"So that's what a newsie looks like" Marty said to himself as they passed a dirty, skinny boy in brown pants, a white shirt, and a light brown vest. All his clothes had miss match patches on them, and his shoes were kept together with leather string.
Marty tried to picture himself in that crazy outfit, but it was hard to do.
'Here we are Marty!" Doc said cheerfully as the carriage came to a stop.
They found themselves parked outside a faded, wooden building with peeling yellow paint. In gold, loopy lettering, Parkers' Attire was written at the top.
Doc creaked open the door.
Inside, Marty found himself surrounded by shelves upon shelves of neatly folded garments, that looked strange compared to 1980's styles.
An old man with sunken teeth and spectacles came out from a back door.
'Clothes for this gentlemen" Doc told him in what Marty guessed was common language.
"And something simple. Perhaps brown trousers, a white shirt…. A vest."
"Yes sir" the man replied curtly, and began taking things off the shelves.
A few minutes later, Marty found himself in 1890's clothes, looking just like the Newsboy he'd seen on the way over.
He raised an eyebrow.
"Perfect!" Doc exclaimed.
"just one more thing……." Doc bent down and with a loud rip! Made two holes in the knees of Marty's pants.
Either choosing to ignore it or not noticing the look of disgust on Marty's face, Doc triumphantly paid for the outfit and led the way out the door.
So, remind me why I'm doing this again?" Marty asked as he and Doc made their way to The boy's home called Kloppman's
"Well, Marty." Doc began. 'It's not so much a question of if we can stop Biff, but of what his motive is. First things first. So you're going to go under cover as a newsie and find that out."
Marty fidgeted with his neckerchief. "Umm.. What about you?" He asked
"Top secret." Doc whispered. "I'm sorry that I can't tell you, but who knows what futuristic devices biff might have gotten that might be picking up my every word!"
"Right." Marty said. "Just tell me how you're planning to keep in touch?"
At that, Doc pulled out two walkie talkies that were about the size of a playing card each, and besides the usual buttons had on them all sorts of strange knobs.
"2020 model." Doc announced. "Well, here's the boys home. Good luck Marty!"
"But~" Marty's words trailed off as he watched Doc run at breakneck speed in the opposite direction.
The boy's home lobby housed one single desk behind which sat a wrinkled old man, whom Marty guessed was Mister Kloppman, gazing curiously at him.
"rent for the night, son?" he asked croakily.
Marty took a nickel out of his pocket. "uh, sure, thanks…" he said, his head spinning with thoughts on all that had happened. How was he supposed to find out why Biff was doing what Biff always does- seek and destroy. Right now, however, he had bigger things to worry about, as about ten newsies came loping down the back stairs.
"Hey Kloppy!" one called, "how's da business going?' He was a short black haired boy about 17. One of his hands held a newspaper, and the other a very fat cigar.
The boy looked over at Marty, did a double take, and grinned. "new customa? Now dats a surprise! Welcome to tha ranks."
" er.. um, thanks." Marty answered weakly.
'whose the new competition, race?' another with a eye patch and a wicked smile laughed.
The boy called "race" jumped off the last stair and went up to Marty. He was quite a few inches shorter. " yah, whats ya name, anyway?" He asked casually. " well its Clint- I mean, Marty." Marty caught himself just in time. Clint Eastwood was supposed to be dead in California, and he couldn't take any chances.
Race shook his head. "neva houd of a name like dat before. But anyways, meet the guys."
"Hi" all of them muttered, casually giving a name. The kid with the eye patch was named Kid Blink, as Marty learned.
" where ya from… Marty?" one asked. He was about Marty's height, with tan shin and deep brown eyes.
Marty racked his brain for a good story. "er… the west."
All the boys whistled loudly and looked at the boy who had spoken.
"not near Santa Fe, by any chance?" He asked.
Marty, without thinking, blurted out "yah! Santa Fe! That's where I'm from. …."
All the boys stared at the brown-haired boy.
"hear dat Cowboy, Santa Fe!"
Suddenly, to Marty's immense relief, Mr. Kloppman stepped in. " Boys, you might be interested to know that Tibby's closes in 15 minutes."
Race waved his cigar around. " thanks, Kloppy, see ya around, Marty."
All the newsies waved one dirty hand and followed race out the door.
"The room it directly up the stairs, son. Just take a bunk." MR. Kloppman said to Marty once all the newsies had gone.
Marty quickly side stepped toward the staircase. "yah, uh, thanks, thanks a lot." He said
He began to climb the creaky stairs to the room.
It was all like a very strange dream. He shouldn't be climbing the stairs in a run-down building in the year 1885, he should be eating dinner at home in 1985……..
'Doc will die for this." He said to himself.
As if on cue, the futuristic walkie talkie that had been hidden safely in Marty's pocket began to buzz and give off static.
Not believing his luck, Marty whipped it out placed it to his ear.
"Marty?? Over, over" Doc Brown's voice said
"DOC!" Marty yelled "I am going to-
but Doc cut him off
"no time to for casualties, Marty!!" He hissed "we have a urgent emergency!!"