Written: Saturday, December 3, 2005 - Thursday, December 15, 2005
Word Count: Approximately 4,900 words
Background Notes: I haven't written a vignette for a while. Actually, I haven't written much fanfic at all in a while, having been focused on my own original series, and what stuff I have done has mostly been in the alt-universe vein ("The Hill Valley Chronicles"). Anyway, after a spat of vignettes in the spring of 2003, when I was freshly inspired by the BTTF DVD and some cut scenes, I just never felt the urge to write more.
Until a couple weeks ago, when I had a wacky idea for what I decided to dub "the unconscious trilogy." One guess at what this might entail. (This is the first of the three I'm planning to write, hopefully all in a row.)
This one came out primarily while I was at work, during the 40 minute period known as "advisory" where students read silently. I bring my laptop on those days and get a surprising amount of writing done during that time, probably because the coffee's had a chance to kick in, and I perversely work better outside of the house, surrounded by people. I had fun looking at some of the implications in the lines of dialogue around this event, and I double checked a few things with both screenplays (for the ages of the Baines characters), transcriptions from the film, and photos of the set from BTTF.COM, as well as my own photos of [the exterior of] the Baines house when I visited it. I do like to do my homework.
And, boy, it was fun getting into Lorraine's head for this. LOL!
Saturday, November 5, 1955
9:02 A.M.
It happened fast, without any warning.
Forty-five-year-old Sam Baines had been driving home from the electronics store on the other side of town, having just purchased his very first television set. While Sam was of the opinion that television was still a bit of a flash of a pan fad, the relentless nagging of his four oldest children had gradually worn down his resolve to not purchase one. The sales ad he had found in the newspaper the prior day had given him the final push, and he apparently was not the only one. When he had showed up to the store, they were down to the last two.
Sam felt cheerful as he had turned his car onto his street, looking forward to an afternoon looking over the new toy and building a mobile dolly to get full use out of the set. There was no reason, he figured, why the television had to be tethered in the family room. His mind was already in the garage, unpacking the box and readying his tools, when a teenager abruptly dropped down directly in the path of his front bumper.
“What the---” Sam gasped, too stunned to react for a moment. His eyes locked on the kid as he started to get up -- then a colorful blur darted in from the left, slamming the kid out of the way. Sam’s foot was already in the process of shifting from the gas to the brake. But it was too late. The other adolescent -- who had shoved the first out of the way -- collided solidly with the front bumper. Sam felt the vibration of the impact shake the whole car as the vehicle screeched to a stop.
For a moment, Sam sat where he was, dumbfounded. Christ, I’m gonna get sued! he thought, horrified.
He reached for the doorlatch a moment later, the car stalling as he hastily removed his foot from the clutch while he was still in gear. Sam threw open the door and hurried out, not sure of what he would see.
Approximately five feet before the grill of his car, he saw the sprawled body of his young victim. The would-be-rescuer did not move, his eyes closed and his body limp. At least, Sam noticed, there was no blood. He looked around and spotted the kid’s friend a moment later. The gangly, dark-haired teen that had fallen before his car first was already scrambling to his feet.
“Hey,” Sam called. “Wait a minute....”
The kid looked at him a moment, panic stricken, then fled for the other side of the street, ignoring the scene in the middle of the road.
“Who are you?” Sam demanded, standing helplessly near the body of the second kid.
The kid did not answer, apparently caring nothing for his friend’s well being. He grabbed a bike that had been propped up against the side of an oak tree, then got a running start and peddled frantically away. Sam watched him for only a moment, then turned towards his house, directly across from the oak tree. The front door was open, and he saw his wife standing in the doorway, their 11-month-old son, Joey, on one hip. No doubt she had been drawn by the sound of the squealing tires. “Stella!” he bellowed to her, the stress of the situation sharpening his voice a little. “Another one of these damn kids jumped in front of my car! Come on out here and help me take him in the house!”
Stella stepped out the front door with the whimpering baby, treading several paces to the edge of the porch. “Oh, dear,” she said, her eyes wide as she took in the scene. “Is he hurt?”
Sam rolled his eyes at the question. “What does it look like?” He knelt down next to the kid, not sure of what to do. He really, really did not want to get sued. He reached out and picked up the kid’s wrist. It was only then he really noticed the strange attire that his victim had on: skintight denim trousers, a black and white striped button-down shirt that was only half buttoned, revealing a maroon t-shirt, black suspenders -- somehow clipped onto the denim pants! -- a denim-type jacket, and a puffy, orange vest that looked like a life preserver.
Maybe he wouldn’t have to worry about being sued; if this kid’s style of dress was any indication, his parents had to be nuts.
He did have a strong pulse, though. Thank God.
“Let me put Joey in the playpen,” Stella called to him from the porch. “I’ll be right back.”
Sam shook his head. “Never mind,” he said, slightly calmed now that he knew his victim wasn’t dead in the road. “I’ll get him. The doctor said you can’t do any heavy lifting.” His wife was six months into expecting their sixth child.
The kid was small -- that was fortunate. Sam carefully slipped a hand under his neck, cradling the back of his head as he eased him up into a sitting position. He was heavier than he looked, no doubt because he was unconscious and utterly limp. Sam could only hope that he wasn’t causing permanent damage to the kid. Even if the parents were nuts, if their kid ended up in a wheelchair for the rest of his life because Sam had moved him the wrong way, he knew that he’d get sued.
Once the kid was -- kind of -- sitting up, his head bowed forward, Sam slipped one arm under the victim’s, then another under the kid’s knees. He lurched to his feet slowly, feeling his back groan in protest at the deadweight in his arms. He wondered if he could sue the kid’s family if he wound up throwing his back out from lugging their son out of the road. Probably, unfortunately, not.
Sam threw a glance at the front of his car as he stood, only then wondering what kind of damage the kid had made to his car. The grill, hood, and front bumper looked unmarred. Well, that was one positive thing to come out of this whole mess.
By the time he collected the kid in his arms, stood, and turned to head to his house, his wife had returned to the front porch, her arms now unburdened. She scurried forward, meeting him as he stepped onto the sidewalk. “Oh dear,” she said again, looking at the boy with concern. “Is he bleeding?”
“Dunno,” Sam grunted, not about to check then. “Get the door, will you?”
Stella scurried ahead to push open the front door, holding it aside as her husband stepped inside. Their seventeen-year-old daughter Lorraine, the oldest of their children, watched from the stairway, having just come down from her room.
“What happened?” she asked, curious.
“Your father struck this young man with his car,” Stella explained. “No, no, don’t put him there,” she added quickly.
Sam threw his wife an annoyed look as he stopped short of the living room couch, his arms rapidly losing the feeling in them. “Where do you suggest he goes, then?” he asked, his irritation clear in his voice.
Stella bit her lower lip for a moment, clearly thinking. She glanced at their daughter, who’s eyes were focused on the kid. “Lorraine has an extra bed in her room. We can put him there.”
Sam almost groaned aloud. “Up the stairs?”
“I think a bed is much more suitable than a couch, especially with the children in and out of here all the time,” Stella said. “This poor young man doesn’t need to be gawked at by everyone.”
The points were valid, Sam supposed, but he didn’t relish the idea of moving the deadweight in his arms up the flight of stairs. Nevertheless, he managed somehow. By the time he reached the second floor, his heart was whacking somewhat uncomfortably against his ribs. He wasn’t used to this much exercise. He just hoped his reward for his good deed wouldn’t be a heart attack later.
Lorraine trailed her father up the stairs, having the good sense not to fire off a long list of questions as to the details of what had happened outside. During the brief trek between the top of the stairs and the bedroom at the end of the hall, Sam caught sight of four-year-old Toby and six-year-old Sally peeking out from their bedroom. At least their older brother Milton was out of the house, having spent the prior night’s at a friend’s home. No doubt the excitement of the moment would’ve stirred him up into a babbling frenzy.
Sam reached the spare bed in Lorraine’s room not a moment too soon, as far as he was concerned. Beads of sweat were already running down the sides of his face, dampening the shirt underneath his buttoned wool coat. He managed to squat down and ease the kid gently on the covers of the bed, then let out a gush of a sigh.
“Should we call a doctor?” Stella asked as she followed her daughter into the room.
“What are you, crazy?” Sam said immediately, rubbing his aching arms. “I’m sure the kid is fine. He’s just knocked out. You call a doctor, and suddenly I’m under arrest for running him over. Do you want that?”
“No,” Stella said crisply, not at all cowed by his tone. “But if he’s badly hurt--”
“He’s breathing, isn’t he? His heart is still going. He’ll be fine. Just let ‘im sleep it off.”
Stella frowned, turning to Lorraine. “Honey, make a cold compress, will you, and bring it up here?”
Lorraine blinked once, her gaze locked on the kid sprawled awkwardly on the bedcovers. “Huh?”
“A cold compress. Make a cold compress and bring it up here, please.”
Lorraine nodded and turned to take care of the errand. Stella bent over the patient. “Well, if he’s going to stay here, we should at least get some of these clothes off him. They don’t look terribly comfortable if you ask me.” She eyed the attire with a little frown. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anyone wear such things before.....”
Sam rolled his eyes. “He’s probably from San Francisco. They all dress like freaks out there in the city.”
Stella lifted the kid’s foot and examined the red and white shoe on it. “I’m afraid I agree with you in this case.”
Sam helped his wife strip the kid down to his tight pants and wine-colored t-shirt. Being as unconscious as he was, the kid was of no help to them during this process. The jacket was the most difficult article to remove. Sam had to lug the kid up into a sitting position, balancing the latter’s forehead against his shoulder, while Stella tugged the odd denim article and puffy orange vest off his shoulders and arms.
Stella was frowning as she helped her husband pull the quilt and sheets out from under the patient, then tuck it over him. “Someone should keep an eye on him up here until he wakes,” she said.
“Not me,” Sam said immediately, taking off his hat and raking his coat sleeve across his damp brow. “I got a whole list of chores to do.” A loud honk outside drew his attention away from the matter at hand, and over to the window. He grimaced as he peered outside. “Damn, the car is still out there!”
“I’ll watch him,” Lorraine said softly from the doorway, having arrived in time to overhear the question. In her hands she held a bowl containing the requested cold compress.
Stella turned to look at her. “Didn’t you have plans with Babs today, honey?”
“This is more important,” Lorraine said. “Babs will understand. I don’t mind, really.”
“We-elll....” Stella looked torn. Another loud honk came from outside, and Sam hurried away from the window.
“Sounds fine to me,” he said, distracted. “I gotta move the car.”
As he left the room, Sam shook his head, annoyed. “Damn kids,” he muttered. “What the hell were they doing in the street at this age?”
He really hoped that this event wasn’t going to have serious consequences later.
* * *
Lorraine mustered a smile at her mother as her father left the room, grumbling about moving the car. Mom seemed suspicious. But, then, it wasn’t every day that Lorraine graciously offered to give up plans with her friends to help out at home. This, however, was different. It didn’t involve baby-sitting or taking one of her younger brothers or her sister out to the store or to a matinee. It didn’t involve housekeeping or baking anything. No, this involved a boy.
And a very cute boy, Lorraine thought, her eyes sliding over to briefly regard the form in the bed. Lorraine loved boys. It was such a pity to her that most of the ones she went to school with were so...childish, so immature. She didn’t recognize this boy -- not offhand anyway. Perhaps he was new to the area. So much the better if he was, for Lorraine would have the opportunity to make a good first impression on him. For what could be more positive than being there with him when he woke from his terrible experience?
“Well, I suppose if you want to give up your Saturday to sit in here, you may,” Mom said, distracting Lorraine from her thoughts. “You brought up the cold compress? Good. Let me know when he wakes.”
“I will,” Lorraine promised. She felt her mother’s eyes on her while she walked towards the bed where the boy lay, set the bowl with the compress in it on the nightstand, then perched herself on the edge of her own bed, tucked up against the wall under the window.
Mom lingered a moment more, casting an anxious look at the young man, before she left, closing the door behind her. Finally. Lorraine let out a sigh.
“It’s about time,” she murmured. She wasted no time in bounding to her feet to have a closer look at the boy.
He lay on his back, the bedding pulled up to his chin, his head cradled on a pillow and face tilted towards the center of the room. Lorraine leaned forward and reached out, gently touching his cheek and rolling his face towards her. Her breath caught in her throat as she gazed at his face. He had a wide mouth, which was open enough for her to see that his teeth were straight and pearly white. His profile was handsome, his skin soft and flawless, and his nose had a slight upturn to the end. His eyes, closed to conceal the color from her, were framed by long, dark lashes. Lorraine’s lips curved into a smile and she sat down on the edge of his bed.
“Who are you?” she whispered, running a finger down the curve of his cheek, hoping that it would wake him. She wanted to see his eyes, hear his voice, and know his name. The boy, however, remained still, the only motion that of his chest as it rose in fell with every breath. Lorraine raised her hand to his brow to brush aside a few locks of his light brown hair -- and that’s when she felt the lump rising on his forehead.
“Oh, you poor dear,” she murmured, gently probing the swollen area with her fingers. With her free hand, she reached over to the night table and picked up the cold compress, the ice she had wrapped in a couple handtowels, then gently pressed it to the boy’s bruised bump.
Once again, she hoped the touch would help revive him, but once again, she was disappointed. After holding it there for a few minutes, her arm began to ache. She sighed and replaced the compress back in the bowl.
After the excitement of the accident before the house, the rest of the morning passed slowly. Lorraine thought that the boy would wake after only an hour or two, but he did not stir at all, did not even move.
At noon, Lorraine’s mother came up to check on the patient. She frowned at the sight of the bruise on his head, more prominent now in spite of Lorraine’s frequent application of the compress.
“I wonder if we should call the doctor?” she said, examining the boy’s head in the light of the lamp nearby. “I find it strange that he hasn’t woken up yet.”
“Dad won’t like that,” Lorraine said immediately. “I’m sure he will be fine in a few hours. He hasn’t stopped breathing or anything like that, Mother. I’ve been right here watching him the whole time.”
Mom shook her head a little and sighed. “Lunch is ready. Do you want me to bring it up here for you?”
Lorraine vastly preferred that to eating at the table with her brothers and sister. When the sandwich was sent up, minutes later, it was not with her mother but with Milton, Lorraine’s 12-year-old brother. He burst into the room with the tray, making no move to be quiet.
“Dad told me he hit some kid in the street!” Milton said excitedly, setting the tray down on the small wooden bench at the foot of the bed. The silverware clattered loudly on the tray, but it didn’t seem to disturb their houseguest. “Is that him?”
Lorraine rolled her eyes, annoyed by his seeming enthusiasm about the matter. “Who else would it be?”
“Wow.” Milton leaned forward, his face suspended six inches above the boy’s. “Look at the shiner on his head!”
“Milton, don’t touch him!” Lorraine said sharply as her brother started to raise his hand up towards the boy’s forehead. “He is already hurt -- you don’t want to make it any worse.”
Milton glanced at her, puzzled. “I ain’t gonna hurt him,” he insisted. “Why do you care? Is he one of your friends?”
“I don’t know who he is,” Lorraine said. “No one does. But if you were hurt somewhere and taken in by strangers, would you want them poking and prodding at you?”
To Lorraine’s relief, that seemed to do the trick. Though her brother continued to goggle at the strange young man, he made no further move to touch him. When their mother called for him a moment later, Milton jumped back and headed for the door. “Have fun up here,” he said, his tone including a trace of sarcasm. “But at least he’s better company than Babs or Betty.”
Lorraine reached for one of the decorative pillows on her bed and hurled it at her brother. Milton was out of the room before it could reach him.
Even though she had no audience for her meal, Lorraine picked through the sandwich, potato salad, and pudding that her mother had sent up. Her mother didn’t seem to understand how important it was for a girl to watch what she ate, and how important it was to be slender. Lorraine prided herself on her small figure, even though her mother seemed concerned by it and often piled more food on her plate than her daughter wished. When she came upstairs to retrieve the tray later, Mom frowned at the sight of the half eaten sandwich and side dishes, but said nothing.
The sky, which had been such a clear, brilliant blue earlier, began to darken around two, the increasing gloom noticed by Lorraine as she sat on her bed and flipped her way through several movie magazines. Periodically she looked up to check on her patient, who’s condition remained unchanged as the time passed.
She didn’t entirely mind watching him as he continued to sleep -- he looked so peaceful and so helpless there, like a little lost puppy who had tuckered himself out from a day of play -- but she wanted to know his name. Calling him “the boy” or “the young man” just didn’t seem very romantic to her.
I’ll bet he has a wonderful name, she thought. Surely he must have some identification on him -- a student ID or driver’s license.
Lorraine glanced at the clothes stacked on her hope chest, considering the idea, then realized that her parents had likely already gone through his pockets when they removed the articles from him. However, as she looked at the pile, she realized that one key article of clothing was not stacked there: the young man’s pants.
They might not have checked those, yet, Lorraine realized, frowning faintly. Casting a quick look at her bedroom door, making sure that it was closed, she got up from her bed and covered the couple feet that separated her from the boy. She perched on the side of the bed and stared down at him once more. She touched his cheek, then his bruise, but he didn’t react in any way, his breathing remaining slow and deep. Her cheeks darkened at what she was about to do but...well, certainly there was no harm in it. She just hoped, sincerely, that her parents wouldn’t walk in -- she no doubt would be shipped straight off to Catholic school then! -- and that he wouldn’t wake up.
He won’t, she thought firmly. And if he does, well, at least I’ll learn his name.
Biting her lip, Lorraine reached for the blankets covering the boy and slowly pulled them down. One of his arms, she saw, was draped across his chest, the other lying flat at his side. She paused a moment, touching his warm hands, running a finger over the odd little black bracelet that he wore on his left wrist. She hadn’t seen anything like it before. The boy slept through it all.
When she was sure he was indeed quite out of it, she stood, leaned over the bed, and pulled the covers the rest of the way down, past his waist, knees, and his sock-clad feet. The boy wasn’t terribly tall, Lorraine noticed, but it didn’t deter her from the idea that he was still the epitome of Tall, Dark, and Handsome -- and definitely a Strong and Silent-type.
For a moment she gazed down at him as he lay there, helpless and unknowing, clad in a maroon undershirt and very tight denim pants. Then she bent over once more and, a hot blush crawling over her cheeks again, reached for the brass button that fastened the waistband of his pants.
I just want to find out who he is, she told herself, firmly sticking to that justification for her actions. Besides, these pants look so tight...they must not be terribly comfortable to lie around in.
Aside from the brass button, the pants were also fastened with a zipper. Lorraine bit her lip, fighting off a mad urge to giggle, as she slowly pulled it down. She took a quick look at the boy’s face when she reached the bottom, wondering if he was staring at her as she committed these acts. But he had not moved.
Lorraine shifted to the foot of the bed, kneeling on the bench that her brother had set the breakfast tray upon hours earlier. She bent over the boy, reaching out to grasp the waistband of his pants, sliding her fingers through a couple of the belt loops. Then she pulled.
The boy, not the pants, slid down several inches across the bedsheets. Lorraine stopped, biting her lower lip again, this time out of frustration. “Hold still,” she murmured aloud, knowing that it was a ridiculous request to make. She gave another tug, but the same thing happened. Another approach would have to be made.
After checking to make sure the movement had not disturbed him, she moved her hands from the waistband of the pants to the cuffs. Carefully, she tugged at the fabric, then leaned over awkwardly to brace one hand on the boy’s chest and the other on the cuffs. Slowly, painstakingly, the fabric finally began to slide down his legs.
It took almost ten minutes of careful work. By the time the pants had slid off the boys hips, making the job much easier to finish, beads of sweat were dampening Lorraine’s forehead. It wasn’t an effect from the effort so much as it was from the tension of perhaps getting caught. Lorraine hastily pulled the denim pants free and let them slide to the floor. Then, her eyes burning with curiosity even as her cheeks were flushed from the wholly unladylike behavior she was about to commit, Lorraine once more examined the boy.
He was still lying limp and still on the bedsheets, a little more askew than he had before she had removed his pants. Only now he was clad simply in his t-shirt, which had slid up to his ribcage in the struggle to take off his pants, and underwear. Tight underwear of a soft purple color. Lorraine leaned forward for a look, spotting something stitched on the elastic waistband of the briefs.
CALVIN KLEIN were the words.
“Calvin Klein,” she murmured aloud, testing the sound of the name on her lips. “So your name is Calvin.” She smiled at the unconscious boy, a coy, knowing smile.
Now that she knew the answer to the mystery, Lorraine carefully folded the pants up, placing them on her hope chest on top of his other clothes. Then, as she crouched down to grab the bedding from the floor, the boy who was Calvin Klein suddenly stirred.
Lorraine raised her head as she heard a noise from the bed’s occupant, for a moment unable to breathe. Calvin groaned softly, then rolled onto his side, drawing his legs up to his chest. Then he stopped, his eyes remaining shut, his mouth gaping open a little. Lorraine held very still, until she head his breathing resume the same slow, deep pace that it had been all day. She let out a deep breath, her heart skipping a little. Having him wake up then would be almost as bad as him waking while she was struggling to undress him.
Lorraine quickly scooped up the bedding, tucked it around him, then took a step back to stare at his face. Calvin Klein, she thought, a satisfied smile turning the corners of her mouth. She called his name once, softly, but he didn’t react to it.
Rain started to fall around four. Lorraine tried to study, but her attention was constantly diverted by Calvin. He wasn’t quite as deeply unconscious as he had been earlier, and a part of Lorraine wondered if the tight pants had affected his circulation, if he was more restless now because the blood flow wasn’t cut off so much. She stared at him as he moved in the bed a few times, shifting to his back once, then to his stomach, then to his other side. She dabbed at his bruise with the cold compress a few times, hoping to rouse him. Once, she was sure, he was on the verge of waking, his eyelashes fluttering at her touch. Then he mumbled something she couldn’t quite catch, turned his head, and once more was still.
Lorraine gave up her attempts at homework at four thirty, bundling herself up in a sweater and sitting on her bed near the window in the semidarkness. “Calvin Klein,” she whispered as she watched him sleep, the shadows making him look even younger and more vulnerable than before. “Lorraine Klein,” she added in an even softer voice, testing the name. She smiled.
And then, just as she was wondering how much longer this vigil could go on, Calvin suddenly moved again. He raised his head up, his eyes opening no more than a slit, the sleepy gaze directed towards her. “Mom...’zat you?” she heard him croak.
Lorraine’s heart skipped with excitement. She reached for the cold compress on the night table. “There, there, now,” she cooed softly, not answer his his question, dabbing at his forehead with the cold cloth. Calvin rolled onto his back, groaning softly at the touch, his eyes closing once more. “Just relax. You’ve been asleep for almost nine hours, now.”
“I had a horrible nightmare,” Calvin murmured, folding his arms across his chest. “I dreamed I went...back in time. It was terrible....”
Lorraine withdrew her hand, setting the compress back in the bowl. “Well, you’re safe and sound, now, back in good old 1955.” She reached for the light switch.
Calvin’s eyes suddenly popped open. “1955?” he echoed, just as the light came on. Lorraine hastily slipped out of her bulky sweater, eager to make a good first impression on the boy as he bolted up and stared at her.
His eyes, Lorraine noticed right away, were a beautiful, brilliant blue. As they locked on hers, she felt a strange sensation in her chest -- a feeling like she knew him, had met him before. It was like something out of a movie!
Yes, definitely, she was sure: He was the man for her.