Written: Friday, December 16, 2005 - Monday, November 19, 2007
Word Count: Approximately 3,200 words
Background Notes: Oddly, I started this days after wrapping up the first of the so-called "unconscious trilogy," and knocked 3/4ths of it out. Then it languished on my hard drive for almost two full years until I was suffering from a serious headache, craving some distraction on a Thanksgiving flight home. So I decided to try and wrap it up...and did. I'm not entirely satisfied by the ending but...meh.
Hopefully the third one (which I have not yet started as of this posting) won't have a similar weird birth or delay.
Saturday, October 26, 1985
9:54 P.M.
Match was the one who spotted him standing exactly where the security guard had noticed him a minute or two ago, gawking at something on the main steps of the Pleasure Paradise Hotel. He glanced at his old friends and smiled. “Ready?” he drawled around the toothpick in his mouth.
3-D, who’s glasses now gleamed gaudily with rhinestones, smirked as he pulled out the blackjack from his back pocket. “You bet,” he said.
Skinhead, sporting a crewcut that was slowly fading into obscurity, frowned a little at the glee in 3-D’s voice. “Don’t miss this time,” he said curtly. “I’m not gonna stand up for you again if the boss wants to fire you!”
3-D bristled. “I’m not gonna miss. Let’s go before he tries anything funny.”
The three men hurried up the stairs. Their quarry, Marty McFly, did not turn around as they approached. Match was glad; his bum knee was hurting him that day, and the last thing he felt like doing was running after the kid. He was small, but he could move pretty damn fast when it suited him.
When they were just a few steps away from their goal, Marty suddenly moved, backing up rapidly. “No!” he yelled, causing the heads of several patrons to turn in his direction. “No!”
Match wondered if he had seen their approach in one of the mirrors around. He couldn’t think of another reason why the kid had suddenly freaked out like that.
Skinhead grabbed him by the arm before he could cut out. “Hey, you’re coming with us upstairs.”
Marty twisted around, trying to get away. “Lemme go!” he demanded, his eyes wide and frantic.
Match seized his other arm before he could pull free of Skinhead. “Sonny, we can do this the easy way or the hard way,” he said patiently. Marty started to swing his head to look at him, but 3-D quickly made his move. He jumped up from behind and swung the blackjack down towards the teenager’s skull. The connection was solid and clean. 3-D smirked as Marty started to go down.
“The easy way,” he quipped.
A few curious heads turned in the direction of this bit of commotion, but the hard look that Match directed towards the concerned witnesses was enough to make them look away. He and Skinhead struggled to keep the now-limp body of Marty McFly on his feet. “Is he faking?” 3-D asked, trying to peer around his taller friends. He was clearly itching to give the kid another blow.
Match shifted his weight, sparing one hand to cup the teen’s chin in his palm and tilt it up for a look. The kid’s eyes were closed, his face slack. “I think he’s out,” Match surmised, letting the Marty’s head fall forward again. “He wouldn’t be this heavy otherwise. Let’s get ‘im upstairs before he wakes up.”
Match, Skinhead, and 3-D were very good at their jobs, both as both bouncers and bodyguards. The larger men of the trio carried Marty between the both of them while 3-D went ahead to open doors and operate the elevator buttons. To a casual observer, it would appear as if the men were helping a drunk to their room.
During the trek between the main floor of the hotel and the twenty-seventh floor penthouse, Match had plenty of time to wonder what the hell the kid was doing in Hill Valley now. The prior summer his father had shipped him off to a private military boarding school in Switzerland, the best one possible for “troubled youth.” They didn’t get much more troubled than this kid. He’d been in and out of juvvie so many times, with his poor father having to bail and bribe him out, they practically had a wing named after him. It was sad, really. But, then, what else could you expect from a McFly? His brother was a drunk and his sister was one of the town’s more notorious whores. And his mother...well....
Personally, Match didn’t know what his old friend saw in the girl. Of course, Match didn’t know what Biff saw in most of the girls he entertained.
The private elevator that they had taken to the penthouse slowed, coming to a stop. “Does his mom know he’s back in town?” Match asked the others.
“Dunno,” Skinhead replied. “She can’t keep any secrets, though, so if Biff didn’t know, I doubt she did.”
The elevator door slid open, revealing a quiet, empty hallway. 3-D scurried ahead to key open the heavy doors that led to the penthouse as Match and Skinhead half carried, half dragged the teen. The lights were fully ablaze as they entered the Tannen abode and brought the kid down the curved stairs.
The posh, state-of-the-art digs were not vacant, however. As they rounded the curve at the bottom of the stairs, a lone figure was seated at the large stocked bar. The middle-aged woman looked up, her gaze distant and glassy-eyed. The glass of whiskey she clutched in one long, manicured hand was clearly not her first. Her face was puffy and the rings of dark mascara around her eyes slightly uneven, as if the hand that had held the pencil was not so steady. She was clad in a revealing metallic purple dress, slit to reveal ample cleavage and leg, while her long hair was a tangled mess of bleached out curls. In spite of the work of the best plastic surgeons that money could buy, she still looked old and worn out.
Really, Match had to wonder at Biff’s tolerance for her and the lousy kids she had brought into the marriage. Sometimes he wondered if things would be different if Biff knew how he felt about him...and how much better off he would really be without that woman and the sad legacy of George McFly dragging him down. Match, however, was no fool -- he helped his old buddy out numerous times in setting up trysts with various showgirls. If he knew how Match felt, that would be the last he would ever see of Biff.
Lorraine Baines McFly Tannen blinked several times at the sight of her youngest son being supported between Match and Skinhead. The glass of whiskey clutched in her hand suddenly fell from her fingers as she struggled to stand from the barstool.
“Marty? Oh my God, what happened?”
“He was trespassing,” Skinhead said, giving the kid a little shake. “Put up a fight when we asked him to come with us.”
“I nailed him, though,” 3-D assured Lorraine, giving her a somewhat sleazy smile. “He won’t be troubling you for awhile.”
Lorraine wrung her hands for a moment as she looked at her son. “For goodness sakes, take him into the bedroom.”
Although Match’s arms were killing him by this point, having hauled the kid up from the main lobby of the hotel, he honored the request without a hint of complaint. He had to wonder how his boss would take the news of Marty’s sudden reappearance; it certainly would not be met with cheers. Perhaps he would let 3-D or Skinhead be the one to make that call. He hated getting on the bad side of Biff Tannen.
* * *
Forty-seven-year-old Lorraine watched helplessly as her husband’s thugs dragged her son into the bedroom. Poor Marty! Her youngest, her baby, horribly brutalized! She knew her seventeen-year-old son had a temper to him and some anger management issues, but it wasn’t any excuse to knock him out cold. Not even if he was putting up a fight. He was still just a child.
“Put him down gently,” she ordered. “Gently!”
Her husband’s cronies didn’t listen. When they reached the bedside, they simply gave Marty a shove, letting him drop facefirst onto the circular mattress. Lorraine scowled at them, but they didn’t seem too concerned with her. They left without the slightest apology or nicety. The smallest of her husband’s thugs, the one who had brutalized her son, paused long enough to give her a gold-tooth flecked leer before following the other two out of the room.
Lorraine remained rooted to the spot for a moment, part of her wanting to go to her son’s side and roll him over to have a look at him. The other half of her desperately wanted a stiff drink, just a little something to steady her nerves that were suddenly all over the place.
Oh, God, she though. Biff probably doesn’t know that Marty is here yet!
When he found out, Lorraine knew it would not be good. Her husband’s temper rivaled that of her youngest son, and his size was no match for herself or for Marty. Maybe Biff would be difficult to find tonight, though Lorraine was almost positive he was in town now. Maybe Marty would wake before he came back and could be persuaded to leave immediately. Lorraine hoped so; she remembered all too clearly what had happened last time this particular scenario had played itself out, resulting in a broken arm for her son and a one way ticket to a Swiss boarding school.
The urge for a drink would have to wait. Marty’s health and safety was the more important priority right then. Lorraine switched on one of the bedside lamps and knelt down on the edge of the mattress. She leaned over to look at her son sprawled awkwardly across the silk sheets. She bit her lip, worried about his ability to breathe clearly face down, and carefully rolled him over onto his back. It was difficult between the slippery texture of the sheets and Marty’s utter unresponsiveness.
Once he was lying on his back, Lorraine gingerly felt around his head, searching for the lump that had rendered him unconscious. Her fingers found it after a moment, locating it on the back of the head. Marty groaned softly as she touched it, his eyelashes fluttering, but he did not awaken.
“My poor baby,” Lorraine said softly. She tucked a soft pillow under his head, and pulled the askew sheets over him. It was probably a good thing that she had never made the bed that morning, under the circumstances.
She sat on the edge of the mattress for a few minutes, watching her son to see if he would awaken, patting his cheeks in hopes of urging him to do just that. He lay still, however, impervious to her gentle prodding. Perhaps that wasn’t a bad thing. She still badly needed that drink.
Once she had assured herself that her son would not immediately wake up, she left the room and headed for the large wetbar, back over to the very stool she had been sitting upon when her son had made his surprise appearance. One thing her husband was quite good about was keeping a steady, quality supply of liquor close at hand. He was equally generous at allowing his wife the unlimited use of it.
Lorraine selected a clean glass from under the bartop, set it on the marble surface, and poured herself a generous serving of a fine Russian vodka. As soon as it touched her lips she felt calmer, more composed. She gulped it down fast, a warmth spreading down her throat, into her stomach and beyond, and then poured herself a new glass.
She couldn’t leave her baby all alone in that dark room now. Not when he might need her. Lorraine planned to savor this second glass as she sat close to nurse her youngest.
Armed now with the alcohol, Lorraine returned to the bedroom feeling steadier already. She set the glass down on the tableside next to the bed and pulled a chair over. She gazed at Marty, biting her lower lip, the alcohol not easing her anxiety about her son.
“Marty,” she whispered. She reached out a hand and set it on his forehead. “Marty, honey, wake up.”
Marty did not move, his breathing remaining slow and steady. That was a comfort, at least. He might have been sleeping...perhaps he was now. As she stared at him, she noticed he looked worn out and a bit different from the last time she had seen him. His hair was much shorter, his face was smooth and devoid of that ridiculous, scraggly mustache he had grown last year. Perhaps those were due to the standards at the boarding school.
Marty suddenly moved, rolling from his back to his left side. For a moment, Lorraine was sure that he would awaken, that his face bore faint life and expression. His lips pursed, parted, and he sighed. Lorraine reached out once more and touched his forehead, sweeping his bangs aside with one long fingernail. He felt hot and feverish, his skin covered with a thin layer of perspiration. As she withdrew her hand, she noticed his arms for the first time, splayed outside of the sheet that covered him and lying before his face, one on the pillow and one draped just off it.
The tattoo that her son had come home with at the age of thirteen was gone.
Marty had been awfully proud of that -- a skeleton playing a flaming guitar. Dave, in one of his sober moments, had taken him to get this badge of teenage rebellion while Lorraine and her husband had been in New Jersey to open a new casino. Lorraine had been horrified when she had seen the mark on her baby boy’s otherwise flawless skin. Shortly thereafter, more tattoos and piercings had appeared, almost as if Marty was trying to compensate for his smaller size and stature when compared to many other classmates. Even then he had attended a boarding school but that had at least been in the same state.
Lorraine frowned and gently ran her fingers across her son’s arm, puzzled by the lack of any scarring or marking whatsoever that would have been evidence of a removed tattoo. Maybe, she realized, the drinking was making her see things.
Ironically, this made her crave further oblivion. She turned back to her beverage on the table and took a large, burning gulp of it. And then, because the bedside lamp was hurting her eyes a little and her son was now facing it directly, she reached over and shut it off. The dark and shadows immediately made her feel better. They invited less scrutiny and made he feel hidden, protected. They blurred the lines of her reality which, frankly, had been something of an unending nightmare since that policeman had come to her door in 1973 to tell her that George McFly had been found shot to death.
Lorraine’s hand shook at the memory and she raised her glass once more to her lips. The day after the funeral, Biff Tannen had showed up, had assured her that she need never worry about money or her children any longer if only she marry him. She didn’t want to; she hated that man. She had turned him down. But after several months of being unable to find any work whatsoever, not even as a maid at the local motel, after losing the house, after pawning all her jewelry, she felt as if there was no choice. She felt, too, as if she was in a dream, the shock of her husband’s death, the love of her life, too painful to fully comprehend.
Perhaps, Lorraine had thought, she could learn to love Biff Tannen...or at least tolerate him. If he took care of her children, that would be enough...wouldn’t it?
She had not counted on the abuse, on the man’s temper and taste for booze and power. She had given her life to her second husband, done what she could for the sake of her children...and yet her oldest son was roaming the streets, frequently arrested for drunken debauchery, and her only daughter was selling her own body and seeking approval from men in the oldest profession in the world, a profession that thrived in Hill Valley. Biff kept them out of prison, paid their debts and bails, but it did not come without a price. He threatened to revoke this privilege and punish her children every time Lorraine tried to speak up about their treatment or his activities.
And Marty...poor Marty. He had been so young when George had died, not quite five years old. Lorraine didn’t think he remembered his real father anymore. Biff was the only father he knew. While this could have been good, a potential blessing, it was instead horrific and appalling. The two simply hated each other.
On that long ago day she had married Biff, Marty had gone over and kicked his new father right in the shin. He was so small, so tiny for his age, and yet Biff had seized his new son by the front of his shirt and shook him so hard that Lorraine had heard his teeth rattle. Had there not been others in the room, specifically people with cameras to document their day, she wasn’t sure what else may have happened.
A pattern soon emerged. When Marty was around, which was as little as possible, he would usually wind up the worser at the hands of Biff Tannen. Lorraine tried to stop him at first, but after several black eyes and broken ribs, it became abundantly clear that she was powerless. She didn’t want to die at the hands of the madman she married; she had to stay alive for her children.
The drinking helped. It was the only thing that did anymore.
Lorraine sat in the dark, listening to the soft, steady sound of her son’s breathing. She stared out towards the windows, at the slats of light leaking through the open blinds. She had done the best she could with what she have. No one could blame her for how her children had turned out...not even Biff.
Time passed. The glass next to Lorraine grew empty, and that familiar numbness was back. She had the urge to climb into bed next to her son and simply hold him, comfort him and protect him from her husband. But too much time had passed. She had no right, not really. So she remained seated.
A flash of movement from the bed brought her back to earth. Lorraine turned her head and saw that Marty had raised his head off the pillow, his eyes half open, peering in her direction. “Mom? Mom, is that you?”
Lorraine grabbed a cocktail napkin from under her drink and immediately bent over her son on the bed. “Just relax, Marty,” she said softly. “You’ve been asleep for almost two hours.”
Marty rolled onto his back and groaned softly, his eyes falling closed once more. “I had a horrible nightmare...it was terrible.”
Lorraine dabbed at his damp forehead with the napkin. “We’ll, you’re safe and sound now, here on the good ol’ twenty-seventh floor.”
Marty had seemed on the verge of drifting off again. His eyes suddenly popped open and a wave of tension rippled through his body. “Twenty-seventh floor!” he cried.
He sounded scared and confused, disoriented. Lorraine reached over and turned on the lamp. Light would make things better, she thought. Sometimes the shadows that diffused reality could make it seem even more frightening. She knew that all too well by now.