Marty shrugged.
A moment later, Biff and his newly painted car were heading down the road. George McFly started to walk into the house. Marty stepped in front of him.
Raising his hands, George stepped away. “I know what you’re going to say, son, and you’re right,” he murmured. “You’re absolutely right. But he happens to be my supervisor, and I’m afraid I’m just not very good at confrontations.”
“Confrontations,” Marty shot back, “you don’t even practice self-defense.”
George didn’t answer.
“Dad, look at the car,” Marty persisted. “Look what he did to the car. He nearly totaled it. And then he concocted some story about a blind spot. He blamed the wreck on you and you didn’t say a thing!”
“Well, you can’t argue with a person like that,” George said feebly.
“Look at that car,” Marty continued. “It’s a mess. I was counting on using it tomorrow night. Do you have any idea how important this was to me, Dad? Do you have any idea at all?”
Not knowing that Marty was planning to take Jennifer away in the vehicle, it was not possible for George McFly to understand how much the trip truly meant to Marty.
“I’m sorry, son,” he muttered. “All I can say is I’m very sorry.”
For Marty that wasn’t enough and the infuriating events of the day would not let him back off. “Dad, did it ever occur to you to say ‘no’ to people when they start pushing you around? Is that so hard?”
“Son, I know it’s hard for you to understand,” George said with maddening calmness, “but the fact is, I’m just not a fighter.”
“Try it once, Dad,” Marty challenged. “Just one time, say ‘no.’ N-O. ‘No.’ It won’t hurt nearly as much as you think.”
George shrugged.
I give up, Marty thought, I can’t even get him to say “no” to the idea of saying “no.”
George McFly turned away, finding it easier to look at the damaged front of his car than at Marty’s accusing and disappointed eyes. He envied other men, macho types who taught their boys how to fight, encouraged them to be combative, stand up for their rights. These men invariably pushed their male offspring into organized sports, bragging when their boys won a big game, browbeating the lads when they took the final strike of the game with their bats on their shoulders. For his part, George McFly was secretly pleased when his sons Marty and Dave declined to take part in sports. At least he was off the emotional hook.
During his frequent moods of quiet self-analysis, George McFly managed to dissect his psyche, for he did worry about his own lack of grit. He thought it all went back to one occasion in grade school when he was accosted by the class bully. The bully had just punched his friend Billy Stockhausen and for a split second George was so angry he literally saw the red that everyone talks and writes about. Stepping up to the bully, he pulled his fist back—
And couldn’t strike. The bully merely smirked and walked away. Since that moment thirty-five years ago, George had wondered what might have happened if he had followed through. His happiest fantasy was that his single punch would have sent the bully into oblivion. But even if the bully had hit back and he had learned the give-and-take of combat, might not that have been better than the cowardly limbo, never-take-a-chance attitude George had trapped himself in all these years?
He sighed. Why bother to relive that moment…Why bother to try explaining to Marty or anyone else why he was such a pushover? He could barely accept the most favorable rationalization himself.
Now, as if to underscore Marty’s challenge of a moment before, a voice called to him from the window of the house next door. It was that of his neighbor Howard, a forty-year-old, potbellied, generally unpleasant character who, like Biff Tannen, spoke to Geo
rge only when he needed something or wanted another person to berate.
His voice was less tinged with scorn at the moment, no doubt because he was looking for George’s help.
“Hey, McFly!” he called down. “My kid’s selling Girl Scout cookies. I told her you’d be good for a case.”
“A case?” George replied. “What’s a case?”
“What difference does it make?” Howard shot back belligerently. “Twelve. Twenty-four. Thirty-six. It’s for a good cause, ain’t it? Or do you want me to tell the kid you’re a cheapskate?”
“It’s just that—” George began, then hunched his shoulders helplessly. “Never mind. Sure. Tell her I’m good for a case, whatever it is.”
Marty shook his head and went inside.
His sister, brother, and mother were already seated at the dinner table; none of them looked up when Marty entered and slumped into his chair. For once, Marty was glad they were so wrapped up in their own lives that they didn’t think to ask how the musical audition had turned out. He didn’t feel like explaining why he had lost or seeing their expressions of fake sympathy.
“Meatloaf again,” he said flatly.
His criticism did not keep the jaws from working. Brother Dave, twenty-two, sat opposite him, wearing a Burger King uniform. He kept one eye on the clock and the other on his food, which he wolfed down in large sections, swallowing noisily like a half-starved animal. On Marty’s left sat Linda, nineteen, who was cute in a kind of sleazy way, partly because she invariably wore too much eye shadow. Marty tried to remember when he had last seen her without either purple or green eyelids, and he finally gave up. On Marty’s right was dear old Mom, who was once very attractive and bright. Now, at forty-seven, she was overweight, drank more than was good for her and had more food on her plate than anyone else. The fare, besides the inevitable meat loaf, included Kraft macaroni and cheese, Birds Eye mixed veggies, and French’s instant mashed potatoes.