I used to call this "The 2017 Story," and I did that because when I started the year 2017 was in the future. This work is currently about 7,800 words and consists of three chapters. I'd estimate that it's only about a third done at the moment—I've only gotten to the end of the "first act."
I feel like this is actually more likely to be finished in the near-term than "Meet the Family," since MTF has plot issues that I don't know how to address, while this story doesn't.
Sunday, October 8, 2017
9:37 AM
They reappeared over a Hill Valley that was to Marty’s eyes much, much larger. The native Jennifer took the car over Courthouse Square and landed in the alleyway where Doc had taken him two years before.
Jennifer opened the door, which to Marty’s surprise, opened upward. “Come on,” she said.
“What the hell?” Marty whispered. He opened his door, which was also gull-wing. He got out and looked at the car.
It wasn’t Jennifer’s old Ford, nor was it a DeLorean. It looked something like a DeLorean, however. It was clearly a sports car, slick and white. There was a large windshield, and the car appeared to be made out of a white plastic of some kind. This plastic partially covered each tire, leaving the top and bottom of the wheel exposed. At the back was a familiar looking Mr. Fusion reactor setup.
“What is this?” Marty asked.
“A Ferrari Modulo,” Jennifer said. She opened the trunk—which, like with the DeLorean, was in front—and pulled out a cylindrical suitcase.
“So what’s the plan?” Marty asked. “He’s not in jail or trying to rob anything, right?”
Jennifer laughed. “No, don’t be silly.”
“It’s not silly!” Marty said. “That’s what happened last time!”
“Oh, right,” Jennifer said. She tossed the suitcase towards him, which he caught. “Put those clothes on. I’ll be right back.”
As Older Jennifer ran towards the direction of the square, Marty opened the familiar-looking suitcase and found familiar-looking future clothes: the self-adjusting plastic jacket, the self-lacing shoes, and the multicolored hat he had worn in 2015.
“Jesus, is this all he wears?” Marty wondered as he began changing shoes. He had just adjusted the jacket when Jennifer returned.
“Good,” she said. She closed the doors to the Modulo and grabbed Marty by the wrist.
“Wait!” Marty said. “What the hell’s going on here?!”
Jennifer sighed again. “Well, Doc wouldn’t want me to reveal too much about the future, and frankly, I don’t want to, either.”
They stopped near the end of the alleyway, in front of worn posters bearing the image of a black man and the slogan “OBAMA ’16!” Marty looked at them briefly, wondering who it was. He then noticed Jennifer pulling something from her pocket. It was made of black plastic and was rectangular, and about palm-sized. Jennifer tapped it and a picture appeared on it.
“Holy shit!” Marty said, amazed. “What is that?”
“Cell phone,” Jennifer said. “Don’t act like you’re amazed at all. It’d be extremely weird.” She tapped it a few more times, as if it had a keyboard or something, and then showed it to Marty. To his surprise, it too seemed to be a video screen, and it bore the image of a young woman with red hair.
“This is Skylar D’Ambrosio,” Jennifer said. “It’s 9:40 AM right now. You’re going to go down to the Cafe 80’s, just like the last time you did this. She’s going to show up there at 9:46. When she asks you about tonight, tell her you’ve changed your mind, that you’re no longer interested, that you want to keep things the way they are; whatever it takes to make her go away.”
“So what’s she trying to pull here?” Marty asked.
Jennifer looked around. “She wants Junior to do something stupid, and I’m not going to let that happen. Just say no!” She grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him out of the alley. “I’ll be back with the Modulo in twenty minutes and I’ll take you home.” And she left.
Marty sighed, adjusted his cap, and walked into the town square of the future for the second time.
He walked into the Cafe 80s. Unlike his last visit, there were a lot of people present. He elbowed his way through the crowd.
Dumb place to meet someone for something shady if it’s this crowded, he thought. He stood by the counter.
Marty looked around the Cafe. It was surprising to him that it had only been two years since he had last visited; the clothes most people were wearing were much more subdued than they had been in 2015. Indeed, it seemed that the few people dressed in “2015” fashions were just trying to keep in with the eighties theme of the restaurant. Most were dressed in clothes in darker hues. They all looked rather drab to Marty’s eyes.
He looked at his watch. It was still set to 1987 time, so it didn’t provide any useful information. He looked around the cafe. He was sure that he had been there longer than the six minutes he was supposed to wait. He didn’t want of talk to the natives—he’d gotten in enough trouble pretending to be from other times already—so he took another tack.
“Waiter!” he shouted.
He had been worried that that would attract attention from the crowd, but no one noticed. Instead, one of the video waiters came over to him. It was the same simulacrum of Michael Jackson he had seen on his first trip.
Welcome to the Cafe 80’s,” it said, “where—.”
Yeah, yeah,” Marty said. “Listen, I don’t want to order anything. I just want to know what time it is. There aren’t any clocks in here.”
The time is nineninenine-fifty-one,” it said.
Thanks,” Marty said.
As the machine left, he shook his head. This “Skylar”—What a stupid name, he thought—was supposed to be there five minutes ago.
He sighed and looked around the cafe. He didn’t see the woman, so he decided to leave. As he made his way out of the cafe, he ran headlong into another young woman who was coming in.
“Oh! Hey MJ,” she said. “How’ve you been?”
“Uh, hi,” Marty said. “Listen, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“You always are,” Marty heard someone say. He noticed then that the woman was with two other guys.
“You going home?” the young woman asked.
“Uh, yeah,” Marty said. “So I should probably get going.”
“Good, I’ll go with you,” she said, following him out the door. “Later, guys.”
“See ya, Zoey.” the guys said.
At least I know her name, Marty thought.
“Why are you coming?” Marty asked as he walked towards the alleyway.
“You don’t remember?” Zoey asked, surprised. “I thought you said you had made that Mini-C for me.”
“Right, right,” Marty said, looking down the alley. The Modulo wasn’t there. “Listen, I’ve got a ride coming, so...”
“Oh,” Zoey said. “Well, give em a call.”
“What?” Marty asked.
“Oh, jeez, MJ, did you leave your phone at home again?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Marty said. “I left my phone at home.”
“You can use mine,” Zoey said, picking hers out of her pocket.
Marty hesitated. He had seen Jennifer’s and it didn’t seem so have any buttons of any kind. He was sure he wouldn’t know how to operate it.
Zoey seemed to notice the hesitation, and was puzzled by it. But she came to a conclusion that fit Marty’s cover.
“Your mom again?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Marty said, doing his best to sound annoyed.
“I don’t know why you’re so anal about that,” Zoey said. “I mean, like half the kids our age still live with their parents, you know.”
“What?” Marty asked.
As Zoey stared at him, he cleared his throat. “Sorry. I, uh, I know that. I’m also feeling a little funny today, kinda out of it.”
She smirked. “Too out of it to get my Mini-C?”
“Well,” Marty began. He didn’t even know what a Mini-C was, but he kind of wanted to see his house. Granted, Doc had rather clearly explained how dangerous that could be.
“Come on,” Zoey said, grabbing Marty’s wrist. “I’ll drive you.”
“What about Jen—uh, my mom?” Marty asked as Zoey led him down Main Street in the direction of the Texaco station.
“Hang on,” Zoey said. Using her other hand, she held up her phone and said, “Siri, text Jennifer McFly for me. Tell her I ran into Junior downtown and I’ll take him home.”
“Okay,” a feminine electronic voice said. “I’ll send that message.”
“Siri?” Marty asked.
“Yeah, it finally figured out my voice,” Zoey said, putting the phone back in her pocket.
She led him down Main to the next block over. Walked some distance, whatever, and stopped at a white car parked along the street. Zoey took keys from her pocket/purse, opened the car, they started driving.
The blonde was bobbing her head in time with the new song, but was focused solely on the road.
Marty turned back. The music wasn’t that different than the pop fare of the late eighties, but pop wasn’t really his thing. His music appreciation classes back at HVC had widened his horizons somewhat, but he didn’t know how exactly he could “appreciate” song stylings that hadn’t been invented yet. He wanted to ask Zoey to put on rock, but he didn’t know if 2010s rock sounded anything like 1980s rock. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to know.
Marty was grateful they were heading north—Hilldale was to the south. But he didn’t know exactly where they were going or what kind of neighborhood it was. What did his future self do for a living?
I hope it’s not worse than Hilldale, he thought.
Marty’s feelings turned from anxiety to confusion as Zoey pulled onto Highway 20 and began heading out of town. As far as he knew, there was nothing but forest along the highway until you got to Nevada City—which was a twenty mile drive over a long, windy country road.
“Should we take the skyway?” he asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Zoey said. Thankfully, she didn’t sound confused or suspicious. “I don’t turn 21 for another month.”
Marty nodded.
Marty just nodded and turned to look out the window. To his right was nothing but forests—unremarkable. But when he turned left and looked beyond Zoey, he could see the entire expanse of Hill Valley. He turned away so Zoey wouldn’t see him gawking at it—the city appeared to have doubled in size since 1987.
They remained silent—besides the music, which was still playing—for the three minutes it took them to get over the hill. As they were coming down through the small valley, Marty saw a development of very large houses on the left.
No way, he thought.
But Zoey turned left at the entrance to the gated community, a large sign announcing their arrival at Excelsior Point.
There was a small building in front of the gates—a guard house, apparently—and two entry lanes. One went in front of the guard house. The other lane, to the right, had its own separate gate and was marked RESIDENTS. On the driver’s side there was what appeared to be a pedestal of some kind.
Zoey rolled down her window. “Okay, get us in, MJ.”
Marty tensed. He didn’t know the combination.
“Your thumb?” Zoey said.
“Oh, right,” Marty said. He unbuckled his seatbelt and muttered an “excuse me” as he reached over her to touch his thumb to the plate on the pedestal.
There was a loud beep and the screen displayed Welcome home, Mr. McFly, and the gate opened.
As Zoey drove through the gate, Marty was grateful that the pedestal hadn’t identified him as Marty McFly Senior.
They drove up a divided road with tall trees in the median. They soon came to a cross street, where the first homes were. They looked quite modern to Marty’s eyes, so he supposed they were built in the late eighties or early nineties; the development didn’t exist back in ’87. They were pleasant houses with elegant landscaping. And they were quite large; the footprint alone was probably twice or even three times the size of his parents’ house in Lyon Estates, and some of the houses had two stories.
Zoey turned right onto a side street, and they continued down that before turning right again. Finally, Zoey pulled into the driveway of a large, single-story home with the address “15”.
The house was a lovely beige color, with a large brown-shingled roof that created overhangs. The garage—three cars, at least—was on the far left, and in the middle of the house was a large window revealing an opulent living room.
“Way to go, McFly,” he muttered to himself, gawking at the place.
Zoey didn’t notice; she turned off the car. “You mind if I come in? I’m a little hungry.”
“No, not at all,” Marty said, even though he did. He didn’t want her to see him gawking at the place. Or worse, fainting upon meeting his older self!
They got out of the car. Marty adjusted his cap and let out a soft whistle as he looked at the house. He was trying to figure out a way to ask the question when Zoey answered it for him—almost.
“Your dad’s not home, right?” she asked.
Relieved, Marty said, “Not usually, at this time, no.”
“Oh,” Zoey said, sounding disappointed.
“What is it?” Marty asked.
“Oh, you know,” Zoey said. Marty of course didn’t know, but he didn’t press the issue.
[ed: I don’t know, either. Walk up to the front door, description of the entryway, etc. They go back to the kitchen.]
As Zoey popped something into the microwave, she said, “Mind getting my Mini-C now?”
“Uh, sure,” Marty said.
“Great,” Zoey said. “I’ll be in the living room. I think I’m gonna put Modern Family on.”
“Yeah, sure,” Marty said, slipping out of the kitchen.
He walked through the living room, trying not to ogle the back yard, which had a pool and some sort of separate building, perhaps a guest house. He came to the main hallway and opened the first door on his right.
It was immediately clear to him that it was a girl’s room: lots of pink. He supposed it was his daughter’s room.
My daughter, he thought. Jesus Christ, this is weird.
He looked for a phone without stepping inside, then closed the door.
The next room was, he was sure, Junior’s room. There was a bed, a desk, posters—movies and albums Marty hadn’t heard of—and a flat panel across from the bed that looked like a TV set that had been turned off.
As he looked around the room, he noticed a small black object on the desk. It was about the size of the phones he’d seen Jennifer and Zoey use, and there was a label on it which read “Zoey.”
“Hope this is the Mini-C,” Marty said, putting it in his pocket.
He couldn’t find a phone, though, so he tried the next room. The first thing he saw was a guitar hanging on the opposite wall. He looked to the left and saw a shelf with small objects on them—objects that looked like miniature gramophones made of gold.
He closed the door behind him and piked up the first one. Inscribed on it were the words:
National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences
The Pinheads
Best New Artist—1995
“Yes!” Marty shouted. He set the Grammy back down on the shelf and looked at the other items.
No man should know too much about their own destiny, he could almost hear Doc saying. He looked away from the shelf and at the pictures hanging on the wall. The first one he noticed showed him with his arm around a young woman. It was signed, Not being about irony makes it ironic, Marty! Alanis.
He went over to the desk. A keyboard was sitting on it, in front of what appeared to his eyes to be another futurey flat-paneled television screens. The TV was displaying an image of an album cover. It was The Pinheads: Fired Up!; he couldn’t help but notice. He shook his head and picked up the phone on his desk—thankfully, a phone that actually looked like a phone.
“Hello, Siri?” he asked, getting only a dial tone in reply.
He looked down at the phone. It looked like a slick, future version of a phone/answering machine combo, and there were speed dial buttons. Unfortunately, none of them were labeled. He sighed and dialed 411.
“Welcome to AT&T Directory Assistance,” a female electronic voice said. “Say a city and state.”
“Uh,” Marty said, surprised at the automation. “Hill Valley, California?”
“All right. What listing?”
“Jennifer McFly,” Marty said.
There was a brief pause. “I’m sorry, I cannot find a listing under the name Jennifer McFly. Would you like me to put you in touch with an operator?”
“Uh, no thanks,” Marty said.
“Very well. Goodbye!”
Marty stared at the receiver as it went dead in his hands.
“Perfect,” he muttered.
He put the phone back on the hook and left the room, doing his best not to look or think about what he saw. But he couldn’t shake the happiness he felt that his dreams would come true.
Only at this particular moment, an imaginary Doc told him. If you get too cocky, you can unravel your entire destiny!
Marty shook his head and walked into the TV room.