Continuing to the end of the block, Marty found himself in front of the Essex Theater, a movie house which he had never seen before but felt he knew intimately. According to his mother and father—especially when a few drinks loosened their lips—the Essex was the local petting parlor on Saturday nights during the early and mid-1950s. There, in the balcony or deep recesses of the back rows, many warm and wonderful relationships were spawned. Occasionally, people even went there to see a movie, although old-timers like Mom and Dad never reminisced about what was on the screen. Now it advertised in large red letters: CATTLE QUEEN OF MONTANA, starring Barbara Stanwyck and Ronald Reagan. Beneath the marquee floated a banner that read AIR CONDITIONED.
Looking across the grass plot of the square, Marty noted that the clock atop the beige courthouse building was actually running. When had it been struck by lightning and permanently immobilized? He tried to recall what the lady with the pamphlets had said earlier that day…
Earlier that day? More like thirty years in the future, Marty thought. At any rate, he remembered that the clock had stopped sometime in 1955. “Right about now,” he mused. “Maybe I arrived here just in time.”
He smiled. The great historical events of other cities were battles or memorable natural disasters; Hill Valley’s claim to fame was nothing more exciting than a clock stopping. Well, at least he would be able to tell his grandchildren, assuming they didn’t question him too carefully about how he happened to be here on the memorable occasion thirteen years before his birth.
Walking across the edge of the square, he turned right on 2nd Street, which was the confluence of routes 395 West and 295 East. Next to the Bank of America—one of the few businesses still operating in 1985 that was also here now—was the Ask Mr. Foster travel agency. It advertised “fabulous 10-day vacations in Cuba.” Once again Marty chuckled. He rather liked sharing history’s little secrets of what was to come.
Adjoining the travel agency was J.D. Armstrong’s realty office, in the window of which was a color ad for Lyon Estates, his past and present home. A total price of $17,500 brought you a three-bedroom, two-car garage house complete with “totally electric kitchen.” Another advertisement offered bomb shelters at equally reasonable prices.
He continued past Zale’s Jewelers, the Hill Valley Stationery Shop, a barber offering haircuts for seventy-five cents, the Bluebird Motel with its room for five dollars (“and up,” of course), a Western Auto store that sold nearly everything from Daisy air rifles to “the world’s smallest radio,” which was about a foot long. Past Ruth’s Frock Shop and its dresses from Paris for $40 was the future Toyota dealership space, now known as Statler Motors Studebaker.
This was the most interesting historical oddity in Hill Valley, at least in Marty’s opinion. He liked cars, new and old, and the Studebaker held a special place in his heart because, like the Edsel, it thrived and became extinct more or less during Marty’s lifetime.
He looked in the showroom for a few moments, then studied the used cars in an adjoining lot.
“These would be worth a lot in 1985,” he murmured, “even the clunker on the right.”
The four used cars on display ranged from $950 to a bargain-basement $395. All were clean-looking and had a brief bit of praise written in white on the windshield: “Sharp, Clean,” “Low Mileage,” “A steal at $450,” and “Runs Good” for the clunker. Marty felt the urge to give them a spin, but he knew no salesman would allow a teenager to do so, especially in this day and age.
Continuing past the Studebaker lot, he stopped in front of the Town Theatre, a marvelously typical piece of art deco from the 1930s. A basic tan-colored tower rose above its green marquee and red tile entrance, which was lined with display shots of its current attractions, The Atomic Kid, starring Mickey Rooney and Robert Strauss.
/> He didn’t know what The Atomic Kid was about, but it struck Marty that he could apply that title to himself. Using a small amount of plutonium, he had managed to travel back in time, something no one else had done. The knowledge pleased him, but at the same time he was visited by another thought.
“What next?” he asked aloud. “How long does this go on? How do I get back?”
For the first time, it occurred to him that the time-travel process might not be reversible. The circumstances under which the transformation took place, for example, were hardly scientific, with the scientist being killed and the time traveler literally pursued into the experiment. Now it seemed there was only enough plutonium for a one-way trip. Perhaps this is it, Marty mused darkly.
Who could help him? Who could answer his questions? Certainly no one in 1955, an era which was only tinkering with space travel. Unless—
“Sure!” Marty said, snapping his fingers. “Doc Brown must be somewhere around here.”
He walked briskly back toward the soda shop, which he was sure must have a telephone booth. It being Saturday, the place was largely deserted now. A nerdy-looking kid sat at the counter, eating Rice Krispies and reading a comic book. He did not look up as Marty entered. Behind the counter were signs reading “Hamburger—25 cents,” “Ham and Cheese—30 cents,” “Chocolate Sundae—15 cents.” The prices fascinated Marty so completely that he must have stared at them long enough to convince the counterman that he was undesirable.
“Whatever you’re selling, kid, we don’t want any,” he said abruptly.
“I’m not selling anything,” Marty replied. “I just want to use the telephone.”
Marty nodded and started for the booth at the back of the store. Grabbing the directory, he flipped through the pages until he came to the familiar name. “Brown, Emmett L.” Immediately following was the word, “Scientist,” then Brown’s address and telephone number.
Marty smiled and withdrew a nickel from his pocket.
The phone rang and rang. No answer.
“Damn,” Marty muttered, hanging up. “This just isn’t my day.”
He ripped the page out of the directory and sauntered back toward the counter.
“Can you tell me where 1640 Riverside Drive is?” he asked, when the counterman finally looked his way.
“You gonna order something, kid?”
Marty shrugged. Why not, he thought, if it would get him some information.
“Uh, sure,” he said. “Gimme a Tab.”
The counterman sighed loudly, looked at him askance. “You’ll get that later.”