“He just got up and left,” Sam said.
“I guess he didn’t want to get involved,” Marty murmured, thinking how much like George McFly that was. “Anyways,” Sam said, turning once again to the rabbit ears, “pedestrians got no right to be fooling around in the middle of the street. Any judge’ll tell you that.”
“Oh, don’t mind him,” Stella said. “He’s just in one of his moods.” She started to lead Marty toward the dining room, calling back to Sam over her shoulder. “Quit fiddling with that thing. It’s time for dinner.”
Sam, studiously ignoring her, continued adjusting the rabbit ears until the picture was completely unwatchable.
The dining room was already half-filled with people. Seated at the table, ready to pitch in, were Milton, twelve, who was wearing a Davy Crockett coonskin cap; Sally, six; Toby, four; and in the playpen on the floor, eleven-month-old Joey.
Stella made the introductions. Marty was utterly fascinated, seeing his aunt and uncles looking so different. Joey, about to take the first steps in a long unlucky life, was rattling the bars of his playpen and salivating wildly. Marty looked at him, shook his head. So you’re my Uncle Joey, he thought; get used to those bars, kid.
“He seems to enjoy being there,” he said to Stella. “It’s like he belongs.”
“Oh, yes,” she replied, unaware that Marty was being mildly sarcastic. “Little Joey loves being in his pen. He actually cries when we take him out. So we leave him there most of the time. It seems to make him happy and certainly quiets him down.”
He’s become institutionalized already, Marty thought, laughing inwardly.
“I hope you like meat loaf, Marty,” Stella said. Some things never change, Marty thought.
“Oh, yes,” he said.
“Sit here, Marty,” Lorraine offered, pulling out the chair next to hers.
“Thanks.”
Marty sat, noting that the plate in front of him was already filled with meat loaf, mashed potatoes, mixed vegetables, and macaroni and cheese. In fact, the dinner was an exact replica of the one he had eaten the night before in 1985.
Everybody pitched in, except Lorraine, who toyed with her food. Marty wondered when she had made the switch from finicky taster to eating machine.
As the family proceeded, Stella kept yelling instructions and criticism to everyone except Marty. “Milton, don’t eat so fast! Lorraine, you’re not eating enough. Have some mashed potatoes…Sally, don’t hold your fork like that. You look like somebody who just got off the pickle boat…Don’t push everything on the table, Toby…My Goodness…Sam, would you quit fiddling with that television set? Come in here and eat…”
Her husband had no intention of giving up television watching during dinner, however. Striding away from the living room set, he soon reappeared with a brand-new set on a plywood dolly.
“Look at is,” he announced proudly. “I made the dolly myself so we can roll it in the dining room and watch Jackie Gleason while we eat.”
“Oh, boy!” Milton exclaimed.
Mrs. Baines sighed wearily. About the only time she commanded attention was during dinner hour. Now Sam had found a way to take that away from her. But she was wise enough to know she couldn’t fight it.
Sam fiddled with the rabbit ears of the new set, finally managing to bring in a rather muddy image of a cigarette commercial.
Marty watched, fascinated, as a surgeon stepped out of an operating room, lit up a cigarette, and began speaking to the audience. “After facing the tension of doing three lung operations in a row, I like to relax by lighting up a Sir Walter Randolph. I know its fine tobacco taste will soothe my nerves and improve my circulation…”
‘That’s incredible!” Marty said, in spite of himself. He had never seen a television commercial advertising cigarettes and couldn’t quite comprehend the brazenness of it.
Sam Baines thought the young man was commenting on his excellent job of fine tuning. He beamed as he said: “Yep. Look at that picture…It’s crystal clear. You’re right, boy, it’s incredible all right.”
“I meant the cigarette commercial,” Marty replied.
“What’s so incredible about that?” Lorraine asked.
“The way the doctor is advertising it. Cigarette smoking causes lung cancer. How can he do lung operations and then puff a cigarette? It’s crazy!”
“Well,” Sam muttered. “They ain’t proved anything yet. Don’t see why a doctor can’t advertise cigarettes if he wants to.”
“Because it’s immoral.”
“Don’t be silly.”