“Something like that, only more important.”
“I don’t know,” George temporized. “I’ve got a feeling she’d rather go out with somebody else.”
“Anyone in particular?”
George nodded.
“Who?”
“Biff,” he replied miserably.
Marty blanched. Was George’s assertion a product of his overdeveloped paranoia or a fact? The very thought of his mother going out with a first-degree creep such as Biff Tannen made his flesh crawl. He had never considered her a mental heavyweight, but she did have a certain amount of common sense and taste. Even allowing for youthful ignorance, Marty simply could not imagine Lorraine at any age being attracted to an insensitive clod like Biff.
“I don’t think so,” he said simply.
“He’s with her now,” George replied.
Marty looked across at Lorraine’s table. Standing behind her with his hands on her shoulders was Biff. His mother did not look happy, however. Turning sideways to avoid him, she wrestled his fingers loose. Smiling roguishly, Biff replaced them.
“He’s there, but I don’t think she wants him there,” Marty said.
Getting up, he walked across the cafeteria until he was close to Lorraine’s table.
“Quit pawing me, Biff!” he heard Lorraine say. “Leave me alone.” And once again she pried his fingers loose.
She spoke in a rasping whisper, as if trying not to attract the attention of others nearby. Biff made no effort to play down the scene. Putting his hands back on her shoulders, his voice was embarrassingly loud.
“Come on, Lorraine,” he said. “You want it, you know you want it, and you know you want me to give it to you.”
Still the same old subtle swine, Marty thought.
“Shut your filthy mouth,” Lorraine replied. “I’m not that kind of girl.”
“Maybe you are and just don’t know it yet,” Biff leered.
“Get your meat-hooks off me!”
“Come on, you love these meat-hooks.”
Marty took several steps forward until he was standing right next to Biff, close enough to tell that the greasy hair tonic he wore was a different brand than his own…close enough to see the mottled complexion and couch his warning in a firm but intelligible whisper.
“She said to get your hands off her.”
Biff turned, his jaw slack and eyes full of anger. “What’s it to you, butthead?” he said.
“Never mind. Just clear out.”
“Says you and what army?”
“Just me.”
“You know, you’ve been looking for—” Biff began, his body coiled as if to strike. In midsentence, however, he paused; his eyes avoided Marty’s, instead looking over his shoulder. In fact, they were focused on the domineering figure of Gerald Strickland, who had entered the cafeteria and, having sniffed out a trouble spot, was walking inexorably in their direction. Biff’s expression softened from hostility to abject terror.
“Since you’re new here, twerp,” he muttered, “I’m cutting you a break today. So why don’t you make like a tree and get outa here.”
Marty, not seeing Mr. Strickland approaching, simply stared at Biff. Lorraine, also unaware of the despot’s entry on the scene, looked at her hero with wide love-filled eyes.
Biff turned and walked off.