Disclaimer: As stated, George McFly and Marty McFly do not belong to myself. The following incident in my vignette is based off a quote from Part One.

Vignette Eight: Saturday

(Twin Pines)

Drip, drip, drip, drip. Marty counted the drops of water that hit his father's expense reports. He was up to seventy-five now and glared at the wet papers from his standpoint at the dinning room table. It would be a hundred more if Marty had moved on from counting the times George's glasses slipped down his nose. The papers were halfway drenched but his father didn't notice. He just kept scribbling on them, signing, scribbling, putting the page in another pile, scribbling… drip. Seventy-six.

"Dad I'm so bored."

George, after the two hours of Marty sitting and watching him, looked up. The black-rimmed glasses slipped down his nose again. "Marty," George mumbled. He always mumbled. The family was used to it. "If you're bored than go find Dave and play outside."

Marty groaned. "Dave's wrecking his brain on math homework and it's raining, Dad."

"Then go watch TV," George said as he pulled out another yellow form. Marty got up from the table and retrieved the remote. The little TV behind his father came to life with the introduction music to the Twilight Zone. Even with the loud eerie voice-over of the host, George continued to scribble on those yellow forms. "Can't you just do that stuff later?"

"Well, son, Biff likes to sleep in on Sunday…"

Marty groaned again, a little louder than was necessary. In the corner of his blue eye, Marty saw his father flinch like someone had pinched him in the chest. A tiny surge of guilt hit the boy but he ignored it. There was no talking except for the lady screaming on the TV. The quiet lasted until George gave it another try: "Why don't you see what Linda is doing?"

"Are you kidding?" Marty said, lifting his head off of his arms. "She's been in the bathroom since lunch."

"Is she okay?" George asked, looking up from the forms.

"Yeah, she's just staring into the mirror and sighing." Marty informed. "Pretty weird. Dad, do all girls get like that? The girls at my school play on the blacktop all the time. When they hit fifth grade are they gonna get boring and weird, too?"

The last part of Marty's words flew past George's ears. His father signed the halfway point of the stack. Just forty more to go and it's almost four o' clock. He was making good time. His gaze went back to his youngest child. Marty was not sitting across from him anymore. Where was he? George's heart rate started going up until he realized Marty was now standing next to him.

"You're just going to do that all day, huh?" Marty asked. His voice was dripping with disappointment and it stung. George closed his eyes to get some patience.

"Marty… I know this is hard to understand when you're eight but-" George tried to find a different version of his Why and Marty could tell. "Uh, adults have to do what their superiors tell them or bad things happen."

Those small blue eyes pierced the back of his neck. George squeezed his eyes shut with an intensity to match the awkwardness. He just wanted to leave, melt, or disappear. Anything so he wouldn't have to face those eyes and that face. As much as he wanted to say something fatherly, all that came out was: "Go watch TV in the living room, please."

The chair slammed as Marty pushed it in. It was almost unbelievable how his father's mind worked. He went into the kitchen and rummaged through the spice rack, taking out pepper, chili powder, and other bottles. Then he went in the fridge and snatched the last Diet Pepsi. It popped extra loud, being the last one. "You wouldn't have to do that stuff if you said no."

His father's only response was the sound of paper being signed. Marty gave it up and focused on pouring substances into his soda. First pepper but nothing cool happened. Next he tried the chili powder. The fizz became very loud but there wasn't any explosion. As the boy reached for the nutmeg, he got his father's attention.

"Son, what are you doing?" George asked, tiredness evident in his voice.

"Experiments." Marty answered as he squeezed peppermint oil into the Pepsi. The fizz grew louder and foamed up and out of the opening. It spilled over the blue of the can and on a trail toward the paperwork. George pulled all the papers onto his lap.

"Son, please."

"Fine." Marty said and took the dripping can away. He dumped it down the sink and went with Experiment Number Two. Taking off toward the living room, Marty flicked on that TV. It blarred cartoons as he sat down and fumbled through his pockets. The magnifying glass and mini Kaboom Poppers were still there and he put them on the floor next to him. Looking up, he checked to see what his father was doing. The guy was still overwhelmed with the forms that weren't even his. Coast was clear. Marty got up quietly and went down the hall. Linda was still examining her face as Marty snuck past her. Good thing because he was banned from her room. The pink and blue wallpaper just screamed GIRLY but Marty made it past it and grabbed the hula hoop. When he got back to the living room, he positioned the hula hoop over the rug. It fit around the braided fabric.

"All right you evil insects…" Marty began as he rolled up the braided rug. It bumped hard into the coffee table, knocking all the junk off of it. One of his mother's brown bottles fell right onto the rug, leaking its aweful smell all over. "Yuck. Anyway, you ants have met you match. Prepare to be obliterated."

The wiggling, squirming, red ants could not find a way out of the hula hoop prison. The army was scrambling more and more as Marty dropped three Kaboom Poppers inside the circle. He checked his father again but George was back into his paperwork mode. All that was left to do was light those things and the ant bites would stop. Free of charge, too. Marty remembered Mom rescuing Dad from letting the exterminator trap them in a cost that only Richie Rich could pay. Now they wouldn't have to pay one cent to get the evil ants out. Marty thought of this as he lit a match and held it to one of the poppers.

"Woah!" Marty hissed as the popper became a sparkler, its fire jumping to the other ones. It was like an unstoppable chain! That is, until it ended by the rug. "Oh no, no, no!" Marty cried but the rug was ablaze in less than a minute.

It was so stupid of him to dump the rest of the poppers on the rug. So, so incredibly stupid! Marty thought as he stamped on the rug. It was a useless effort when other poppers would be lit and explode, raising the fire. One exploded right by his left pant leg and Marty forgot to keep up the quiet act.

"Dad!"

What happened next, Marty just remembered a lot of screaming. It happened in such a quick sequence that his eight-year-old brain could barely keep track of: He was grabbed by the waist and yanked away from the mini inferno. Linda and Dave came in and started screaming.

"Dad, get the firemen!" That was Linda.

"Holy shit! Marty tried to torch the house!" That was Dave.

Marty realized that he was screaming too. Screaming as he watched Dave yank out the fire extinguisher from under the sink, aim it at the fire, proceed to spray it (and everyone's hair) until the rug was just braided charcoal.

0 0 0

"What were you thinking?"

And now it was his mother that was doing the screaming. All the screaming, Marty noticed. His father was in the kitchen, nursing his battle wounds. The bandage on Marty's leg itched like crazy. It wasn't bad enough to go to the hospital, but it was enough to add to the lecture. That was matched with her tiredness of a whole day at work. Not a good combination to be trapped in. Linda and Dave were no help. Dave was still laughing, failing at hiding it, and Linda was convinced the rug would burst into flames again.

"Mom, I was trying to get rid of the ants." Marty said, meeting his mother in the eyes. "They were biting Dave and Linda and me all the time."

"I don't care about the ants," Lorraine said, her exasperation hitting its key point. "My great aunt's rug is ruined! So is your sister's hula hoop! Not to mention your new sneakers and jeans. We were going to have an exterminator come in and take care of this. Now we'll have to scrape up more money to fix the damage!"

Marty looked down at his feet. The Nikes he wore had black all over their bottoms and the sides. The blue swishes were nearly impossible to see. "I'm sorry, mom. I was just trying to help."

Lorraine seemed to accept this, but held up a hand anyway. "Just… go to your room, Marty, and wait for your father."

The eight-year-old walked quietly down the hallway this time. No frightened thoughts ran through his head. No imagined terrible versions of the father-son talk. Marty nearly laughed out loud once inside his and Dave's room. Oh yeah, what a fate! His father was a dummy when it came to this parental stuff. It was the same old, same old. Every time Marty broke something, or had an accident, or made a mess, it was the same old, same old. Dad would come into his room, sit himself on the bed, then proceed to run a hand through his greasy comb over while stammering how Marty shouldn't upset his mother. In George Douglas McFly's mind, that was father-son confrontation. Marty had a feeling that it wouldn't change even if he blew up the world.

The doorknob turned.

"Son?"

Marty turned to see his father's lone head sticking in between the doorframe and the door. "Hey, dad." Marty said as he tossed a baseball up and down. George looked down at his feet, summoning courage to ask for entry.

"Can I come in?"

"It's your house."

George walked in and, just as Marty expected, sat next to him on the bed. "I, uh, wanted to have a talk with you." George began. His left hand drifted up to his comb over and he stroked it flat. Marty caught glimpse of the large beige bandage on his father's hand. The fire really got him bad.

"I said I was sorry," Marty said. He got up from the bed and wandered across the room. Picking up some action figures from the desk, he pretended to be entranced with them. Maybe dad would go away faster if he acted distracted. "I'll give you guys my money from Aunt Ellen if it helps."

The springs on the bed creaked as his father got up. Within seconds Marty felt his hand on his shoulder. "No, no keep your birthday money. Your mother and I took your allowance. She was just very upset. You know how she gets on Thursdays."

"Yeah I do," Marty said as he pretended to examine a toy fighter jet. Its painted green wing tips were chipping and he picked at it. A moment of silence passed and Marty had his back to his father the whole time. "Dad?"

"Huh?" George was still picking at his bandage.

"Nevermind," Marty stopped the words from coming out. Or, at least, he thought he had a handle on it. The memory of Mom yelling, Dave teasing, Linda screaming, and his allowance being revolked, all while his father just sat there made his cheeks flush. Then out spilled: "This was all your fault!"

There was no return yell. No glare, no nothing. Marty just stood there, cheeks flushed and toy fighter jet clutched in his fist. All George did was sit and stare. It seemed like a day had passed by when his father blinked. One word came out: "Marty…"

"Go away!" Marty yelled. He wasn't sure what was going on as he yanked on his father's arm. It was all an enraged blur as Marty pushed his father out of the room. George made no movements of resistance. He didn't even utter one word in defense, just as Marty had predicted. The only look was that standard blankness as Marty slammed the door in George's face.

Marty threw himself on his bed and punched the pillow off. Not fair! Not fair! Not fair! If his father had put down the boring papers, which weren't even his, then the rug would be fine and his allowance still on. His father knew that he was saving up. One of Dave's friends was in a family band. He had offered to teach Marty but for a fee. In just two more weeks Marty could have had enough for lesson one. Dave's friend would even provide a guitar!

The door knob turned and Marty jerked his head up. It wasn't mom ready for an Act II of her lecture. It wasn't George ready to stick his head in, mutter something, and close the door. Dave walked in, chewing on a chicken leg as he made his way over to his bed. Marty watched his big brother push off the math homework and plop down. Dave went on eating until he bothered to look at Marty.

"We started dinner without you," Dave said but not to be cruel. "Don't get blitzed. It's just crappy chicken from the market."

Marty said nothing. He pulled out a Western Willy comic and flipped through it, only looking at the pictures.

"Hey, what'd you do to Dad?" Dave asked. "He came out of here looking like someone asked him to help change their tires again."

"Nothin' happened." Marty deadpanned. He gave up the comic and tossed it off the bed. "Dave, before I was born, was Dad always… like Dad?"

"Are you kidding?" Dave asked in a half laugh. He sat up on his bed. "When I was eight, I wanted him to come teach with the other guys' dads at cub scouts. He nearly had a heart attack when I asked him and a panic attack at the actual meeting!"

"What happened at the meeting?" Marty couldn't help but ask.

"We were learning how to fire a gun," Dave explained. "Mike's dad was really good at it. He goes hunting every thanksgiving, shoots his own turkey. Anyway, he was showing off to the other dads and asked what kind of shot Dad had-" It was at that part Dave shook his head and held it in his hands.

Marty was intrigued. Dad with a gun? It was like one of those… what did Mrs. Plath call it? An oxymoron. "Come on, Dave. Tell me what happened!"

"Okay, okay." Dave said, taking his head out of his hands. He got more comfortable on the bed, as if preparing to finish an epic tale. "Dad said no and Mike's dad and the other dads started pushing him to do it. So, naturally, Dad took the gun. Mike's dad told him to aim it at the big red mark they had stuck in the ground. Dad did but his glasses slid down his nose. He went to push them up and Bam! The gun went off."

"Did he shoot a guy or something?" Marty yelled excitedly.

"No," Dave said. "If Dad shot a guy he'd be in jail. He shot a tree branch. It came down a few feet from the target board. All the dads and guys burst out laughing. Dad nearly melted into a puddle."

Marty leaned back in his bed. Wow, he thought, Just wow. He came to the conclusion in his eight-year-old mind that his father must have been the way he was all his life. If that was true, then he would be the way he was for the rest of his life. Unless Marty could change him. Could he change him? Dave couldn't. Mom couldn't. Linda couldn't. Heck, not even Grandma and Grandpa could. How could he?

"You know something Dave, Dad's always gonna be Dad." Marty said and it was true.