Dear Doc,

I’m writing to you from the present. You’re probably somewhere in the future. Or the past. Past…future…what’s the difference, am I right? Anyway, my therapist put me up to this. She found it strange that my best friend in high school was a 70-year-old man. I went along with all your reckless experiments. Just so I could use your guitar amp, which I totally wrecked, by the way. Big time. But you made me your lab rat and gave me PTSD. So, no. We’re not even. You might want to buckle up while I share some of my flashbacks with you.

Oct. 26th, 1985, 1:35 AM

You’re mental, Doc. You don’t just cut a deal with Libyan Nationalists! Did you really think they wouldn’t notice their nuclear bomb was a dud?! If you had told me what was going on, I would have personally driven down to the Los Alamos National Laboratory, where they have plenty of plutonium, and stolen it for you. Instead, you got yourself gunned down in a JCPenney parking lot, and me thrown back to the 1950s. BY MYSELF, DOC. Way to go.

Nov. 12, 1955, 10:04 PM

Did you know a stroke of lightning lasts roughly 30 microseconds? DID YOU?! What if I hadn’t hit the cable at the right microsecond, Doc? You acted like I had a whole minute. What if someone happened to be driving through downtown right when I was trying to get my speed up to 88 MPH? What if a pedestrian was crossing the street? Or a squirrel? Nightmares like this are exactly why I started chain-smoking.

Oct. 26, 1985B, 1:24 AM

Okay. I should have given myself more than 11 minutes to save your life. But here’s the bigger question. Knowing you had taped my note back together and knew what was going to happen, why would you still MAKE A DEAL WITH LIBYAN TERRORISTS?! So they could shoot you again? What if they shot you in the face, Doc? What if they shot me in the face?!

Oct 21, 2015, 4:29 PM

Remember our trip to 2015? I don’t. Because I was hardly there. You gave me MINUTES to save my future son’s future. Can you just take in that last sentence for a sec? It’s heavy, right? Not to mention Nikes that lace themselves? A hoverboard?! MY GIRLFRIEND AS AN OLD WOMAN?! I needed at least four hours to get acclimated. And don’t even get me started on how you electronically roofied my girlfriend. Chump.

Nov 12, 1955, roughly 3:00 PM

If there were any doubt November 12, 1955, contained a cosmic junction point for the whole space-time continuum, why risk traveling back to it yet again? WHY, DOC?! We could have avoided the other Marty, old Biff, the dance, and the big storm by stealing the Almanac back the next day, when it was still most likely in Biff’s back pocket. I need a cigarette just thinking about it.

Sept. 2, 1885, 8:00 AM

Thanks a lot, 1955 Doc. Because of you, I had five whole days to save you from your untimely death. Did you forget you had been in 1885 for EIGHT WHOLE MONTHS?! If I had just gone, oh I don’t know, three months earlier, you could have avoided shoeing Mad Dog’s horse altogether. Asshole.

September 7th, 1885

Don’t think I forgot about your emotional breakdown right before our trip back to 1985C. You knew damn well I wasn’t going to just leave you at the saloon and travel back alone. You almost got me shot! Again! Jesus, Doc, it’s a wonder I’m even still alive.

Oct. 27, 1985C, roughly 10:00AM

This one’s classic. It was the day you arrived with your wife and kids on a time-traveling locomotive to pick up Einstein and convince me that you hadn’t abandoned me and our friendship forever. Right before you abandoned me and our friendship forever. I don’t think you even understand what friendship is. Or mentorship. OR SCIENCE!

So this is me saying good riddance. Do not—I repeat—do not attempt to contact me at any point in the future. Or the past. I’m no Karate Kid but I’ll kick your ass.

Take it easy, jerk.

Marty


And now a quick joke...

“You’re the one,” he always said to his wife. “You’re the two,” he always said to his second wife. His English wasn’t very good.