George McFly was a pathetic, cowardly man. Behind a breathy stuttering voice and a debilitating fear of rejection, he allowed himself to be bullied and pushed around. However, George’s life changed one night in 1955. In the school’s parking lot, during the Enchantment Under the Sea dance, George’s nemesis, Biff, was assaulting George’s future wife, Lorraine. “Get your damn hands off her,” he commanded. Biff rose from the car. Towering over George, Biff grabbed him by the arm and twisted it behind his back. Lorraine tried to intervene, but Biff just shoved her to the ground. As Biff laughed at the two helpless beings, George became infuriated and reached his breaking point. He clenched his fist. With one swing Biff was unconscious on the ground. George helped Lorraine from the ground he asked, “Are you ok?” She just gazed into his eyes with adoration. The camera panned back to George and you could tell that something in him had changed. He would no longer linger in obscurity, hiding behind forced laughter. George moved on. George punched Biff.
Last night, as I concluded a viewing of Back to the Future, I came to a disappointing realization. I have never punched Biff. Not to say there is some big meathead who picks on me. Punching Biff is sort of like the Latin, “carpe diem.” We all have our Biffs in life. Some of us choose to take that fateful swing, others just walk away as Lorraine is violated in the front seat. Sorry Lorraine, I have let you down.
Punching Biff yielded a respectable wealthy life for George McFly. He had become a successful writer. He had Biff kissing his ass and waxing his car. He bought Marty a 4×4. Would it be the same if I “punched Biff”? Would I write a masterpiece? Would I photograph something amazing and win a Pulitzer? Would people take me more seriously? I need to punch Biff…we all need to punch Biff.
Following my little epiphany, I scanned my life in hopes that I might find an instance that could prove me wrong. No.
I thought of high school and a two-year crush that I had on this girl. “Crush” may even be an understatement. “Unhealthy infatuation” (sans stalking) is probably more accurate. For two years I obsessed from afar, but never said anything. Whenever she came closer than the ten lockers that separated us at the beginning and end of the day, I would turn my head. To make a short story shorter, I graduated and forgot about it. From time to time I wondered what might have happened had I done something. Five years passed and I was strangely reacquainted with her. I ended up telling her of my crush. She told me that she remembered me and would have dated me in high school. No matter, now she is both married and insane, but this is just one example of the many Biffs around me.
I often stifle ideas in fear of failing. I sometimes avoid participating in activities, fearing that I will drown in the talent pool. Any time I ever “got the girl,” she instigated it. I was too shy. Biffs are all around me, and yet so many times I have just chosen to ignore them. So many times, a small effort in a different direction could have changed a whole chain of events, yet I brush it aside with anxiety – overlooking anxiety with vice and escapism. I am George McFly. I am obviously not happy about it, so why can’t I just punch Biff? Is rejection really so terrible? When does one reach the breaking point that George reached the night he literally punched Biff?
Joe Lops can be reached at [email protected]