Back to the Future II characters Marty McFly and Emmitt “Doc” Brown traveled ahead 30 years in a time machine to the fictional, small-town Hill Valley backdrop—eerily similar to Hollister—in the second installment of the 1980s trilogy.
In the movie, they arrived on Oct. 21, 2015, which would have been today, with the goal of altering a chain of events leading to prison time for Marty’s future son. Immediately, the grandly futuristic hometown—portrayed as three decades after the original 1985 setting of the movies envisioned by screenwriter and director Robert Zemeckis—blew them away.
“The future…” Marty pondered in a classically Michael J. Fox, eternally pubescent crackle. “Unbelievable.”
Flying cars whizzed through a metro freeway in the clouds. Jackets had automated, instant alterations for sleeve sizes and drying. Local gang members wore armor fit for the robot wars or a battle over junkyard supremacy. A whale-sized hologram of a Jaws 19 shark lunged and pretended to eat Marty. Skateboards became hover boards floating over dry land. A Pepsi was $50.
The vision, still wildly entertaining three decades later and void of cell phones or SUVs or Kendamas or the Internet, was preposterous. And it was at least a half-century off on its signature prediction, the Freeway Flyers.
Hill Valley, now embedded in world culture and childhood narratives like table salt, was a physical portrait resembling Hollister in many respects. It was another small California town with farm fields, an iconic downtown clock tower, a gated community or two on the town’s outskirts, a Granada-like historic theater, rebelling skateboarders and the town’s general pursuit of innocence.
If Marty and Doc somehow landed in the nonfictional Hollister instead of the fictional Hill Valley on Oct. 21, 2015, the script would’ve read something like this:
It’s the afternoon. Marty and Doc arrive in the future as they levitate to the ground in Wentz Alley behind The Whiskey Creek Saloon. Doc had asked to briefly stop in Hollister but didn’t initially explain why.
Marty walks into the alley, dizzied by a state of wonder as if he’d just discovered a new continent, and looks up at a lime tree oddly placed in a mostly paved, dingy area of downtown. He pulls off a piece of fruit.
“Doc, do we figure out the whole urban farming thing in the future?” Marty says. “That’s unbelievable.”
Doc turns and replies.
“Great Scott, Marty! Don’t touch that,” he says. “This isn’t exactly prime farmland next to the Whiskey Creek Saloon, and doing anything to change this small town could alter history through a catastrophic chain of events.”
At this point, a homeless man with one permanently closed eye, long rustled black hair and a coat as weathered as his face walks by and stops near their DeLorean time machine to watch them talk.
“Whatever you say, Doc,” Marty tells him, gulping with nearly every word. “You know, after everything that just happened in 1955 with Biff and my young mom wanting to grope me and all, I could use a Pepsi and Doritos and maybe a Snickers and some Gummy Bears, if they still exist.”
Marty, or Michael J, counts on his fingers as if figuring how much money he made in a sentence.
Doc perks up, with the homeless man next to him unfazed by the time-travel talk.
“I know exactly where to go,” Doc says in his consistently rushed tone. “We’ll pick up fuel before making our planned stop and heading back to Hill Valley.”
The DeLorean pulls into a corner parking lot down the road. Marty gazes up to read the colorful store sign.
“Jessie’s Cheap Beer & Cigarettes,” he reads. “This is the future…Amazing.”
He walks in. The homeless man, who’d tagged along in the DeLorean, follows. Store owner Jessie, in a plain button-up shirt and black baseball cap, invites them in as the door jingles.
“What’s up, boss?” Jessie says as they start to peruse the store’s snack selection.
Jessie closely watches the fresh-faced Marty, wearing a vest and stonewashed jeans. Marty grabs his snacks and soda and figures he’ll ask the convenience store owner for directions to a few places in case there’s time for stopping. He’s surprised his items are priced slightly higher than the 1985 versions, but not astronomically inflated or closer to the $50 Pepsi exaggeration in the real script.
“Look, pal,” says Marty, as cool and masculine as usual despite his 5-foot-nothing frame, “do you know where to find clothes that normal kids might wear these days?”
Jessie replies assuredly from behind the counter.
“Yeah. Target, boss. Target has everything, man.”
“OK,” Marty goes on, his voice continuing to crack, “so where do I go for deodorant and, I don’t know, guy stuff?”
“That’s easy—Target,” Jessie says.
Marty is puzzled, but keeps asking.
“And what about cleaning supplies?”
“Target.”
“Skateboards? … Exercise equipment? … Video games? … Shoes and socks? … Peanut butter and jelly? … Macaroni and cheese? A Walkman?”
“Target, Target, Target…Target and Target…Target and Target…and Target and Target,” Jessie replies. “But you’ll have to go to Kmart for the Walkman, or the local Radio Shack guy will find you something. Our Radio Shack is great.”
Marty shakes his head walking out, with the homeless man in tow, and turns to Doc who’s rustling through recyclables to fuel his time machine.
“Can we stop at Target, Doc?” he says. “And what happened to New Coke?”
Doc tells him to get in the car, and the homeless man climbs in, too. Around the corner, as they drive off, walks an 80-something version of Biff—the villainous bully in the movies—with a comb-over, hunch and scowl.
“Doc…” he grumbles. “…Butthead. Right on schedule like every Wednesday, here for his trip-tip sandwich.”
We transition to inside the DeLorean about an hour later.
“I can’t believe we stopped in this random Hollister place for one of these…,” Marty says, looking down, “Mansmith’s tri-tip sandwiches.”
“Marty!” Doc replies. “You have to taste these sandwiches. I’ve traveled through every year and place over a 60-year period and this is the best tri-tip anywhere. Parts of the country don’t even realize they exist!”
They levitate onto the top of the Briggs Building parking garage, where Doc eats his Mansmith’s sandwich every Wednesday overlooking Hollister’s clock tower and mountains, reminiscing.
They both eat into their meaty, garlic-bread sandwiches.
“Why is it you love this place so much, Doc?” Marty says.
Doc stares over the quaint Hollister skyline.
“Marty,” Doc says, uncharacteristically slowing his tone to a calm peacefulness, a complete sense of relaxation. “Here in this place, Hollister…”
Marty peers, without a blink, and Doc continues.
“Time…In some ways, it always stands still,” Doc says. “Everywhere else, things change. But here, this is something else. That clock, this place, this Hollister, there’s nowhere like it.”
As the frame widens on the Briggs Building’s third-story roof, overlooking a typical Hollister Wednesday night, when basically nothing happens, it is revealed that Biff is watching them talk and eat their sandwiches. His presence leaves the possibility, depending on commercial success of this column, for a sequel.
