The Diary of Biff Tannen
June 16th, 1955
Living at my grandmother's isn't exactly what I wanted, but with my parents on the outs, I had to move. I'm tired of their bickering, nagging, and the pure vitriol they hurl at each other, and I can't take another minute of dad telling me to be “more like him”.
I ran into that kid again today. You know the one I mean. I've known him for years, but somehow we got off on the wrong foot. I still remember the first day I met him, glasses pushed up and hair slicked back. He was goofy, even then, and I was coming off of a serious “discussion” with my father regarding the use of fists over brains. I was big for my age, but dad was bigger, so what I said to him didn't matter much.
Poor George McFly got in my way, and I decided to try out some of the physical violence my father so generously heaped on me on a regular basis. A single push and George went down in a heap, but I was so stunned by what I'd done I could barely get a word out. I mumbled something about making like a tree and going away, but I knew I'd bungled the joke. Adrenaline was screaming in my veins, and when I saw the fear on McFly's face, I felt a measure of pride for what I'd done. The kid was scared of me, just because I'd shoved him around.
George darted away, and I slumped against a locker, guilt washing over me. I had no right to do that to another human being, certainly not one like George, and I promised myself I'd never do it again.
How do I get off on these tangents? Must be the Tannen curse. I can't seem to keep my head on straight for more than a few hours at a time, and then I drift off into left field.
Grandma's – right. I don't like it here. She smells funny, and though she's nice enough, it's clear that she doesn't want me here. I wish my mother's mother was alive, since Granny on dad's side seems to share in the same mean streak he's got. I was hoping for a place where I could get away from it all, maybe start over, but it doesn't look like I'm going to get the chance.
September 1st, 1955
I haven't written much, but I've been busy. I managed to spend most of the summer either outside of Hill Valley or away from the house helping a friend detail old cars, and both have been good for my soul and my nerves. It took me the better part of a month, but I've finally got seven poems I think are worth something, and now its just a matter of getting up the courage to show them to someone who matters.
I'm hoping that will turn the tide in my favor, and maybe give me the chance to break out of the mold I've created for myself. For ten years I've been known as the school bully, as the man not to mess with or interrupt. I've played along, allowing myself to indulge in periodic bursts of rage that I've felt simultaneously guilty and ecstatic about. There's something about taking control of your own life by dominating someone else that is infectious, but as I've found out, ultimately hollow.
The truth is that I'm being windy here because I don't want to admit that I broke George's glasses today. He stepped in front of me, and everyone in school knows that I don't take that, so I had to react in order to keep my reputation intact. A part of me wanted to reach out to George, take his hand and tell him I'm sorry, but that would have put my own position in the school in jeopardy.
Instead of making peace, I lashed out and caught George in the back of the head, sending him tumbling to the ground. When I looked up, Lorraine was looking at me from across the hallway, eyes wide and lip trembling. I'd never had the courage to say more than two words to her, usually some neanderthal comment about how she was “mine”, but I just desperately wanted to impress her. From my vantage point on top of George, I couldn't tell if she was horrified or aroused.
It was a bad day.
November 8th, 1955
There was a strange kid at the malt shop today.
I went in there to see if I could get up the nerve to talk to Lorraine like a normal human being, but instead I ended up bullying a few kids and seeing a new one I didn't recognize. He said his name was Calvin, and for just a moment, I saw something in his eyes that I recognized from my own mirror.
He was a tortured soul, one just as lost as I was, and with a rage bubbling just below the surface. He would understand me, I was sure of it, and I knew that all I had to do was reach out and communicate with him, reach out and speak his language.
A bruised ego and a car full of manure later, it seems that I missed the mark.
I've been up here all night, ignoring my grandmother when she comes to the door. I don't care if she hears me crying this time; I need to let it all out somehow. This isn't the life I wanted, this isn't the man I was meant to be.
I know it's hopeless, and I know that I'm likely doomed to spend the rest of my life in Hill Valley, eking out an poor existence and trying to repeat the mistakes of my father. All I really need is a break, a single thing to go my way and I know I'll be able to change things, be able to make a difference.
I just need something to go right.
- D
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