The morning sun in Dallas cut across the heavy fabrics of the Adolphus penthouse with a bright clarity that would have waken up anyone.
Duke Hauser sat at the smal carved mahogany dining table near the windows, wearing a white hotel robe over his trousers. He felt well rested.
Spread out before him on a crisp white linen tablecloth was a room service cart.
There was a seared ribeye steak, resting next to scrambled eggs that were still steaming.
Next to that, sat a silver platter holding four buttermilk biscuits, accompanied by a small porcelain gravy boat filled with garlic pepper sausage gravy.
Sitting across from him, Lynda Carter watched the food with a mixture of medical concern and a slight jealousy.
Lynda was wearing his oversized white dress shirt again, her dark hair pulled up into a messy knot.
Her side of the table was a small bowl of plain Greek yogurt topped with a few fresh berries, a grapefruit, and a delicate cup of green tea.
"I am thoroughly convinced," Lynda said, resting her chin in her hand and watching him cut a large piece of the steak, "that you possess a second stomach. Looking at that plate is raising my cholesterol."
Duke chewed, swallowed, and smiled, reaching for his apple juice. "I'm a big guy, Lynda. We also have a three-hour drive today in the Texas heat. I just dont know if we're going to stop on the middle of the road. You, on the other hand, are eating like a person that's trying to make weight for a boxing match."
Whether in this life or on the last one, he hated to travel the I-35.
"I am eating like a woman who has to put on a swimsuit in front of the entire British press in less than two weeks," she countered smoothly, taking a small bite of her grapefruit. "Miss World can't run on sausage gravy, Duke."
"More's the pity," Duke laughed, cutting into a biscuit. "But seriously, honey, you look perfect right now."
Lynda smiled, a soft blush touching her cheeks. She reached across the table and stole a single crisp piece of bacon from the edge of his plate. "I'm sticking to the yogurt for now."
Before Duke could offer a rebuttal, the heavy, black rotary phone resting on the console table across the room shattered the quiet morning with a sharp ring.
Duke sighed, putting down his fork. "Let it ring," he murmured, his eyes fixed on Lynda. "No studio business today."
The phone rang a second time. Then a third.
Lynda tilted her head, a knowing smirk on her lips. "Duke, that ring has 'Barry Diller' written all over it. If you don't pick it up, he's going to charter a helicopter and rappel through the window. Just answer him."
Duke chuckled. He stood up, and walked over to the console.
"Speak," Duke said simply.
"Duke! Finally!" Barry Diller's voice came through the line. Even over a long-distance connection, Duke could practically hear Diller pacing around his office in Los Angeles. "I've been trying to get the hotel operator to put me through for twenty minutes. They told me you had a do-not-disturb on the line."
"I do," Duke said calmly, looking out the window at the Dallas skyline. "And yet, here we are. What's the emergency, Barry?"
"No emergency," Diller said, "I just got the overnight box office numbers from the East Coast theaters. Lady Sings the Blues is still a big hit. We are selling out shows in New York, Chicago, Detroit, Atlanta. The theater owners are literally calling begging for more prints."
"How is Diana handling the news?"
"Diana Ross is currently on top of the world," Diller laughed. "She called my office an hour ago. She wants to personally thank you. She said she's throwing a private dinner at her place in Beverly Hills next week, and she has a seat for you at the head of the table."
"Send her a good amount of flowers," Duke instructed smoothly, seeing from the corner of his eye how Lynda stole a piece of steak from his plate. "Tell her I am thrilled, and that I'll gladly take her up on the dinner the second I get back to the coast."
"Done," Diller said, the scratching of a pen audible over the line. "Now, onto the second item. And this one... well, this one requires a bit of spin control."
Duke's positive outlook remained entirely unbothered. "Lay it on me."
"The literary reviews for Neuromancer this morning," Diller said, "Duke, it's bad. The New York Times called it 'an incomprehensible mess of techno-babble.' The Chicago Tribune said it was 'a depressing, drug-fueled hallucination that alienates readers.' Everyone is calling it a total flop."
Duke let out a laugh.
"Dude," Duke said warmly, "do absolutely nothing."
Diller paused. "Nothing? Duke, they're trashing your... good name. They're saying that the money has made you lose touch with audiences. It's bad for your brand and Paramount's brand."
"It's perfect for the brand," Duke corrected, "Barry, listen to me carefully. People will understand it on the future."
"So we just let them call it a flop?" Diller asked, clearly struggling with the concept of intentional bad press.
"Let them be wrong, Barry," Duke said, "Let the critics print their little reviews. Trust me."
There was a long silence on the line. Then, Diller let out a slow exhale. "Alright. We hold the line. Go enjoy Texas."
"Good, see ya. Don't call me anymore," Duke said, hanging up the phone.
He walked back to the table and picked up his fork.
"Everything alright?" Lynda asked, pushing her empty grapefruit bowl aside.
"Everything is perfect," Duke smiled, cutting another piece of his slightly smaller steak. "Diana Ross is a movie star, and the New York Times thinks I'm a rich lunatic."
An hour later, the quiet domesticity of the penthouse gave way to preparation. It was time to hit the road.
Lynda emerged from the massive marble bathroom. She had traded the oversized dress shirt and the cheerleader uniform for a pair of tailored denim jeans, paired with a white, western-cut blouse tucked in at the waist.
An intricate, heavy silver belt buckle rested at her hips, matching a squash blossom necklace at her throat. She finished the look with a pair of dark brown leather riding boots.
"Well," Duke said, leaning against the doorframe of the bedroom, crossing his arms. "I don't know if Austin is ready for you."
Lynda smiled, doing a slow spin. "I figured if I'm going to spend the day with two Texas boys, I shouldn't look like I just stepped off a runway in London. Does it work?"
"It works great," Duke grinned.
He turned back to the massive walk-in closet to finish his own ensemble. He had packed specifically for this day.
He bypassed the tailored Italian suits and the crisp linen jackets he usually wore for studio business.
Instead, he pulled on a pair of heavy, straight-leg denim jeans and a soft, dark gray pearl-snap shirt. Over that, he threw on a rugged, canvas ranch jacket with a corduroy collar. He slipped into a pair of leather roper boots that offered solid support for his bad leg.
He looked at himself in the full-length mirror.
A quiet amused chuckle escaped his chest. It was a joke entirely for himself.
'I look exactly like an extra on Yellowstone,' Duke thought, adjusting the collar of the canvas jacket.
He knew, objectively, that they probably looked like a pair of wealthy Los Angeles tourists playing a game of cowboy dress-up.
The clothes were a little too clean, the boots a little too polished but Duke didn't care. He clearly wasn't trying to trick anyone into thinking he shoveled manure for a living.
He grabbed a pair of aviator sunglasses that he took from Evans car off the dresser.
"Alright," Duke said, walking back out to the living room where Lynda was waiting by the door. "Let's go meet our guide."
They took the private elevator down to the grand lobby of The Adolphus.
They stepped through the heavy revolving doors and out into the immediate heat of a Dallas morning.
Duke stood on the entrance of the hotel, adjusting his sunglasses. He looked up and down Commerce Street. They had security coming in another car that was supposed to follow them.
"So," Lynda asked, linking her arm through his. "What kind of car does the son of a millionaire oilman and ambassador drive? A Lincoln Continental? A Cadillac El Dorado?"
"Knowing his father," Duke mused, leaning lightly on his good leg, "probably a fleet of black sedans with government plates and tinted windows."
As the words left his mouth, a high-pitched mechanical whine echoed down the street.
Duke and Lynda both turned their heads.
Careening around the corner, taking the turn just a fraction too fast, was a car that defied all taste. It was short, and entirely devoid of aerodynamic grace. The back end looked as though it had been violently chopped off.
But the most offensive thing about the vehicle was the color. A shade of deep purple.
It was an AMC Gremlin.
The purple monstrosity screeched to a halt right in front of them. Duke and Lynda tried to look at a side to see if his security was nearby.
The driver's side window was already rolled down. Leaning out, resting his elbow on the door, wearing a slightly faded polo shirt and a pair of heavily scuffed cowboy boots, was George W. Bush, carrying a massive, shit-eating grin on his face.
"Morning, Duke!" Bush shouted over the rattle of the engine. "Your chariot awaits!"
Duke stood perfectly still, he looked at the car, then at the future President of the United States, then looked back at the car.
Lynda, standing next to him, let out a sudden laughter, completely unable to contain herself.
Duke slowly shook his head, a smile breaking across his face. The absolute absurdity of it was glorious.
"George," Duke said, walking slowly toward the curb. "I have to ask. Was this a bet? Did you lose a wager in a poker game?"
"Hey, don't knock the beast," Bush laughed, patting the side of the purple door affectionately. "She's got character. Besides, you wanted a real Texas road trip. With this car, nobody will think we're rich."
'Not rich, but i also don't want people to think i'm poor.' Duke said in his mind before surrendering to the circumtances of the moment.
Bush pushed the heavy door open and stepped out onto the curb. He started to walk toward Duke, hand extended, when his eyes finally landed on Lynda.
Bush stopped dead in his tracks.
Duke chuckled, resting a hand on Lynda's back. "George, I don't believe you've had the pleasure. This is my partner, Lynda Carter, she's the current Miss World USA."
Lynda stepped forward, extending her hand with a warm smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, George. Duke told me you were our official guide for the day."
Bush stared at her hand for a second before gently taking it. He looked at Duke, his expression filled with respect.
"Duke," Bush said, "You didn't tell me you were dating such a beauty. Good Lord, man. If I had known, I would have washed the car at least."
Lynda laughed, the sound instantly breaking the tension. "I don't mind a little dust, George. I think the car is... very unique. It will be an unique experience."
"You're too kind, ma'am," Bush grinned. He opened the passenger side door and pulled a lever, causing the front seat to violently snap forward with a metallic clank.
He gestured to the incredibly cramped, vinyl-covered backseat. "It's a 2+2, so it's a little cozy in the back. But the AC works... for the most part."
Duke looked at the tiny opening, then looked at Lynda. "Honey, you don't have to do this. I can have Marcus pull the car around and we can follow Bush."
Duke was hoping she would accept so that he would be at a car with AC at least.
"Absolutely not," Lynda declared, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "I promised you a road trip, and I'm not backing down now."
Lynda folded herself into the back of the Gremlin, tucking her long legs to the side. Duke climbed into the front passenger seat, adjusting the seat back as far as it would go, his knees still pressing dangerously close to the plastic dashboard.
Bush jumped into the driver's seat, slammed the door shut, and threw the car into drive. The Gremlin lurched forward, merging into the Dallas traffic.
The Chairman of Paramount Pictures, the Miss World USA, and the future leader of the free world were officially hitting the highway in a purple hatchback.
Once they cleared the dense, concrete sprawl of Dallas and merged onto Interstate 35 heading south, the landscape began to open up.
The Gremlin did not possess a quiet cabin. The wind roared through the open windows, and the engine strained with a loud, mechanical sound as Bush pushed the car to a highly questionable seventy miles per hour. The radio was tuned to a local country station, Willie Nelson's voice barely cutting through the ambient noise..
Duke rested his arm out the window, feeling the hot wind tear at his canvas jacket.
"So," Bush yelled over the wind, keeping one hand casually over the steering wheel. "How long you two been together?"
Lynda leaned forward from the backseat, resting her arms on the gap between the front seats. "A while now, around 7 months."
"You guys look great together," Bush laughed, glancing in the rearview mirror. "My dad and Duke got along great, you should come with Duke to meet him."
Ten minutes later, the purple Gremlin crunched to a halt on the gravel parking lot of an establishment, a small wooden shack sitting off a two-lane blacktop road, shaded by a massive, ancient pecan tree,
There were no other cars in the lot. There was no air conditioning inside.
They walked up to the counter, the screen door slamming shut behind them, Behind the counter stood an older black woman with an apron covered in flour, who Bush greeted by name with a massive hug.
They ordered three plates of peach cobbler and took them out to a weathered wooden picnic table under the pecan tree.
It was, without hyperbole, one of the greatest thing Duke had ever tasted.
The peaches were incredibly soft, practically melting into a thick cinnamon-laced syrup.
"Oh my god," Lynda groaned softly, closing her eyes as she took her first bite. "George, I take back every bad thing I thought about your car. This is unbelievable."
"Told you," Bush mumbled around a mouthful of crust. "Mabel doesn't mess around. I'm sort of a bum in my family but I know where the good food is."
They sat in the shade for an hour. Just three people, sweating slightly in the afternoon heat, eating dessert out of porcelain bowls and laughing.
Duke looked across the table at Lynda, who had a small smudge of cinnamon on her chin and was laughing at one of Bush stories about a disastrous hunting trip.
By the time the skyline of Austin appeared on the horizon, the late afternoon sun was beginning to cast golden shadows across the Texas Hill Country.
Austin in 1972 was a city vibrating with a strange energy.
Even in the future it was the same. (I meet Joe Rogan in Austin once, nice guy, i think he didnt realize i was a fan and was just being polite to a stranger)
It was the epicenter where deeply entrenched, conservative Texas tradition collided with the exploding counterculture of the 1970s. Long-haired hippies with acoustic guitars shared the sidewalks with men in Stetson hats and leather boots.
Bush navigated the Gremlin through the crowded streets surrounding the University of Texas campus. The iconic UT Tower loomed overhead, casting its shadow over the grounds.
"Alright," Bush said, pulling the car onto a access road leading toward the College of Fine Arts. "Showtime."
They pulled up to the front steps of a limestone building. Waiting for them on the wide concrete plaza was a small reception committee.
Standing on the steps were the President of the University and the Dean of the College of Fine Arts, both men wearing tailored, conservative suits.
They possessed the serious aura of academics preparing to receive a massive influx of capital.
They watched with a mixture of politeness and confusion as the purple AMC Gremlin lurched to a halt in the VIP loading zone.
Duke opened the door and stepped out, adjusting his canvas jacket and leaning on his silver-tipped cane. Lynda followed, Bush killed the engine, which made a weird sound twice before finally dying.
The University President recovered quickly, stepping forward with a wide, professional smile.
"Mr. Hauser," the President, Stephen Hopkins said, extending his hand. "Welcome to the University of Texas. We are incredibly honored to have you on campus, and this must be Ms. Carter. A pleasure."
"The pleasure is ours, Mr. Hopkins," Duke said, shaking the man's hand warmly. "Thank you for accommodating us on such short notice."
"When Paramount calls, we clear the schedule," the Dean added, stepping forward. "If you'll follow us inside, we have the auditorium prepared. The faculty and the upper-level film students are gathered."
They walked through the heavy glass doors and down a long, echoing hallway.
The auditorium was packed. Hundreds of students, dressed in denim, and vintage flannels, sat in the raked seating. The faculty stood along the walls.
When Duke walked down the center aisle, the low murmur of conversation instantly died.
They knew who he was. He was the man who had bought Paramount, financed The Godfather, and had been dominating the American box office. To these kids, he was the gatekeeper to their universe.
Duke walked to the podium.
"Los Angeles," Duke began, "is a gated community for people who are terrified of life. The industry, wants you to move to Burbank, fetch lattes for a guy who hasn't felt an emotion since 1958, and beg for the divine right to touch a camera."
He paused, a mischievous glint in his eye as he scanned the room.
"I don't believe in begging. It's bad for the knees and worse for the soul. I've looked at your equipment room." Duke made a face as if he'd just tasted sour milk. "You're shooting on 16mm scraps and the editing bay is an antique too."
He gestured vaguely toward Mr. Hopkins, who was standing in the sides listening.
"So, starting next month, Paramount is going to help create the Hauser-Paramount Center for Cinematic Arts with new cameras, lighting equipment and editing bays."
The auditorium applauded. Faculty members looked at each other in happiness.
"But," Duke raised a finger, "If you want to actually make a movie, you need to develop what I call 'Good Criminal Energy.' You see, filmmaking isn't about following rules, It's about breaking them."
Mr. Hopkins blinked. Several professors leaned forward, their brows furrowing.
"For instance," Duke continued, tapping the podium with a silver coin he'd pulled from his pocket. "Every aspiring director should carry a few essential items."
"First. Bolt cutters. If there is a fence between you and the perfect sunset shot, the fence is wrong, and the bolt cutters are right. You operate with a guerrilla mindset, or you don't operate at all."
A few students began scribbling in their notebooks.
"Second," Duke said, holding up the coin. "A silver medal or a large coin. Learn to make rubbings. If you need a permit seal for a location you haven't been invited to, a little graphite and a silver coin can forge a very convincing 'Official' document in the back of a van. It's all about bypassing the bureaucracy."
At the back of the room, George W. Bush leaned against the wall, with his eyebrows raised. He leaned over to Lynda. "Is he... is he teaching them how to break into people's property?"
Lynda didn't look away from Duke, "His heart is in the right place, George. He's just... passionate about films."
"You also need a set of lockpicks," Duke added casually, "It's a crucial skill. And read a lot, if you don't read, you don't think."
Duke leaned his elbows on the podium, looking truly relaxed. "And quit worrying about film school after this year. If you want to understand, go into the real world. Go work as a bouncer or farmer. Spend a month working in a mental asylum. Go somewhere where people are actually living, and lying to each other."
The faculty were looking at one another in confusion. One Dean looked ready to tackle Duke, but he remembered the check for the sound stage and stayed frozen in place.
"Now," Duke said, his voice lowering. "If you find yourself needing to shoot in a downtown area without a permit, the best thing to do is fake a shooting permit by-"
The microphone cut out with a violent burst of static.
Duke tapped the mic, and looked over to the sides. Mr. Hopkins was standing there, his hand resting firmly on the power switch for the audio rack. The President stepped onto the stage, his face carrying a forced smile.
"Thank you, Mr. Hauser!" Mr. Hopkins shouted, his voice loud as he tried to fill the auditorium without amplification. "A truly... unconventional yet generous speech! Let's give another round of applause for our benefactor as we move to the reception for refreshments! Refreshments in the lobby!"
As the room dissolved into a frantic swarm of students, Duke kept his eyes on the exit. He was looking for a bearded young man he had recognized as he spotted him earlier staring.
Duke handled the approaching faculty with a practiced, million-dollar smile, nodding at their clarifications of his speech while his eyes looked around.
He was looking for someone and after a few minutes, he found him again.
Standing near the back exit, leaning against the cinderblock wall, was a young man in his late twenties. He had a thick, unkempt beard, wild eyes, and a nervous energy.
Tobe Hooper.
Duke politely excused himself from the Dean, navigating through the crowd until he reached the back wall.
Hooper watched the Chairman of Paramount Pictures approach, his posture stiffening.
"You don't look like you're celebrating, Tobe," Duke said, leaning against the wall next to him, deliberately keeping his voice low to avoid drawing a crowd.
Hooper blinked, startled that Duke knew his name. He clutched his satchel tighter. "New cameras need good scripts, Mr. Hauser."
"You're right," Duke nodded, "You know, most of the kids in this room are going to use my new cameras to make derivative art-house fluff, yetI don't care."
Hooper frowned, his eyes narrowing. "Then why come?"
Duke turned to face him fully as he reached into the pocket of his canvas jacket. He pulled out a small, white card.
He held it out.
"What is this?" Hooper asked, hesitantly taking the card.
"My number-," Duke said quietly. "Well, its my assistant's number, lets get a meeting set up."
Hooper looked down at the card still nervous, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Why?"
"Because," Duke smiled, "I want to talk about movies with people who like films."
Duke patted the young director firmly on the shoulder and turned away, walking back into the crowd to find Lynda and Bush.
___
Went for a sort of more comedic tone
Werner Hegzog advice is to always carry bolt cutters