It was late afternoon on February 5, 1973, and Duke Hauser leaned his head back against the plush leather seat and closed his eyes as his driver Russell, drove his white Eldorado Convertible back to Owlwoods.
The last few days political meetings in D.C. had taken the energy out of him.
Today was his birthday. Which felt strange. In the blink of an eye, he had been 7 years in this timeline, of course he had change his circumstances from his poor begginings to now being an, albeit small but still Media Tycoon.
Russel, his driver and bodyguard, caught his eye in the rearview mirror and gave a small, respectful nod.
The wrought-iron gates of Owlwood swung open. Duke watched through the tinted window as groundskeepers moved across the property with mowers.
He rolled down the window as they passed the head landscaper, and offered a warm nod and a wave. The guy's face broke into a surprised smile.
Duke didn't spend nearly enough time at home and these people helped take care of it.
Duke stepped inside his home, handing his overcoat to a waiting staff.
Then he heard some laughter.
His brow furrowed. He hated having strangers in his home.
He walked into the living room and found Lynda by the fireplace, surrounded by crepe papers and half-inflated balloons.
Next to her stood two people he didn't immediately recognize, young, attractive, and nervous. The moment they saw him, their postures stiffened, smiles freezing in place.
Lynda's face lit up. "Surprise, honey! Well, early surprise!"
She walked over and wrapped her arms around his neck.
Duke returned the embrace, kissing her forehead, but his eyes stayed on the two guests.
He recognized them faintly from casting polaroids. Small-time actors.
"Lynda, could I speak with you for a moment?" Duke's voice was low, as he kept a pleasant smile on his face for the unknown actors, but his grip on Lynda's hand was firm as he guided her out of the living room and into the adjacent library.
The heavy oak doors clicked shut behind them. Duke let out a long sigh, he pulled her into a hug, burying his face in her hair, "I missed you," he murmured.
Lynda squeezed him back, her hands rubbing circles around his back.
He pulled back slightly, looking into her eyes. "Who exactly are your new friends out there? And why are they stringing up crepe paper in my living room?"
Lynda rolled her eyes playfully, smoothing his suit. "Oh, stop being such a grumpy guy. That's Michael and Lindsay. They're incredibly nice people. I met them at a charity gathering a few weeks ago, and we just clicked. They offered to come over and help me set up a few things for your birthday."
Duke frowned. "Lynda, you have to be careful. It's hard to make genuine friends in this environment. You have to consider the possibility that they're just trying to use you to get a role."
Lynda's expression softened, but she stood her ground. "Duke, I know you deal with mischiveous people all day, but you can't let that paranoia bleed into your life. Not everyone in Los Angeles is someone trying to climb the ladder. Michael and Lindsay are just nice people trying to figure out their lives. They haven't even mentioned Paramount once."
Duke looked at her, and let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "Alright, you win. You're entirely too good for this industry."
Lynda laughed, and reached up and use her thumb to trace the dark circles under his eyes. "You look like you haven't slept for a while. Your party isn't for a few more hours. Why don't you go upstairs and take a proper nap?"
Duke opened his mouth to protest, he needed to review box office projections, call Barry Diller, but a wave of lethargy hit him so hard he actually swayed.
"A nap doesn't sound terrible," he admitted, his voice rough. "Just an hour or two. Wake me up if something bad happens."
Lynda smiled, kissing his cheek. "Go rest."
The master bedroom was a cold cool place, dark fabrics, heavy curtains blocking out the daylight. Duke took off his clothes, and collapsed face-first onto the king-sized bed. The moment his head hit the pillow, he was gone.
When he opened his eyes, hours had passed. The room was shrouded in darkness. He groaned, rubbing his face, feeling a sharp pang of regret. He hated sleeping during the day.
He sat up, adjusted his wrinkled clothes, splashed cold water on his face in the bathroom, and mentally prepared himself for whatever had happened while he was asleep.
As Duke descended the grand staircase, he noticed an unfamiliar sound vibrating through the walls.
He followed the sound through the house and stepped out onto the back patio.
The entire backyard had been transformed. Oriental paper lanterns glowed hanging from the trees, casting warm light over the lawns.
A jazz trio played softly in the corner. A catered buffet was arranged near the swimming pool. Dozens of people mingled laughing, clinked crystal glasses under the warm light.
Lynda walked up to him, in a evening gown, handing him a glass of champagne. "Surprise," she whispered, her eyes sparkling.
Duke stood frozen, astonished by the gathering Lynda had assembled.
By the pool, gesturing wildly with a cigar, stood Francis Ford Coppola, his wife nearby alongside his two eldest sons, their young daughter Sofia was in the pool with floaters trying to catch a balloon.
A few feet away, George Lucas and Steven Spielberg were huddled in deep conversation while eating shrimp and drinking champagne.
In the center of the patio, a massive roar of laughter erupted from a circle. Mel Brooks was telling an inappropriate story that had Gene Wilder doubled over in laughter.
Marty Feldman stood nearby, adding his own commentary. Duke walked over, immediately enveloped in warm handshakes and loud birthday wishes.
He felt a deep connection to these people, and he appreciated they took the time to come to his party.
Near the outdoor bar, Duke found Blythe Danner standing with her husband, director Bruce Paltrow.
Blythe was holding their tiny baby girl, Gwyneth, who slept peacefully despite the noise and music. Duke smiled warmly, reaching out to touch the baby's small hand. "She's beautiful, Blythe."
Duke tried to forget he actually disliked Gwyneth Paltrow in his previous life.
Blythe beamed from the compliment. "Thank you, Duke. And happy birthday! We wouldn't have missed this for the world."
As Duke continued his rounds, receiving wishes from Barry Diller, Jeffrey Katzenberg, and Michael Eisner, he spotted a figure near the edge of the gardens that made his mind come to a halt.
Standing next to the flamboyant Robert Evans was a tall, groomed man with a smile. Ronald Reagan.
Duke blinked. The Governor of California, a heavyweight of the conservative movement was standing in his backyard. Duke shot Evans a confused look.
Evans just gave a small shrug, making it clear he'd orchestrated this cameo. Duke took a deep breath, slipped back into his role as a mogul, and walked over to greet the unexpected guest.
"Governor Reagan, this is an unexpected honor," Duke said, extending his hand.
Reagan's grip was firm, his smile radiating charisma. "Duke! Please, call me Ronnie. Bob here insisted I come pay my respects to the Boy Wonder of Paramount. And I must say, you have a beautiful home."
The conversation flowed smoothly. Reagan spoke openly about his political aspirations, hinting at grand plans for upcoming presidential cycles.
Duke listened with intense focus. He knew exactly where this man was heading. Having the future President of the United States drinking in his backyard in 1973 was not something he expected.
"You know, Duke," Reagan continued, "sometimes I really miss the simplicity of the silver screen. Politics is a brutal field. If you ever need an old man to come in and make an appearance for a few minutes, I wouldn't mind making a small appearance in a Paramount picture. Just to keep my dramatic chops sharp, hope you understand."
Duke laughed. "I'll keep that in mind, Ronnie. Though my slate's been a bit intense lately."
"I'm not sure we have anything fitting for the governor right now, but we'll find something."
Leaving Reagan in Evans's capable hands, Duke finally went toward the barbecue grill on a side.
Standing there, flipping thick steaks with tongs, was Harrison Ford standing casual, with a beer resting on the brick ledge beside him.
But before Duke could say a word, two familiar figures materialized out of the party crowd.
Mel Brooks, glass of red wine in hand, leaned against the grill station with the casual authority of a man who had never cooked anything in his life.
Beside him, Marty Feldman's enormous weird eyes peered over the sizzling meat.
"Need a hand?" Duke asked, grabbing a second pair of tongs.
Ford grinned, sliding over. "I've got the temperatures under control, but you can handle the marinades if you want to feel useful on your own birthday."
Mel took a long sip of wine, his eyes never leaving the grill. "Temperatures under control," he repeated slowly, as if tasting the words. "Harrison, I didn't realize you were going for that 'charred on the outside, frozen in the middle' style. Is that a new recipe from Chicago?"
Ford's jaw tightened. "It's called searing, Mel."
"Ah, searing." Mel nodded sagely. "I've seen more fire in a damp matchbox. Is the gas even on, or are we just waving the meat near a warm photograph of a flame?"
Marty leaned in closer, his enormous eyes somehow widening further. He pointed a finger at the grill. "That chicken looks so raw, it could still lay eggs."
Duke snorted into his beer. "Nice apron, by the way. Did your boyfriend give it to you?"
Ford glanced down at his perfectly ordinary white apron. Then back at Duke. The corner of his mouth twitched. "It was a gift."
"From a gentleman," Mel added helpfully.
"A gentleman of refined taste," Marty agreed.
Ford flipped a steak with a little more force than necessary. "You three are not doing anything. Does any of you want to actually help?"
Duke picked up a spatula and made a show of examining the grill marks or lack thereof. "I love how you spend so much money in accessories, the tongs, the thermometer, that fancy brush yet the meat still looks raw. What exactly are you probing for in there, Harrison?"
"I'm checking the internal temperature," Ford said through gritted teeth.
"Internal temperature," Mel repeated, as if hearing a foreign language. "Did the men who gave you the apron also checked your internal temp?"
Marty tapped the side of the grill with his foot. "That grill is cleaner than the food. Don't be afraid to let it get a little dirty, Harrison. A little dirt adds flavor."
Duke grabbed two more beers from a passing tray, handing one to Mel and one to Marty.
Mel raised his beer in a toast. "Should I order a pizza for the appetizer, or will we be eating before Duke's next birthday?"
Ford finally cracked. A real smile, reluctant but genuine. He shook his head, flipping another steak. "You know what? I'm going to remember this. Every single one of you. When you're eating this meat, I'm going to watch you take the first bite, and I'm going to say-"
"That A1 sauce will hide most of your mistakes?" Duke offered.
Mel nodded enthusiastically.
Marty picked up a carcinated burger patty with his bare fingers and examined it like a jeweler inspecting a diamond. "It's okay, Harrison. I actually prefer my burgers with the texture of a hockey puck. This reminds me of traditional british food."
Ford snatched the patty back and slapped it back onto the grill. "That's it. No more commentary. You three go to the pool or somewhere else."
Duke laughed, clinking his beer bottle against Mel's glass and Marty's bottle.
The day transitioned into a spectacular evening.
The party grew louder as the wine flowed. But the exhaustion from the D.C. trip eventually crept back into Duke's bones.
Seeking a brief respite, he quietly slipped away from the patio and retreated into his private home studio.
He walked to his oak desk and placed his hand on a thick bound manuscript sitting in the center. His completed draft of A Game of Thrones.
He'd poured incredible energy into it, but looking at it now, he made a strategic decision, he wasn't going to publish it yet.
The market was still obsessed with lighthearted escapism. They weren't ready for this brutal fantasy world. He'd wait a few years until the cultural mood aligned.
Setting the manuscript aside, Duke turned to the mahogany side table where Lynda had arranged the mountain of gifts.
He began opening them, appreciating the thoughtfulness of his inner circle.
A stunning Pulsar LED watch, red digital numbers glowing like a sci-fi prop.
An HP-35 scientific calculator, that he honestly didn't know what to do with. A Louis Vuitton leather travel set,
Then his hands stopped cold on a small grey electronic device. An HBO converter box.
Duke stared at it, instantly recognizing the monumental significance of the little piece of plastic and wire in his hands.
Just as he was examining it, Lynda slipped into the studio, closing the heavy door behind her. "I saw you sneak away," she said with a soft smile. "Looking at your gifts?"
Duke held up the grey box, pretending ignorance. "What on earth is this thing? It looks like a small radio."
Lynda's eyes lit up with excitement. "Oh! Eisner left that for you. It's a converter box for a brand new channel called HBO. Michael says it's completely commercial-free. You pay a monthly subscription, and they give you movies unedited straight into your living room. They even broadcast that Joe Frazier boxing match last January."
Duke nodded, maintaining his mask of curiosity, while his mind exploded with the realization that the era of premium cable had officially begun.
"I'll have to ask Michael about the logistics later," Duke said smoothly, setting the box down.
Lynda practically bounced on her heels, pointing to a massive wooden crate in the corner. "Forget the TV box. I want you to open my gift. I used the maximum limit of your personal account to buy it, but I promise you, it's exactly the kind of thing you'll obsess over."
Duke chuckled, intrigued. He grabbed a silver letter opener and pried the wooden top off the crate. He pulled away layers of protective foam and his breath caught in his throat.
A Xerox Alto.
Duke was genuinely stunned. He slowly reached into the crate, he pulled out a cathode-ray tube screen, placing it gently on his desk. Next came a heavy mechanical keyboard. And finally a small rectangular block with three buttons attached to a long thin wire.
A computer mouse.
"Lynda," Duke breathed, barely a whisper. "This is a graphical interface system. A screen and a pointing device. How did you even find out this existed, let alone acquire one?"
Lynda beamed, glowing with satisfaction at having shocked the man who could see the future. "I made some polite phone calls to the researchers at the PARC facility in Palo Alto. I told them the Chairman of Paramount and the owner of Atari was interested in their work." She paused. "Do you like it?"
"I love it. It's an incredible gift. How much did this prototype cost?"
Lynda bit her lip, looking sheepish. "It's really better if you don't know."
Duke raised an eyebrow.
She sighed. "Thirty-five thousand dollars."
Duke just shrug his shoulders. "Worth it."
After spending several minutes examining the Alto's hardware, Duke moved to the last remaining package, a simple, battered cardboard box marked with George Lucas's messy handwriting.
He opened it to find a meticulously stacked collection of fifteen classic Paddington Bear children's books, accompanied by a red bush hat.
Lynda stepped up beside him, her expression suddenly concerned. "George is such a sweet man, but looking at this... I think he's really struggling with money right now. His clothes are getting frayed, and he looked so exhausted today. Is there anything you can do to help him?"
He reached out and placed his hand on Lynda's waist, pulling her close. "You don't need to worry about George Lucas, his new film is going to be released soon."
The quiet moment was interrupted as the studio door swung open and Barry Diller strode in.
"I'm sorry to intrude," Diller said, "But I just received the secure call from our legal team in Washington. The paperwork has been fully signed, sealed, and delivered. The board has formally accepted our acquisition offer. The Washington Star newspaper is now officially the property of Paramount Pictures."
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Mostly a respite chapter