The dry heat of Palm Springs settled over the desert as the production of Rain Man finally moved its last trucks out of Palm Springs. For Alex Hayes, the wrap wasn't just the end of a job; it was the shedding of a skin. He had spent months submerged in the heavy, emotional atmosphere of the film, and as he stepped out of La Quinta Resort & Club, he felt the lightness of being himself again. He had traded his character's wardrobe for his usual attire: a crisp linen shirt, dark tailored trousers, and Italian loafers.
Flanked by his two silent, watchful bodyguards, Alex crossed the polished lobby toward the reception area. The marble floors echoed with their footsteps until a voice cut through the air, calling his name with a quiet but persistent urgency.
"Mr. Hayes! Mr. Hayes!"
The bodyguards moved instantly, stepping into a defensive formation to block the path of the approaching man. Alex paused, looking over the shoulder of his lead security detail. The man standing there appeared to be roughly Alex's age, perhaps in his mid-twenties. He was lanky, with an intellectual, slightly disheveled look. He wore thick-rimmed glasses that framed an intense, observant gaze, and his hair was cropped in a way that suggested he spent more time thinking than looking in a mirror. He looked like a graduate student who had wandered into a five-star resort by mistake.
Alex felt a strange jolt of familiarity. He couldn't quite place the face, though. Alex signaled his guards to stand down. "It's alright. Let him through."
The young man approached, catching his breath. "I've been waiting for you for quite a while, Alex. I wasn't sure if I'd catch you before you checked out."
Alex's brows furrowed as he scanned the man's face. "Have we met before?"
"No," the man said, extending a hand. "I'm Steven Soderbergh. I'm a director. Well, trying to be one, anyway."
The name brought to Alex a fragment of a memory—one of those vivid, disjointed flashes from his "dreams" as Brad Pitt—flickered in his mind. He saw this man, older and more seasoned, directing a heist film with a massive ensemble cast. Now, in 1988, he was just a kid with a vision.
Alex shook his hand firmly. "What can I do for you, Steven?"
"I'm making a film—my first film," Soderbergh said, his voice dropping into a focused, rhythmic cadence. "And I want you to play the lead."
Alex stayed silent for a moment. "Steven, you have a lot of confidence to come to me and ask that directly."
"I figured the worst that could happen is you say no," Steven replied steadily. "But the best that could happen is that you actually listen."
Alex looked at the young director, then at the exit where his cars were waiting. "If you don't have anything else on your schedule for the next hour, why don't you come with me? We can talk on the way."
Steven's eyes shined behind his glasses. "I have nothing but time."
Alex gestured for him to follow, his bodyguards trailing closely behind. As they reached the front desk, the receptionist smiled warmly. "Mr. Hayes, the production team sent over the item you requested. It's been cleared and moved to the valet area. They've been instructed to hand it over to you personally."
Alex thanked her with a nod and led Steven out to the driveway. The valet had already brought around Alex's primary vehicle: a 1988 Mercedes-Benz 560SEC in midnight blue. It was the pinnacle of 1980s luxury—a sleek, pillarless coupe that hummed with German precision.
But parked right behind it was the real treasure. It was a 1949 Buick Roadmaster convertible, the very car used in Rain Man. Alex had a tradition of keeping a memoir from his most significant films, and this beige-and-red beauty, with its iconic "Ventiports" along the hood and massive chrome grille, was the heart of the movie he had just finished.
"That is a stunning piece of machinery, Mr. Hayes," the valet said, handing over the keys with genuine reverence. "They don't make them like this anymore."
Alex tipped the man generously and turned to Steven. "She's a beauty, isn't she?"
"She really is," Steven agreed, staring at the vintage lines. "She looks like she belongs in a museum."
Alex climbed into the driver's seat and turned the ignition. "Hop in," he said over the rumble of the engine.
Steven climbed into the plush leather passenger seat of the Buick, looking around the vintage interior as the bodyguards pulled out behind them in the Mercedes. The Roadmaster roared to life with a deep, throaty rumble, and Alex steered it out onto the open desert road.
"I'm listening—tell me the story," Alex suggested, keeping his eyes on the long stretch of desert road ahead as the wind began to whip through the open top.
Steven began to speak, outlining a plot that was starkly different from anything Alex had touched. He described a story about intimacy, or the lack thereof. He spoke of a character named Graham, a mysterious, impotent drifter who compulsively videotaped women talking candidly about their sexual lives.
As Alex listened, he realized this wasn't just a drama; it was a psychological autopsy. Graham was a "pathological liar" who demanded total truth from others. He was a voyeur who substituted a camera lens for physical touch. He was unsettling, gentle, and ultimately the catalyst that forced everyone around him to stop lying to themselves.
Alex knew the risks. If a role like this wasn't handled with extreme care, it could backfire and alienate his massive fan base. It was the polar opposite of the "Golden Boy" image the public loved.
Soderbergh fell silent, watching Alex's profile as he drove. He had chosen Alex for a reason. The role of Graham required a performer with an innate, unshakable charisma—someone the audience would follow into the darkness and still find themselves liking, even when he was being "weird." He saw that quality in Alex, a magnetic honesty that transcended the script.
"I'll need to see the script, Steven," Alex said finally.
Steven reached into his bag and pulled out a bound screenplay, handing it over. "I've heard you have a strict requirement about reading every word before you say yes," Steven said.
Alex laughed, the sound lost in the desert wind. " Tell me, how did you know I was staying at La Quinta? The rest of the crew was ten miles down the road."
Steven leaned back slightly, a sharp, confident smile spreading across his face. He looked genuinely proud of the legwork he'd done to engineer this meeting.
"There are only so many hotels in Palm Springs that fit your status, Alex," he said with a hint of triumph in his voice. "All I had to do was bribe a few valets and doormen to find out where you were staying.
Alex threw his head back and laughed. "You're clever, Mr. Soderbergh. Extremely clever. Let's see if that intelligence translated to the page."
Alex slowed the car to a stop near a waiting area where his security team pulled up. "I have another engagement to get to. My lead guard will take you wherever you need to go. If you give him your address, he'll have your car from the hotel delivered to you by this evening."
Steven stepped out of the Buick, clutching his bag, his face full of cautious hope. "I really hope you like it, Alex. It's meant for you."
"We'll see," Alex replied with a calm nod. "I'll be in touch."
As the Mercedes whisked the young director away, Alex sat in the idling Buick for a moment. He looked down at the cover of the script sitting on the passenger seat. In bold, simple lettering, the title stared back at him: Sex, Lies, and Videotape.