Duke occupied the center of the middle row of the private Paramount screening room, eyes fixed on the screen.
Tonight was about nostalgia, George Lucas was finally showing his final cut of American Graffiti, Duke had already seen it more than once, but he still needed to watch it one last time.
In the far back corner of the theater, George Lucas was filled with stress, smoking with his right leg bouncing against the carpeted floor. Beside him sat Francis Ford Coppola, occasionally leaning over to whisper encouragement.
Robert Evans, sitting besides Duke, was completely still, he was probably thinking of the film's soundtrack still lacking full legal clearance, a logistical problem that could theoretically bankrupt the production, of course Duke wasn't worried since they had already gotten initial confirmation to use it.
Set in the summer of 1962 in Modesto, California, the film follows a group of teenagers as they cruise the streets, grappling with the transition from the sheltered world of high school to the realities of adulthood.
The film centers on four primary characters, but the emotional anchor is Curt Henderson played by Richard Dreyfuss.
Curt is an intellectual who has won a scholarship to go East for college, yet he is paralyzed by hesitation.
While his best friend Steve played by Ron Howard,(the future director and father of Bryce Dallas Howard) is eager to leave their small town, Curt spends the night looking for reasons to stay.
The plot is episodic, Curt's night takes a turn when he spots a beautiful blonde in a white Thunderbird.
His pursuit of this woman leads him into a series of unexpected encounters, most notably with a local greaser gang.
In a major turning point, Curt is coerced by the greasers into a high-stakes act of vandalism. He is tasked with hooking a cable to the axle of a police car.
When the car gives chase and its rear end is ripped off, Curt experiences a rush of rebelliona and he starts to step out of the rigid expectations of his good kid persona.
Curt eventually tracks the blonde to the local radio station. Expecting to find a Goddess, he instead finds a lonely man eating popsicles in a dark room.
In the climax, John Milner finally races the challenger Bob Falfa (a young Harrison Ford). The race ends in a violent crash. While no one is seriously hurt, the sight of the smoking wreckage serves as a metaphor for the invincibility of youth being shattered.
Curt begins the film as a boy terrified of the idea that leaving home means losing his identity. He spends the night chasing the blonde as a distraction from his future.
However, through his encounters with the gang, the DJ, and the wreckage of the race, Curt's perspective shifts. He realizes that staying in Modesto isn't staying safe, it's staying stagnant.
His arc concludes as he boards the plane to leave. And as he looks out the window, he sees the white Thunderbird cruising below.
The film famously ends with a "Where are they now?" texts.
We learn that Steve stayed in Modesto, John was killed by a drunk driver, Terry went missing in Vietnam and Curt, our protagonist is a writer in Canada.
This reinforces the film's core message.
One night of cruising was the last moment of innocence before the world changed forever.
"That's a hit," Evans stood up smiling and looked at Lucas. "We have a hit of a movie on our hands."
A warm applause spread through the audience. Lucas stood up slowly, running a shaking hand through his hair.
Duke stood, smoothing his tailored suit, and walked up the carpeted aisle toward the young director.
He extended a hand. Lucas shook it with a surprisingly weak grip.
"It's a great film, George," Duke said, "The music clearance is a nightmare, yes. But you leave that to Evans and the legal department. We'll write the checks, make the deals, and get it done."
Lucas swallowed, nodding rapidly. "Thank you, Duke. The music... it's the whole soul of the film."
Duke smiled reassuring. "We aren't losing anything, George."
He glanced at Coppola, then turned back to Lucas. "In fact, I've already made a decision about our launch strategy. We're submitting the film to Locarno."
Lucas blinked, his face scrunching in confusion. "Locarno? The festival in Switzerland? Nobody in America has ever heard of Locarno. Why wouldn't we just open it in Los Angeles or New York?"
Duke's smile widened. "Exactly because they haven't heard of it, George. If we open here, the critics might dismiss it as a teen flick. But if we launch at a prestigious European festival, we legitimize it as cinema. Trust me. It's the perfect launchpad."
As the small crowd filed out, chatting about the movie, Duke lingered behind. He watched George Lucas, finally alone, sink back into one of the velvet chairs. The young director dropped his head into his hands.
Duke understood that feeling, He and Lucas ever since he left Ithaca to work with Coppola have had a sort of barrier between one another.
After all, Duke was very grateful still that Lucas helped him make Love Story when he was struggling at the bottom. But now that he was at the top, they weren't as close.
He didn't interrupt the man's private moment. He walked to the side table, picked up a bottle of ice water, and placed it on the armrest beside Lucas and left
___
Inside his office, Duke sipped a brewed cup of Earl Grey tea.
Sitting opposite him, slouched into his leather guest chair, was Robert Evans. The head of production looked like he'd been dragged backwards through a thorn forest.
His usually immaculate hair was a mess, dark circles under his eyes. He'd been buried in the agonizing post-production of Chinatown, a film suffering through a difficult production.
"You look absolutely terrible, Robert," Duke noted cheerfully, resting his elbows on the desk. "I haven't seen you this exhausted since Ruddy wrestled The Godfather away from the mobs on set. How goes the battle for the Los Angeles water rights?"
Evans let out a long groan, rubbing his temples. "Jack is great. A genius, a professional, and a joy to be around. Faye is... well, Faye is Faye. And Roman... The man is a brilliant, Duke, but he's also a deeply insane little dictator."
Duke raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of his tea. "I've heard stories from the lot. Remarkably tense working environment."
He realized Evans must be really mad to call Polansky little considering both of them were very short.
Evans leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. "Stories? Duke, you don't know the half of it. The woman threw a cup of her own urine directly at Polanski's face."
Duke froze while his eyes went wide. The teacup stopped halfway to his mouth. He stared at Evans when a reluctant smile spread across his face.
He tightened his jaw, trying not to laugh, but the mental image was too ridiculous.
Seeing Duke trying to hold, Evans immediately burst into loud laughter. "You should have seen it, Duke! It was glorious!"
Evans wiped a tear from behind his glasses, struggling to catch his breath. "She was forbidden from taking bathroom breaks on set! Roman, in his twisted wisdom, decided that leaving would break her concentration. He literally refused to let her walk to her trailer."
"So she saved it up, Duke. Genuinely saved it in a Styrofoam coffee cup. On a day when he was being insufferable, he stuck his head into her car window to adjust her hair without asking, and she just let him have it."
Duke shook his head slowly, still smiling, astonished by the measures required for women to survive a Polanski set. "I've never hidden the fact that I don't like Roman Polanski as a human being, Robert. Very good director, but as a person... he is truly something else."
"Is she still speaking to him after that?" Duke asked, tone shifting to curiosity.
Evans sighed heavily, his laughter subsiding. "She's speaking at him, Duke. They communicate purely through assistants. But the dailies are spectacular. I swear, the movie is going to be completely worth it. An extraordinary piece of American cinema. But God, I am tired."
Duke nodded. "The great ones always cost a little more, Robert. Just hold it in."
___
By the time the warm, golden Los Angeles evening rolled around, Duke got droven by his security in his Cadillac through the iron gates of Owlwood.
He walked through the front door, and found Lynda Carter exactly where he'd secretly hoped, on the oversized living room couch.
She was surrounded by scattered script pages, still wearing pieces of her Wonder Woman pilot wardrobe, sweatpants pulled over the star-spangled bottoms, her golden bracelets resting on the glass coffee table.
She looked exhausted. The production schedule had been punishing, long hours under hot lights, endless stunt choreography, the immense pressure of carrying an entire project on her relatively inexperienced shoulders.
Duke walked softly into the room, holding two grease-stained brown paper bags from their favorite local Chinese takeout place. "I came bearing vast quantities of steamed dumplings and a great amount of kung pao chicken," he announced gently, setting the bags down.
Lynda didn't even try to sit up. She just rolled her head against the plush cushions, looking at him with heavily tired blue eyes. "You are, without a single doubt, my absolute favorite person in the entire world right now," she whispered.
They ate right there on the couch, balancing the flimsy white cardboard cartons on their knees.
Lynda barely spoke. She just chewed her dumplings, nodded occasionally when Duke mentioned a minor detail from his day, and stared blankly at the far wall.
"You're entirely done, aren't you?" Duke asked softly, reaching out to brush a stray lock of dark hair from her forehead.
Lynda let out a long sigh, lowering her chopsticks. "I'm not done," she argued weakly, "I just... I can't cook anything. I can't even form a thought. I think I can barely even stand up right now."
Duke didn't argue. He reached over, took the half-empty cardboard plate from her hands, and set it safely on the table. Then he shifted closer, pulling her until she was leaning against his chest.
"Then don't stand up," Duke murmured, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Tonight, you don't have to lift a finger."
She melted into him, closing her eyes with a contented sigh. "What happens if I just fall asleep right here on this couch?" she asked, her voice already slurring.
"Then I will carry you upstairs to bed," Duke replied. "I'm very good at carrying things. You're practically weightless compared to my Leatherface suit."
Lynda let out a soft giggle, pressing her face warmly into his shirt. "You still smell like that Leather guy, you know."
Duke smiled, resting his chin on top of her head. "I showered twice already, Lynda."
She shook her head slightly. "Rancid blood doesn't wash off that fast. You need to shower with Tomato pure."
____
Next morning, Duke found himself on a brightly lit environment of a top-tier sports medicine clinic. Duke sat patiently on the edge of a crinkly paper-covered examination table, dressed casually in loose grey sweatpants and a t-shirt.
His right leg exposed.
He'd made the appointment with Dr. Arthur Harris, a orthopedic specialist renowned for treating elite professional athletes, because something inexplicable had happened.
His leg had been feeling better. The aching pain that usually accompanied high humidity or physical exertion had lowered a lot after his weeks on the Texas Chainsaw set.
Dr. Harris, a silver-haired man stood holding Duke's thick medical file, looking over the top of his reading glasses.
"Let me make absolutely sure I understand your timeline correctly, Mr. Hauser," Dr. Harris said slowly, tapping his pen.
"You're telling me that your leg, which has suffered from chronic pain due to traumatic ligament damage from a 1966 Vietnam helicopter crash, started to hurt less after you spent a week sprinting through uneven Texas terrain wearing a heavy fat suit?"
Duke offered a slightly embarrassed, self-aware smile. "I'm fully aware of how ridiculous that sounds, Doctor. But yes. That's what happened. I went to Texas expecting to have to swallow some pain on my knee, and I came back feeling better."
Dr. Harris chuckled. "I've been practicing medicine for thirty years. I've heard stranger things. Let's see what's actually going on in there."
The doctor began a methodical physical examination. He asked Duke to walk back and forth across the small room, observing his gait.
Then to jog lightly in place, watching the alignment of the knee joint.
Finally, he had Duke lie flat on his back, taking his right leg in his hands and manipulating the joint, twisting, pushing, pulling to test the integrity of the damaged ligaments.
Duke felt pressure, but to his surprise, no sharp spike of pain.
"When was the last time you ran with any real intensity before this trip?" Dr. Harris asked, probing deeply into the muscle tissue.
"I swim laps in my pool several times a week to stay in shape," Duke replied. "Good cardiovascular work. But actual running? Not since the crash so... seven years."
Dr. Harris slowly sat back on his rolling stool, pulling off his latex gloves.
"Alright, here's my theory," the doctor began, leaning forward. "Immediately after your crash, you naturally developed a limp. Basic instinct. Your body compensated by building stronger quadriceps and hamstrings, all designed to protect the damaged ligaments."
"Over seven years, massive amounts of fibrous scar tissue built up around the joint. It acts like a natural internal knee brace. The problem is you got so used to walking with that limp that your brain forgot how to command your leg to walk normally."
"The intense running you did in Texas as physically miserable as it was, forced your body to abandon its protective habits."
"You broke the habit of the limp. And because you've been swimming every day, your supporting muscles were already strong enough to handle the impact without further damaging the joint."
Duke frowned slightly. "That makes sense. But if it's practically healed, why does it still ache when the weather turns cold or humid?"
"That's basic physics," Dr. Harris explained, holding up three fingers.
"First, barometric pressure drops before a storm. Soft tissues inside your injured joint expand slightly, pressing against nerve endings."
"Second, synovial fluid, the natural grease that lubricates your knee gets thicker in cold weather, making the joint feel stiff. Third, fibrous scar tissue doesn't stretch like healthy muscle. Cold makes it tight."
An assistant knocked and handed Dr. Harris a manila envelope containing Duke's developed X-rays. The doctor snapped them onto the glowing white lightboard, studying the translucent images.
"Look at this," Dr. Harris said, tapping the film. "The joint space looks surprisingly good for a man with your medical history. No significant onset of arthritis yet. The mechanical alignment is stable. You're doing fine. In fact, considering what you went through, you're doing better than fine."
Duke sat up, looking at the glowing image of his own bones. "So the prescription is to just keep swimming?"
Dr. Harris smiled. "Keep swimming, absolutely. And maybe consider a few sessions with a physical therapist to permanently retrain your gait."
"I'm telling you, Mr. Hauser, the human body is a brilliant, but occasionally very stupid biological machine. Yours kept you alive in a catastrophic helicopter crash, then spent seven years building a powerful internal brace to keep you safe. Now we simply have to gently remind it how it used to work."
___
Havent published cause i been very busy