Eagle Lake, Texas — January 18, 1988
The holiday bustle was long over, but Alex Hayes had extended his stay in Eagle Lake well into the New Year. His life was currently dictated by the quiet, grounding rhythm of the Hayes family ranch. While Moonstruck continued its successful run in theaters, climbing the domestic box office charts, Alex was happily isolated, leaving Nancy and Paula to manage the relentless pace of Hollywood.
Today, however, the silence of the ranch was violently broken.
Alex and his father, John, stood side-by-side in the open air of their private gun range, a complex series of targets John had built himself near the far edge of the property. The Texas sun was bright but low, casting long shadows across the dusty berms. They were engaged in a friendly, but fiercely competitive, father-son shooting challenge.
They started with the long game: a .308 precision rifle challenge set at three hundred yards. They fired five shots each at the steel silhouette targets, the heavy cracks echoing across the fields.
John lowered his rifle first, his form still rock-solid after years away from active service. Alex, still breathing slightly heavy from concentration, checked his spotting scope.
"Five hits, Dad," Alex announced, disappointment creeping into his voice. He glanced at his own target. "I hit four. Just clipped the edge on the third shot."
John chuckled, dropping a box of spent casings into a bucket. He flexed his shoulders, which strained against the movement.
"I'm getting too old for this shit," John muttered, already leaning over to pick up the handgun case.
Alex laughed loudly, pulling off his ear protection. "You're not fooling anyone. You're using that line for everything now, aren't you? Lost a tennis match? 'I'm getting too old for this shit.' Can't open a pickle jar? 'I'm getting too old for this shit.' You were born old."
"Hey," John admonished with a wide grin. "It's a classic line from a classic movie. You should appreciate it." John, an old-school action fan, had preferred Lethal Weapon—released the previous year—over Alex's mega-hit, Top Gun.
Alex said, "Dad, it only released last year. It can't be a classic already."
John smiled. "Oh, believe me, it is a classic. And it will be a classic."
"Whatever. You're still the better rifle shot, anyway," Alex admitted, grabbing his own sidearm.
John nodded with a quiet, residual pride. "Well, I have experience, son. Remember, I was a sniper in my Navy SEAL unit for over a decade. Three hundred yards with a rifle is like breathing."
"Alright, Mr. Navy SEALs Sniper," Alex challenged, clicking open the handgun case. "Let's see if your decades of experience can beat my young eyes and twitchy reflexes in the speed drill."
They moved onto the handgun competition: a rapid-fire sequence requiring both accuracy and speed at twenty-five yards, targeting a series of six steel plates placed on separate stands.
Alex, fueled by a competitive streak, was electric with the handgun. His movements were fluid, aggressive, and economical. Where John was deliberate and focused, Alex was immediate and precise.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!
Alex finished the string seconds ahead of his father, the plates falling neatly in succession.
John stared at the still-standing targets, then down at his own gun, which had two rounds left in the chamber. He shook his head.
"Fine," John admitted, tucking the handgun back into its holster. "I guess you won the speed drill. It's all about reflexes now, not patience. Different game."
Alex grinned, high on the adrenaline of the win. "I still wouldn't bet against you in the jungle, Dad. But here, today, I'll take it. Now, you've earned the right to say it one more time."
John, grinning, looked at the rifle range and delivered the line in a mock weary tone.
"I'm getting too old for this shit."
Alex clapped him on the shoulder, laughing. It was moments like these—simple, honest, and entirely disconnected from the madness of Hollywood—that reaffirmed why he needed this time away.
He was rested, grounded, and ready to face the intense pressure that awaited him back in Los Angeles.
********
Alex Hayes's time in Eagle Lake, Texas, served its purpose. The quiet solitude provided the necessary reset for his mind and body.
Two days later, Alex boarded his private jet, trading the sprawling Texas ranch for the organized chaos of Los Angeles. The pressure waiting for him was immense: Moonstruck was currently a massive success, the entire industry was watching his next move, and the filming for Rain Man was scheduled to begin in February.
Alex plunged immediately into pre-production, primarily focused on the meticulous details required to embody Charlie Babbitt, the fast-talking, high-pressure car dealer.
His first stop was the wardrobe department for costume fittings. The goal was to transform Alex into an aggressive young executive of the 1980s. This meant sharp, Italian-cut suits, precisely tailored shirts, and a return to the meticulously groomed hair that signaled Charlie Babbitt's obsession with control and status. The wardrobe wasn't just clothing; it was armor, reflecting the character's self-made, mercenary attitude.
Next came the table reads and rehearsals with director Barry Levinson and the main cast.
The atmosphere in the rehearsal room was thick with unspoken tension, primarily fueled by Dustin Hoffman's deeply bruised pride over the lopsided salary negotiations.
Alex felt the tension but deliberately ignored it. He understood the industry's pecking order and knew the financial disparity was simply a reflection of current market reality. If Hoffman was dealing with resentment, Alex felt it was the older actor's responsibility to control those feelings; professional commitment came first.
There was also immediate tension arising from their radically different approaches to the craft. Dustin Hoffman, a legendary Method actor and product of the Actors Studio, was known for deep, immersive preparation. For Rain Man, he lived and breathed Raymond Babbitt. He relied on internal emotional recall and sensory work to ensure Raymond's movements and speech patterns—the slight rock, the repetitive dialogue, the difficulty with eye contact—were organically integrated, even when the rehearsals paused . This meant Hoffman was essentially in character, or hovering near it, throughout the rehearsal day, demanding focus and patience from everyone around him.
Alex approached the work from a distinctly third-person, observational perspective, often integrating some elements of the Stella Adler method by leveraging imagination and research to build the character's external reality.
He first understood Charlie Babbitt's mental state and motives using his innate empathy, but his execution was technical—akin to seeing his reflection in a mirror and imitating the perfect cadence and posture of a character. This technical, objective approach, honed over years of continuous filming, was efficient and allowed him to maintain distance. He could deliver Charlie's machine-gun speed and cynicism perfectly, and yet, the moment the director called "Cut," Alex could immediately and completely drop the character, preventing the emotional strain from bleeding into his personal life.
The contrast between the two leads—Hoffman's internalized gravity versus Alex's external, calculated propulsion—was the very essence of Rain Man. With this dynamic established and the technical preparation complete, Alex was ready.