{New Article} A Date with Clark Gable

It’s Valentines Day, so let’s all go on a date with Clark Gable, shall we?

Ok, first of all, this really isn’t “a date,” more like just meeting a journalist for a quick lunch, so the title is pretty misleading. Also it is of note that it’s long been Hollywood lore that Clark and the author of this piece, May Mann, had a thing going for a while. Apparently to score her first interview with him, she sat outside his dressing room door in a tight, lowcut dress. From then on she scored several interviews with Clark and they were spotted out on the town together in the late 1940’s, So this whole thing is one big charade, but hey let’s read it anyway…

 

Of course there isn’t a girl who would need the slightest urging or a second bid to accept a date with Clark Gable. If Clark suggested horse-back riding, the girl would agree and rustle riding pants and boots, even if she’d never been closer to a horse than on the grandstand at Santa Anita. Or if Clark were at Sun Valley or Yosemite in winter, and he said: “Let’s go skiing!” a girl would brace herself for a dozen spills and a probable broken neck rather than admit she wasn’t athletic, and lose out on “a date with Clark Gable!” Should such an opportunity present itself, she would most likely give her arm a good pinch to see if she were awake or just delirious in the middle of a dream. And that girl might be one of Hollywood’s top-flight stars, a secretary at the studio, or a girl behind the counter in a department store. And the date might be a ride around the bloc in Clark’s sixteen-cylinder Packard roadster, or dinner and dancing at the Trocadero. Even though the Gable dates are pretty well written down on Carole Lombard’s calendar, Clark is still eligible enough. And though the chances of any mere Miss being dated by Gable when there’s the glamorous Lombard in the offing, one never can tell when the circumstances might just be right, and such an opportunity might come to some lucky girl.

Once in the not so distant past, I was sent by an enterprising editor to write a newspaper feature on “How It Would Be to Have a Date With Gable.” When I was introduced to Mr. Gable on a movie set at his studio. And got a first-hand close-up for that boyish grin, the Gable dimples and his engaging personality, I stepped right out of my classification of Hollywood news correspondent into the Clark Gable Movie Fan class. I was not a little confused as I tried to explain the nature of the interview, and kept thinking how faultless were his gray tweeds, the dull green shirt and matching tie of soft wool, and how remarkably well the coat fit on his broad shoulders. Clark wears clothes with a careless grace, seemingly unaware of his sartorial elegance.

“Please understand, Mr. Gable, I don’t want a date personally, I just want to write how it would be—“ and then I hastened to add: “Of course I don’t mean it wouldn’t be nice to have a date, but I assure you I don’t expect one, and this is all business.” (And I felt myself blushing, actually.)

Clark just grinned at me, having a lot of fun at my expense, and suggested we go over to a quiet corner and talk. He soon placed me at ease by relating some commonplace events of the day, and making some friendly inquiries about this rather beflustered and suddenly movie-struck reporter. Prop-men were breaking up the set and so we walked over to his dressing-room. The only photograph there was a large one of Carole Lombard in a beautiful silver frame standing on a small table by an easy chair. A small vase of salmon rosebuds stood by the picture, which showed Miss Lombard in riding habit, without make-up—and looking very natural and lovely.

Clark said he really thought perhaps a story based on reality would be better than one on fancy, and that we should write it after we’d had a date. However, he told about the places he’d like to go, the things he liked to do; what he said when he telephoned a girl, how he always asked her where she would like to go. If she suggested the Trocadero, he would ask her what she was wearing and send a corsage of flowers in harmonizing colors from his florist. For the occasion he would rent one of the long black limousines from the studio, as he only owns two sport roadsters and a hunting station wagon of his own. And of course he would wear white tie and tails and a top hat. But he said if given his preference, he would rather dress comfortably and call the girl and go for a ride. If the circus was in town he would certainly take her there, and they’d munch hamburgers and drink pink lemonade. But if the racing season were on, he’d suggest they go to Santa Anita. And then he always likes the tennis matches. Too, he likes small dinner parties at the homes of friends. Sometimes six months pass before he dons a dinner jacket—and then he will have to drive over to his studio, and take one out of his dressing-room for a formal occasion. And so we wrote an entertaining story, though Clark said at the time that someday he would give me a firsthand story on a date with him.

Several months later, my telephone rang one afternoon, and a rather boyish, but low modulated voice spoke from the receiver: “Hello, this is Clark Gable.” And when in stunned silence, I failed to answer, the voice repeated: “Can you hear me, this is Clark Gable speaking. How are you?” And then concluding that of course it was some boy friend trying to play a joke on me I blandly replied: “You don’t fool me one bit. Now next time you call just say you’re the King of Siam and I’ll believe you just as much.” There was a laugh at the other end of the wire and the voice persisted: “But truly, this is Clark, and I happen to be just a short distance from your house, and I thought you might have lunch with me.”

I didn’t even bother to powder my nose, or change my dress, because of course I expected no one. Five minutes later a car drove up my front gate, and I glanced out the window to see Clark Gable in person coming up the walk!

I’m sure Carole cocked an amused eyebrow at May’s line “Even though the Gable dates are pretty well written down on Carole Lombard’s calendar, Clark is still eligible enough.”  Oh really? I do like her description of Clark calling and her not believing him, even though it’s more than likely hogwash.

By this time we had reached a popular section of the city, where we selected a restaurant. Clark parked his car at the curb, then noticing he had parked partly on a  red zone, he turned on the ignition and backed out again, and we found another place up the street. A girl who dates with Clark need never have fear of landing in a traffic court. He is very thoughtful and considerate of the law and observes parking rules.

By this time several side-walkers who had recognized Clark when he attempted to park the first time had spread the word, and he was greeted by a dozen or more people who came running up the sidewalk, in full speed, shouting, “It’s Clark Gable! It’s Clark Gable!” Clark smiled good-naturedly and came over to my side of the car to help me alight, but before he could open the door he was besieged from all sides by autograph hunters, who popped up from nowhere, so it seemed, and girls and women who frantically rushed to reach him. He tried to make room to open the car door to help me out and I took mental note, that this was how it was to have a date with Clark Gable, and that I was in the shoes of Lombard—for the time being!

Finally Clark was able to get me out of the car into the swirling mob, which seemed to be increasing by the minute. Traffic was in a decided snarl, and extra policemen appeared from several directions. Two of them secured our arms and helped us to reach the sidewalk. All of which was so different than I had ever imagined a date with Gable would be like. But this was only the beginning.

Clark doesn’t like to turn down autograph hunters, so we’d hardly gone ten feet, with me hanging on his arm, and a dozen women frantically clutching at me, endeavoring to get to him, when Clark stopped and started signing autographs. People stepped all over my toes in the general rush, but their faces were smiling and eager—so I could only try to tuck my toes still further back and hope I’d be able to walk out alive. No one grabbed roughly at Clark, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a screen star shown more genuine respect and admiration. Though he was surrounded by three hundred people who firmly pushed their way up for autographs, they were courteous.

“That isn’t Carole Lombard,” was among the whispers floating around my ears—and I think the most ignored, and lease carefully handled person on the crowd on the sidewalk was the girl who was finding out what it was to have a date with Clark Gable!

Clark signed and signed while at frequent times I could hear little rips in my fur coat, as tugging hands sought to gain closer position to Gable. While Clark autographed he talked to me and said he hoped I didn’t mind, that this was all in a day’s work and that just the minute he signed another fifty we would continue our way to lunch. Thirty minutes later he announced in a most attractive way with his famous smile, and who would refuse those dimples, that he was “really very hungry and if you don’t mind I’d really like to go to lunch, and perhaps later I can sign some more autographs—“ whereupon a mighty cheer went up from the crowd and a path automatically opened down the sidewalk. People grabbed his hand and said: “It’s such a thrill seeing you, Mr. Gable” and “We like your pictures, Clark Gable” and boys yelled: “Hiya Clark!” to which Clark kept right on grinning. As for me, several women reached to squeeze my hand and said: “You lucky girl,” while one pretty young thing, with her heart in her eyes, and her eyes for Gable, came right out and said: “I wish I were you!” Others openly commented on “who’s the girl with Gable—“ and “Wait until Lombard hears about this”—and “Oh, he takes out lots of girls” and “That Lombard romance is just publicity”  and even from the outer edges of the crowd: “What’s the girl like with Gable—what’s she wearing?”

Clark took my arm and guided me through the crowd into the little restaurant we had selected, because it was close and we believed would be quiet, and we had heard the food was excellent. As we opened the door, Clark gave my hand a little reassuring squeeze. He seemed to sense the feelings of a girl who had been an exhibition before a public mob, for the first time.

Now a girl having lunch with Clark would picture a small table in a remote corner replete with white linen and gleaming crystal and silver, with perhaps soft music, and Clark sitting there talking to her. But do the girls who have luncheon with Clark enjoy such intimacy, such privacy, such a romantic picture? Decidedly not! With his entrance, came business with a rush. The place was crowded with patrons old and new. The proprietor stood at the door warning his new customers that Mr. Gable was not to be disturbed at his table. Small children came in on the pretext of buying ice cream cones, and stood looking so wistfully sown at Clark’s table, with their pieces of paper and pencils in hand, that Clark melted and beckoned them to come down and he would sign an autograph. Others soon took advantage—and another autographing spree was on. Two cooks from the kitchen joined the fracas, and waitresses hurriedly gathered up menu cards to be autographed, and which are now displayed with the day’s menu so guests will know Gable ate there, if only once.

I sat there pondering if this could last forever—the autographing, I mean, when Clark suddenly said, “Now, no more. After all, I have a guest, and we would like lunch.” And so we were permitted to order.

Can’t you just picture it? I can, and am jealous of all those people getting to meet him on the sidewalk!

To learn if they finally get to eat their food, read the rest of the article in The Article Archive.