Clark Gable in Tampa Part 2: He Looked at Me–And I Reached For The Wall

Continuing in our series of articles posted in the Tampa Tribune in February 1958, here is Part 2 of Clark being interviewed at the Tampa International Airport:

He Looked at Me–And I Reached For The Wall

by Lee Winter, Tribune Staff Writer

Clark Gable’s whiskery glance stirred up a thick batter of longing among women waiting in the cold wind at the airport.

Mostly, they were older women who strained for that first look at the tall figure striding from the plane.

One woman tore a button off her glove as she leaned on the wire fence. Later, she told me that her first memory of Clark Gable was a motion picture in which he was peeking at some actress over a wooden bathtub.

“When he shouldn’t of been peekin’,” she added.

Offhand, I’d say that man is going to be doing plenty of peekin’ for many years to come.

And women will continue to be fascinated by that intimate glance, the intent gaze and the slightly rough voice.

But principally because he is a man, capitalized. There was no indecision in his walk, even with the slight limp, and none in his thoughtful but quick answers to our questions.

As a food editor I learned that: He likes to eat anything, he leaves the menus up to his wife–the blonde and envied Kay, and apparently his favorite cake is coconut, because that is what she had chosen for his birthday.

He looked at me, and I reached out for a wall to lean on.

“Do you know,” he said incredulously, “I will be 57 years old tomorrow?” He repeated the question and shook his head. “Would you believe it?”

Wordlessly, we shook our heads, mentally examining his fine shock of hair; his excellent teeth; healthy, florid complexion and virtually unlined face.

His charcoal pinstripe suit and tie matched; his white shirt was slightly rumpled. You had the feeling he would like to take off his tie. What’s more, you wanted to help.

I asked him if he thought women should know how to cook.

“Oh, I think the domestic arts are very important,” he said, with a slight emphasis on the word arts. My profession took a quick jump in prestige.

All this time his wife had been looking for a brown box, tied with a string.

“It has his birthday cake in it,” she confided. “And I’m afraid it’s crushed into a coconut snowball by now.”

We found the cake already ensconced in the station wagon that waited, piled high with luggage. It was an enormous box that contained the cake.

But then, somehow, you wouldn’t want to give Clark Gable a little cake.

Later, I floated into my house and found my teenage son watching television.

“Guess what,” I said. “I just interviewed Clark Gable.”

“Oh?” he said, eyes still fastened on the screen. “Who’s he?”