Showdown, Political Style

         A most interesting situation is developing out in Carmel, California. Powerful forces are in opposition there, a clear signal that raging storms are brewing on the horizon. Even now the stage is being set for a showdown, and it will probably begin with eruptions of gunfire echoing through the dusty streets of that western town.

         Carmel isn’t nearly so famous as it’s metropolitan neighbor to the north, San Francisco. This lack of recognition is, however, about to be corrected, no doubt in dramatic fashion. From this day forward Carmel will be very much in the spotlight, making bold headlines in newspapers coast to coast.

         For ye uninformed who haven’t followed the progress of this breaking story, please be advised that this quaint coastal village is the home of “The Man With No Name.” That’s right, none other than…Clint Eastwood! The greatest box-office draw in Hollywood history lives there, and personally I think Clint plays cowboy parts even better than that immortal matinee idol, John “Duke” Wayne.

         My humane feelings for horses are responsible for that opinion. “Duke” tipped the scales at about 250 pounds, a rather cumbersome weight to laden a horse with. I always felt deep compassion for the poor nags who had to carry John in those cinema chases that might last 105 miles across rough terrain, quite often reaching speeds exceeding 90 mph.

         There were many instances when Wayne couldn’t catch the fleeing bands of outlaws. Not necessarily did the desperadoes have faster horses…hell podnuh, those magnificent white steeds ridden by John Wayne were pooped and at the end of their endurance after the first 62 miles! It’s a wonder California humane-societies didn’t come down hard on movie studios involved in such flagrant abuse to dumb animals.

         But wait, we’ve sorta’ galloped off  onto the wrong trail here. This isn’t a story about Wayne, but one concerning the wiry westerner  of “A Fistful of Dollars” fame ( occasionally he plays a a detective named Dirty Harry Callahan. Clint oughta’ stick exclusively to them thar “oaters.” They’re more his style than portraying a policeman on city streets. Out yonder among the sagebrush and cactus…that’s where his lanky frame belongs ).

         Clint weighs 60 pounds less than John Wayne. I’m comfortable seeing him astride a horse ( often as not he rides a mule ) With only 190 pounds aboard the poor dumb brute can easily gallop 75 miles at breakneck speed without becoming “plumb tuckered out.”

         One year ago is when the rhubarb commenced out yonder in Carmel. Clint wuz wantin’ to add a room onto his shack, but the  Fathers down at City Hall didn’t see things his way… they refused to issue him the necessary building permit.

        Well sir, this here made the tall bearded stranger awfully damned mad! His eyes narrowed to thin slits, thin lips chomped down on a stubby cigar, and he’s been nursin’ an itchy trigger finger ever since.        

        As you well know, Eastwood never utters a word of warning to gun-totin’ bushwhackers, not a single phrase.With the cold unfeeling of a striking rattlesnake he does what’s gotta’ be done.       
        In movements too fast for the human eye to follow blazing six-guns are clear of well-oiled holsters, and gun-slingers start droppin’ by the dozens.                                                     But a truly amazing thing happened when he was denied that building permit. Wonder of wonders, this man who has ran many gauntlets kept his cool. He didn’t ride downtown with six-guns belching hot-lead, sending them hombres at City Hall to their eternal resting place neath the cold clay of boothill. No...Clint had a better idea and would quickly share it with the world.

         Last week the political world was struck by a thunderbolt. Clint announced he’s entering the race for the mayorship of his hometown, Carmel.

         The “establishment”  of that small town has made a whopping  mistake. They’ve riled “The Man With No Name,” and just down the trail there’s gonna’ be hell to pay…

         It’s all so very simple; what Clint wants, Clint takes. Not for the life of me can I imagine anyone facing up to Eastwood in a mayoral race or, for that matter, any sort of contest. It’s very hard to envision a politician with that kind of nerve. Go against this drifter of the high-plains , and ya’ find yerself with two chances…damned slim, and none (the big-wigs of Carmel are sittin’ on a powderkeg of their own making. They should’ve issued Clint his building permit).

         This mysterious stranger who rides alone is lightning-fast. Crossing him nearly always proves fatal…he leaves long trails of bullet-riddled bodies  ( I keep wondering…a nagging question persists. Why the devil wouldn’t they allow Clint to add another room onto his bunkhouse? ).

         The holder of many titles, movie-goers who paid the price of admission to see his trio of “spaghetti westerns” know how fitting one of them is: “the most dangerous man who ever lived.” That alone would scare me away from the race for mayor in Carmel.                                     When Eastwood yanked his Mexican shawl up over his shoulder one had to brace himself  for the gore and blood-letting that was about to explode on the big screen. The readjustment of that shawl meant outlaws were staring death in the face. Clint was about to “slap leather,” the air would soon be filled with gunsmoke.    

         “A Fistful of Dollars.” “For A Few Dollars More.” “The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly.” I viewed each at least 100 times in theaters throughout America during their debuts in the mid-1960’s. From Tazewell to Roanoke and beyond…if Clint Eastwood was on the marquee, I was there.

         I’ve harbored a secret about those days for nearly 45 years, and guarded it well. Many times thought was given to reveal it to the world, but always at the last minute decided against it. But here and now, following weeks of agonizing about going public, a decision has been made…I’m gonna’ make a confession.                            

         I’m referring to those mid-1964 theater runs of Sergio Leone’s Italian westerns starring Clint Eastwood. Watching them with great frequency, I memorized every scene in sequence, and every line of dialogue. Very quickly an idea formed: “Here’s a great opportunity to bestow a noble service that might benefit the whole of mankind. My brilliant idea will surely decrease the odds that any fellow movie-goer will be shot while attending Clint Eastwood movies.”

         And so I put the plan into action. Four seconds before gunfire exploded on the big screen I got to my feet in the darkened theater and yelled aloud: “Everybody get down flat or we’ll all be killed. This building is gonna’ be filled with hot-lead!”

         In every instance my well-intended efforts ended with the same result. The house lights came from dark to bright. Looking up from my prone position behind a row of theater seats, I looked up into the sullen eyes of the entire staff who worked there. They yanked me to an upright stance in a rough manner and escorted me to the nearest exit. I was heaved forcibly to the hard pavement ( suffered a rash of severe sprains and bruises in the scuffle) and warned never to return to that movie-house. Those bans from the mid-1960’s are still active to this day.

         Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been formulating plans for 56 years. None have come close to working, yet I’m not discouraged. I’ll get out of the sack at 4:30 A.M. tomorrow morning , refreshed anew for the challenges of another day. Then I’ll work vigorously, all day long and far into the night, on a bunch of brainstorms which I feel will succeed…

         The incumbent mayor of Carmel, a woman, has announced has decision to retain her seat. About 6 other aspiring politicians have also thrown their hat into the ring. Right here I’m gonna’ make a prediction…before it’s over, every person of legal age in that town  will be seeking the office of mayor.

         I’d go down to the courthouse and file the necessary papers this morning if I lived there. Why not?  “Thirty years from no..w we could sit in easy rockers with grandchildren on our knees, look the cute little tykes in the eye and say: “Once upon a time your grandpappy faced up to Clint Eastwood.”

         I fully realize the risk for anyone opposing Clint in Carmel. Numbers offered no protection whatever for outlaw gangs in the west, nor will modern-day opponents fare any better. The lithe drifter who never talks can blast a dozen drygulchers into eternity with frightening ease. The incumbent mayor and other entrants should take note of this. Calling in City Hall and the police department ain’t gonna’ save their mangy hides. They’d better think in terms of the California National Guard. Then again, only the United States Marine Corps can offer them salvation.

         It’s always been my belief that politicians seek office not for employment, but power and prestige. They like mingling with the country-club and ski-slope crowds ( politicians also spend a considerable amount of time enacting legislation to benefit sons, daughters, grandsons, aunts, uncles, third cousins , in-laws, and distant relatives still living in the Old Country. That’s known as nepotism… showing excessive favor to family and friends. Listen at me, they’re all guilty, and this, more than anything else explains why everything is all screwed up.).

         I’ve got a word of advice for the sitting mayor out in Carmel. She’d better do some hard thinking, maybe give serious consideration about withdrawing from that race. As in the old saying: “it might be the better part of valor.” No mayor’s seat in the country is worth the risk she’s running. After all, the old gal ain’t gonna’ look too prestigious while pushin’ up daisies (town council should admit their mistake, relent, and allow Clint to proceed with the addition of another room to his shack ).

         Tell ya’ one thing buckaroo, there’d better not be any “dirty tricks” in this campaign. Clint Eastwood is the ultimate vigilante who rights all wrongs and wreaks permanent vengeance with stunning finality.

The End

M. L. Wilkinson

November, 1985