Here’s what you need to understand. Clint Eastwood wasn’t in Birmingham for a movie shoot or a premiere. He was there quietly, almost secretly, working with a small production company on a project that never made it to the big screen. A documentary about jazz musicians from the south. Most people in town didn’t even know he was around.
He’d been keeping a low profile, staying at a bed and breakfast outside the city, and apparently someone had told him about Web’s Diner and the food there. But Clint Eastwood either hadn’t noticed the sign in the window, or he had noticed it and decided it didn’t apply to him, or, and this is what I believe, he had noticed it and understood it and came in anyway because he wanted to challenge himself, challenged the situation, and see what would happen.
Marcus was behind the counter and I watched his face go through about five different emotions in the span of 3 seconds. Surprise, recognition, confusion, something like anger and then settling into a kind of resigned weariness. Marcus was a big man, 6’3, former college football player, and he had the kind of presence that could be intimidating if he wanted it to be.
But he was also one of the gentlest souls I’d ever met. A man who coached little league on weekends and taught Sunday school at his church. “Can I help you?” Marcus said, his voice neutral, professional, not warm, but not hostile either. Clint walked up to the counter with that characteristic measured stride of his like every movement was deliberate, economical.
“I heard you make the best fried catfish in Alabama,” he said, his voice that familiar grally tone that had narrated a thousand movie moments. “And the best peach cobbler. I was hoping I might be able to try both. Now, everyone in the diner was watching this exchange. There were maybe 15 people in there, regular customers, most of whom had been coming to Webs for years.
