Locales Change, but Voter Concerns the Same

I headed east the other day to see how the recall is playing on the fringe of the metropolis, and my first stop was at an Elks Lodge near Palm Springs.

A retired couple told me they’re both voting to dump Gov. Gray Davis and send the muscle man to Sacramento as his replacement. Carl and Delores Lichner are ticked off at Davis for hiking their car license fees and for signing a bill giving driver’s licenses to illegal immigrants, among other things.

Fine, I said. But why replace him with Arnold Schwarzenegger, who has no political or government experience?

Because he’s got no political or government experience, the Lichners said.

Just then, a crotchety Elk sharpened his horns and charged our way.

“There’s no polling allowed in here,” he brayed, sending me out the door.

I always knew the Moose Lodge was a classier outfit. But getting bounced was a blessing, as it turned out. I ended up trolling for interviews on Ramsey Street in Banning, which turns into 6th Street in Beaumont, which brings you to the Longhorn Tavern.

I saw a motorcycle outside and a lone pool table inside, but figured that even if I got beaten up just for being from L.A., there’d be a story in it.

A good rule of thumb is to never order a Mexican cerveza in a bar that has a fake “Mexifornia” driver’s license on the wall with a photo of a guy in a sombrero.

I got a Bud.

News of the smoking ban had not reached the Longhorn, where clients use empty Altoid tins as ashtrays. Two patrons wore cowboy hats, and one of them -- a rustler named Ike -- looked like Gen. Custer. Ike told me he often rides his horse Tuck to the Longhorn -- a four-hour trip along the railroad tracks from his trailer in Cabazon.

In other words, this wasn’t your typical focus group.

I bought a round for the eight patrons in the house, which is always a good icebreaker. Within minutes, the Longhorn votes were cast and tallied, and the result was a landslide.

All but one patron voted to recall Davis, and the reasons don’t bode well for the governor.

Just like that couple in Palm Springs, a somewhat more upscale burg, the Longhorn regulars said Davis ordered up his own hanging by tripling vehicle license fees and voting to give driver’s licenses to illegal immigrants.

It doesn’t matter who you talk to -- city folk, suburbanites, retirees, cowboys -- people are almost as riled up by those two issues as they are about Davis’ handling of the energy and budget crises.

And who does the Longhorn crowd want to replace him?

Arnold got six votes out of the eight.

“He’s going to shake things up,” said a man named James Dean (I kid you not), who repeated another line from Palm Springs. “A politician is a politician is a politician, and the good thing is, he’s not a politician.”

Steve Thompson, a middle linebacker for Mt. San Jacinto College, was the lone Davis supporter. The governor made some “really bad” decisions, the 20-year-old said confidently, but the state’s troubles are more complicated than that.

“None of the other candidates are qualified,” Thompson added, but being an independent thinker earned him nothing but ridicule in the Longhorn.

Ike, who left his horse home on this particular night and rode his 1986 Honda GoldWing motorcycle to the tavern, seconded the vote for Schwarzenegger and offered an interesting explanation.

“Look what Clint Eastwood did for Carmel,” he said.

Ike said Cruz Bustamante ain’t getting his vote no how, no way.

Why not? I asked.

“He wants to increase the tax on alcohol and tobacco,” Ike said, taking a drag on a Marlboro and a tug on a Bud.

His date Mary wasn’t buying into the Schwarzenegger hoopla. She refuses to vote for “that green card” candidate, and wants a governor “from our own country.”

“This country was built on immigration,” Ike told her. “If you want a native, you’ll have to vote for an Indian.”

“Then maybe I will,” said Mary.

I called Ike a cowboy and he took offense, saying a cowboy handles cows and he handles horses. That makes him a wrangler, which might explain why he was wearing Wrangler jeans.

As for the state’s fiscal crisis, Ike said, the band Confederate Railroad has a song about adding another day to the weekend “and puttin’ a tax on a cold six pack.” Ike took another swig of Bud and said, “That’ll balance the budget.”

Denise Jetter, the bartender, looked at me as if she thought I needed to be clued in on something.

“You managed to find the only redneck bar in the area,” she said.

Maybe, but Ike was more Marlboro man than redneck.

“He’s 53 years old and he’s got no pictures of women or children in his wallet,” Mary complained when I took the two of them to dinner at Marla’s Mexican restaurant across the street.

Ike, beaming like a proud father, opened his wallet and pulled out pictures of the horses he’s owned.

“People drive too fast and miss everything,” Ike said, telling me nothing frees a man like a long moonlight horseback ride along a dusty trail to nowhere.

Come Oct. 8, he may bump into a cowpoke named Gray Davis out there.

Steve Lopez writes Sunday, Wednesday and Friday.