Right before Gidget went on the air in September of 1965, when Steve still thought it was all a fluke and Rick was too busy to even notice, I was sent on a promotional tour, which meant flying to seven different cities in six days, working one day in each city and flying to another every evening, where I’d then spend the night. For a week, I visited local television and radio stations, going on air live, giving interviews to the regional newspapers, then spending the rest of the time doing whatever ridiculous thing the publicity people could dig up before I’d dash to the airport and head to the next city.
Baa went with me. Except for that one quick trip to New York, I had never spent days and days with my mother… alone. And I remember how we laughed. Everything we came across during the day, she’d cram into the big purse she carried on her arm: half-eaten sandwiches wrapped in a cloth napkin swiped from the restaurant, fruit out of the complimentary basket, dinner rolls and pats of butter wrapped in gold foil, plus every tiny bottle of vodka the airline stewardess offered. “You wait and see. We’re going to need this,” she’d say. I’d roll my eyes at her, halfway worried that if anyone saw, they’d think we were poor white trash, San Fernando Valley style. But when we’d get into Tulsa, Oklahoma, or St. Louis, Missouri, late at night, long after room service had closed, we’d sit on our twin beds as she dumped out that day’s stashed goods. We dined on bread and butter, bananas and booze. Actually, I had a Coke from the vending machine—wishing to God they had ginger ale.
Whenever I was near my mother I felt giddy, thrilled to be in her presence, a jolt of electricity shooting through me when her eyes met mine. And now, as we sat cross-legged on our beds, laughing at nothing and everything, the Christmas-morning excitement of my life was magnified because Baa was somehow a part of it. So much of what was happening belonged to her. All the many times she had patiently watched me in whatever living room, in whatever house, always glowing like honey in a glass jar as she sat laughing at my pantomimes, listening to the monologues, handing me something she loved and slowly backing away, as though she’d carried the load as far as she could and it was up to me to complete the journey. Even in the seventh grade I felt it, something unspoken, an intangible bargain between us. And after a performance I’d look for her, wanting to meet her eyes first, to see her see me, waiting for her nod, her recognition of my end of the bargain. But what was in this bargain? Where was the deal memo? And as we sat in this hotel room, late at night, I felt the first inkling of something different. Was it because I was now helping to support everyone with my whopping $500 a week, or because I had suddenly become the gift giver at Christmas, that the family cast was starting to shift, to change roles? I’m sure that was part of it, but only part. At the time I felt a tiny pull, a part of me that wanted to turn, to deny her my eyes, a feeling that grew over time like a minute splinter slowly festering. And I never knew where the wound was located.
After many months of safely exploring the dimensions of my newly constructed acting envelope, I was given a scene to play that stepped—if only a toenail—outside of the mild emotional landscape of situation comedy. In the scene, Gidget’s father has refused to speak to her, marching angrily off to his room, which sends our girl into a complete tizzy. Hoping to be forgiven for something that only midsixties television could define as a problem, she goes to his room to confront the situation and her father.
When we were ready to film the scene, I stood behind the flats of the set, waiting to hear someone say “Action.” And as I looked down at my hand gripping the knob, preparing to enter the bedroom of Gidget’s father, one part of my brain was rehearsing the lines, “Please, Daddy, please…” while another part of my brain went somewhere else. When action was called, I opened the door, stepped into the room, then looked at my father—her father—and began to cry with such force I couldn’t speak, except in hiccupping spurts, while a constant ribbon of snot rolled out of my nose. I moved across the set to sit on the bed—next to Don—just as the scene had been blocked out, saying everything, doing everything we had rehearsed, but suddenly I was trying to control a borderline case of hysteria. Don, looking deeply concerned, began running his hands up and down my arms as though he wasn’t sure if he wanted to continue the scene or stop to comfort me. He continued the scene and I was grateful—still am. Someone in the dark finally whispered “Cut” as though not wanting to wake the baby, and after a long beat the crew began to applaud, while Don held me tight in his arms, rhythmically patting my back, saying without words that he was proud of me. I didn’t know where the emotion had come from, much less how I got to it.
Unfortunately, that first take was in a wide “master” shot, like looking at the scene with the binoculars backward. When we moved tighter, into over-shoulders and finally into close-ups—when the camera can practically see inside your brain—I was unable to find any real emotion at all. I was dry, as they say. But the moment stayed with me. I didn’t know what I had learned, didn’t know if it had been about the scene or about Don, or if it belonged somewhere in Sally. I didn’t realize it then that that’s what acting really is. Any and all of that, mixed together.
Toward the end of production and after the show had been on the air for about five months, I was asked to fly to San Francisco one Saturday to do a haphazard personal appearance. Whenever the studio or the network wanted me to appear somewhere, it was always Bill Sackheim (the “showrunner,” or producer of the series) who did the asking. When I was first hired—the fresh-off-the-turnip-truck newcomer—Bill looked me in the face and sternly said, “You know, Sally, you can’t change your mind.” I couldn’t imagine what on earth he meant, though it did give me a jolt. Bill always seemed friendly and was endlessly avuncular, but everything coming from him felt very little like a request and very much like a demand. Because I was so new, I never thought to ask how giving up my precious weekend, my few days of sleeping past sunup, to host a fashion show in San Francisco for an auditorium filled with high school girls would actually benefit the show. I wish I had.
Gidget even made an appearance at one of Ricky’s gymnastics meets in Berkeley. That trip I loved.