Stage 6 had been transformed from the conservative upper-middle-class home of the midsixties—Gidget ’s set—to the multicolored, pseudo-psychedelic world of the late sixties—the Monkees’. And as I stood awkwardly in the back, half-hidden in the clouds of “bee’s smoke” being puffed out by several machines, I recognized former members of the Gidget crew, until one by one, heads began to turn in my direction, greeting me with a smile or a “long time no see” expression. When Davy, who was standing on the set, noticed the minor hubbub, he moved to me, took my hand, and led me through the side door to the parking lot outside, telling the assistant director to get him when the shot was ready.
Butted up against the stage, taking up four or five parking spots, was a windowless concrete-block vault with a meat-locker door, and as Davy pulled the handle it snapped open with a pop, releasing a blast of cold air, bright pink lights, and a fog of pot smoke. Choosing not to walk through the entrance sideways, I took hold of the edges of my hat, pulled them down under my chin, and stepped into the bunker to find a smiling Peter Tork leaning back on several of the brightly colored pillows that were piled on the ground everywhere. I wanted to look nonchalant, like this was no big deal, so I plopped down on the extra-large pillow in the middle of the square room, and after a beat, Peter (I think) asked if I wanted a hit off the joint being passed around. When I declined, they came back, almost in unison, “Ah, come on. You’re the Flying Nun, aren’t you?” Uproarious laughter again. My God, they certainly enjoyed one another’s company.
While the two boys seemed to be talking in code to each other, I sat there, frozen, unable to speak. Were they sending me signals that I was just too stupid to read? Was I expected to do something, say something funny or smart or biting? If I could, maybe then they’d like me. Maybe they already liked me and this was how you were supposed to show it. Was this how people flirted with each other? Perched on my big pillow, I looked around, smiling but in agony, desperately wanting out of this concrete cell, unable to make my mouth move. Finally, the vault door was yanked open and Jon, The Monkees’ AD (who’d also been Gidget’s) stepped inside. He took one look at me perched on my big pillow and immediately burst out laughing, then moved in for a hug—hard to do with my hat always in the way. After taking a long pull off the joint, he held the smoke in his lungs while letting me know that I was needed back at the convent, ASAP. Glory hallelujah.
Since the Nun was considered a bona fide hit, which Gidget had not been, the amount of focus—not to mention energy—the studio directed toward me had significantly increased. They pushed me to do more publicity and for the first time to appear on talk shows, which I tried to do, but when I did them I was visibly terrified and sounded like a blithering idiot. Afterward, the studio was quick to let me know that they thought I’d been dreadful—something I already knew. They began to casually suggest I stop wearing “mod” short skirts and bright colors when out in public, even though I, like every other twenty-year-old female, wanted to look like Twiggy—which was never going to happen, no matter what I wore.
Not long after my visit to the Monkees’ bong shelter, I received word on the set that Jackie Cooper—vice president of program development for Screen Gems—wanted to see me in his office, a five-minute walk from my stage. The moment his secretary announced my arrival into the intercom, the adjacent door flew open and Mr. Cooper—who was now in his late forties but still looked like the nine-year-old boy starring opposite Wallace Beery in The Champ—came striding through with his hand extended. I didn’t know it at the time, but Jackie had been instrumental in the studio’s decision to hire me as Gidget, ultimately launching my career. Yet I’d never met him, nor had I ever been asked to dash over to the executive building between shots. In my heart, I worried that this meeting was a reaction to my being seen hanging out with the Monkees and, while it was okay for the guys to inspire some bad-boy gossip, it was not okay for me, the Flying Nun.
After we were seated—Jackie behind his desk and me in the leather chair in front—after I said no thanks to an offer of something to drink, and after some meaningless chitchat, he settled into the heart of the matter. I don’t remember our conversation exactly, but it went something like this:
“Sally, I’m so glad you decided to do this show after all. We wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t. I really mean it. You’re doing a wonderful job, and I wanted you to hear that. Not only from me but from the studio. We would like to show our appreciation in some way. What can we do?”
“Do?” A million things raced through my head at that moment, all vaguely having to do with getting out of the convent. But I looked at him sweetly and said, “Nothing.”
“No, really,” he continued earnestly. “We want to give you something. Come on… there must be something: a boat, a piece of jewelry, down payment on a house?”
Now, I am not stupid, but I could not comprehend what was being said. I’d been gearing myself up for a scolding, but instead I sat there, speechless, stunned to be offered things I couldn’t even visualize when all I really wanted were better story lines and maybe a new outfit from Judy’s clothes store. In lieu of revealing my deepest desires or my suspicion that something was not being said, I stuttered a shy “Ummm… I don’t know.”
“Wouldn’t you like a new car?” Jackie blurted, getting excited about the idea as soon as he said it. “How about a Ferrari! You want a Ferrari?” Clearly, he wanted a Ferrari and wouldn’t let up until I got as excited as he was. I wasn’t even sure what a Ferrari was and I sure as hell didn’t want one, but I desperately wanted to leave this uncomfortably energetic meeting, so I said, “Sure. That’d be great.”
A week later, during my lunch hour, Jackie Cooper took me to the Ferrari dealership on Sunset Boulevard and bought me a blue Pininfarina convertible, and I sold my beloved yellow MGB. Neither Mr. Cooper nor anyone else at the studio explicitly told me to dress more nunlike, nor did they demand that I keep a squeaky-clean image, but I couldn’t help feeling that this gift was some kind of bribe, a tool to keep me in place. Though why they thought a flashy sports car would do the trick, I do not know. And when I drove onto the lot the following week in my new blue prize—which felt like a horse I wasn’t skilled enough to ride—I felt both proud and skeptical. But most of all I felt embarrassed. I didn’t want this machine that made everyone turn and look when I drove by. And where were the gifts for everyone else on the show?
The nuns discuss the facts of life with Irving, the pelican.
I spent every day with those actors, laughing and easy. I knew I was the star, but I didn’t want to stand out any more than necessary. I wanted to be a part of the team—though not necessarily friends with anyone. Even when I went with Alejandro to the Factory, a club located in Hollywood—and the only club I’d ever been to—I spent most of the time submerged in the dark herd of gyrating bodies, completely lost in the thunderous music, never actually talking to Alejandro. Whenever any of the cast made a move toward me, I felt myself lean back, wondering if it was a genuine offer of friendship or if they saw me as a coin they all wanted in their pocket. I was suspicious, always, of everyone, no matter how hard I tried not to be. I’m sure that everyone thought I was friendly and open, because part of me was, while a more significant part wanted to hide in a dark, safe closet with the door closed, waiting for my mother to talk to me.