In Pieces(31)

Just in case someone on earth had missed his last message, the assistant director blasted another “IN THE WATER!” So off went the robe and into the icy water went the girl. Since it was supposed to look like a sunny summer day, no one wore wet suits of any kind, and the water was so cold the lower half of my body instantly went numb. There I was in the water, sitting on a board the size of the PT-109, trying to power a stiff blue body that barely knew how to maneuver this craft under the best of circumstances. I mean, really, what the hell were they thinking? Were they just testing to see if I was serious about this whole acting thing? Then again, was this acting or a study in humiliation? Or is acting always walking on the edge, always flirting with the possibility of falling flat on your face, or of wiping out and losing the top of your bathing suit? I know that the latter option was going through my mind when I heard the faint but unmistakable bullhorn voice shriek, “TAKE THE NEXT WAVE!” and before I could even look to see if there was indeed a wave to take, I heard the heart-stopping word: “ROLLING!”

Even now, as I remember this moment in the cold Pacific so long ago, it’s not the sound of the waves I hear, or the screeching bullhorn; it’s the sound of Jocko’s mocking laugh when I’d fail to dive into the water or flip over the pole as he demanded. I hear his repeated shouts, “Do it! Arms straight, toes pointed. Don’t think! GO!” And I’d stand there, with my toes gripping the pine platform, frozen, feeling worthless and afraid. Though frozen for sure, I was no longer on that high dive, my toes gripping nothing but the edge of yesterday.

Without hesitation, I put my forehead on the board and began paddling furiously, pumping my legs up and down at the same time, trying to inch my big board forward, now aware of the wave forming behind me. Just when I thought I’d failed, had missed the wave and the shot would continue on without me, Mickey Dora, the champion surfer who was by my side, pushed my gigantic board in front of the wave, exactly where I needed to be. When I tentatively started to stand, Mickey grabbed my hand as he expertly maneuvered his board beside me. Small though it might have been, we rode the entire wave until finally we slid gently to the shore and the flabbergasted crew began to cheer. I don’t know how many more waves I caught, or Mickey tossed me into—it didn’t matter. I’d found something new. I was terrified, yes, but instead of letting some other part of myself perform the task while the rest of me floated away, I had held the reins and fearlessly, without thinking, told myself to just go.


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.