In Pieces(35)

I’m walking alongside Brownie, sensing the camera’s movement, seeing from the edge of my eye the red dot. There it is, getting closer. I am almost at the red dot. I clench my hands. I hunch my shoulders. I’d jam a pencil in my eye if I thought it would help me land on that evil red dot and produce any kind of moisture in my eyes. Think, Sally, think. When was the last time you cried? Nothing. Crickets in my head. I am so benumbed by loneliness I feel nothing. Nothing! And I’m horrified by the realization—I don’t know how to deliver. Some people have menthol blown in their eyes by the makeup artist. I’d do that, sweet Jesus in heaven, if I knew where the makeup person was—which I don’t—and the red dot is getting closer. Why can’t I do it? The script says, “Mercy’s eyes well.” Okay, “well” your eyes, Field! My eyes don’t well. How does anyone “well” their eyes? You either cry or you don’t and you, Miss Field, are getting horribly, painfully close to don’t, and your eyes will remain well-less.

I hit my mark dead on—that I can do. I stop. The camera stops. Brownie stops. I say my dialogue with my shoulders touching my ears, and a look on my face like I’m about to join the oxen in producing a huge pile for the rakes to quickly hide before we can begin again.

In the middle of the Armada, well-less.





I don’t know how many takes there were. Not many. The director seemed happy, or at least we printed something and moved on, but I did not move on. I had hit a wall. It was agonizingly apparent to me; I was not good enough. And that discovery, coupled with the unforgettable pressure of that godforsaken Armada, lit a bonfire in the sweet place I’d created for myself—my acting bubble. I wanted to be better. And more than that, I never ever wanted to feel that helpless drowning panic of not knowing how.


Somewhere in my stomach a feeling starts, like a moth bashing itself over and over against a hot light bulb, and if I get this feeling while reading a script it means: Walk away, this one’s not for you. Every time I’ve ignored this fluttering advice I’ve struggled, sometimes learning hard lessons, sometimes wishing I could find a lesson to learn. At that point, my experience with reading screenplays was rather limited so it wasn’t a feeling I instantly understood, but from the minute I sat down in my newly rented apartment and began reading the pilot script waiting for me when I returned from Oregon, that kamikaze moth revved up and by the time I finished the last page, I knew.

The word no was almost impossible for me to say, but somehow, I managed to convey to my agent that the show was not my cup of tea. He was astonished, but kindly said he understood and hung up. He then called again to tell me, less kindly, that he thought I should do it. I could never clearly articulate why I so vehemently did not want to do the project, couldn’t clearly see that I wanted to be a part of my generation or at least not declare my allegiance to the establishment, especially a religious one. More than that was the bottom-line fact that I didn’t want to play a cutesy version of a Catholic nun, wearing nothing but beige with never a thought of sex or a flirt with madness, two things that seemed much more interesting.

Fifteen minutes after I’d talked to my agent, Bill Sackheim called—now the producer on this show as well. He began in a friendly, chatty way, reminiscing about our Gidget days together, then asked if he’d heard my response to the offer correctly. When I confirmed that he had indeed heard correctly, he was flabbergasted that I would consider walking away from this series, sounding personally injured, disclosing the confidential fact that the project had been written especially for me. Feeling proudly confident, I stuck to my guns, telling him I was sorry, it just wasn’t something I wanted to do. And with resigned understanding he hung up—then called back three more times, the last sounding impatient as he explained that he was only looking out for me and I SHOULD DO IT!

How did this even happen? Gidget had been an unmitigated flop, with weak ratings for most of the 1965–66 season. Yes, true. But when the show went into its summer reruns, the kids—who were then out of school—found it and Gidget suddenly became a hit (of sorts). At that time, the networks rarely moved a show to a different time slot in search of a bigger audience and never picked it up again after letting it go. So ABC wanted to find another show for Sally Field, and they asked Gidget’s executive producer, Harry Ackerman, to help. Mr. Situation Comedy of the fifties, sixties, and seventies, Harry was responsible for Bewitched, I Dream of Jeannie, Father Knows Best, The Donna Reed Show, The Monkees, The Partridge Family, and many others. As luck would have it, he’d recently developed a show adapted from a thin children’s book called The Fifteenth Pelican and he wanted me to play that fifteenth pelican.

I remember clearly when Mr. Ackerman finally called. My armpits began to sweat but I stood straight, clenched my jaw, thanked him for his offer, apologized profusely, and ultimately stuttered a final no. After that, all went quiet on the Screen Gems front and the phone stopped ringing.

Two weeks later, Jocko appeared at my front door. I hadn’t seen him since I’d packed all my things into boxes and, with Steve’s help, had practically thrown them into my Encino apartment before locking the door and leaving for my first movie location. Hadn’t been around over that summer to watch my ever-declining family move again, this time into a tiny, shabby house that I can’t describe because I never set foot inside. And now, suddenly here he was, my stepfather, waltzing around my sparsely furnished one-bedroom and bath, wearing a forced smile as though he was proud of my new independence, while I stood awkwardly caught off guard.