Call Me Anna: The Autobiography of Patty Duke by Patty Duke Read Free Book Online

could do it, and I’d stand there and polish the shoes on live television, terrified that I would go right up my arm with the stuff. I did get it all over my dress once, and that got me in a lot of trouble.
    The spot most people remember me from was for a cleaner called Lestoil. It was memorable for me, too, because it was done in Springfield, Massachusetts, but nobody thought to tell me that. We got in a cab, we headed out to Queens, we went to LaGuardia airport, and we were preparing to take off—yes, actually take off—before John Ross finally said to me, “We’re going to Massachusetts by airplane. Isn’t that a great surprise?” Surprise? I’d never been on a plane in my life and I was petrified, absolutely petrified. It was one of those four-engine prop jobs where they served you a box lunch and a lot of people barfed it up. But I kept saying, “What a great surprise! This is terrific!”
    The setup was a prissy little 1950s girl having a tea party with her dolls. I would serve them ice cream and one of the dolls would drop her portion on the floor. I’d say in a very sophisticated voice, “Dolls are so messy, you know,” and I’d clean up with Lestoil. Let me tell you, the smell of Lestoil and ice cream is something that cannot be beat. It was really an annoying commercial but it ran forever in New York.People would scream at their TVs, “Let’s make the kid drink that stuff.”
    Commercials in which I actually had to eat and drink presented challenges of their own. One that was really disgusting was for Beanie-Weanies, a product that was exactly what it sounds like, a canned frankfurter and beans combination. Though I didn’t know it at the time, my husband-to-be, Harry Falk, was a prop man on that shoot. The real problem here was that this was a Friday and I was still Catholic. Another client of the Rosses, a boy named Joey Trent, was working with me, and he wouldn’t do any more than pretend. But I ate them, feeling really guilty but also thinking, “Oh, boy, Joey’s going to get in real trouble. At least I’m eating.” I was more afraid of the Rosses than I was of God.
    The commercial that was the worst, however, was for Minute Maid orange juice. After about four glasses of Minute Maid under those hot lights, I started to throw up. I spent the whole day throwing up, drinking more orange juice, and throwing up. Actually, from as early as I can remember, I’d throw up at the drop of a hat. It was the way I dealt with everything that upset me. It certainly was a safe way to take a break—nobody can pick on you for throwing up. You’re sick. And the people I dealt with weren’t sophisticated enough to know the vomiting was psychologically motivated. To this day, when I’m doing a play I become physically ill from head to toe on opening night. You don’t want to be near me. I’m not unpleasant, except that I spend all my time in the bathroom. When in doubt, vomit.
    People have told me they heard that I stopped working for about six months early on because I lost interest in acting, that I said, “I hate this, I don’t want to do it anymore.” Not true. I was too scared to say that. I would have loved to, which is probably why at one point I believed I did. But the fact of the matter was that for a while there were simply no jobs, and I think the Rosses ran out of ideas about how to package this little number.
    Then, all of a sudden, as if someone found the lights in a dark room, I would just go on auditions and knock ’em off, one right after another. My first speaking role came in 1956,when I was nine. I played an Italian waif on the Armstrong Circle Theater’s production of “The S.S. Andrea Doria.” There was more excitement than usual on this production because the sinking had just occurred plus there was a great big ship on the set. I played a little girl who gets separated from her mother but then at the last moment, naturally, is rescued and lowered over the side. I remember