She Shall

It ain't over Gail

I just finished watching He Shall, from Time to Time…, the twelfth episode of the first season of The West Wing. This was my fourth time seeing it this week—not because I couldn’t find what to write about, or what was relevant or wonderful, but because it was just too good. Aaron’s White House offers us more artistry and grace than one can reasonably organize. And unlike the real thing, with its bulldozers and bitcoin, its cruelty and crazy—here, there is just too much to admire.

Yesterday I had lunch with Allison, who is now my neighbor again, and reminded her about the scene in this episode where C.J. decides to kiss Danny. She took a bite of her skirt steak and tilted her head. She somehow located the moment in what must be a sea of brilliant moments and smiled. “Yes. Oh, I loved that. Gail…” If you want to cheer yourself up, which I bet you do, cue up the episode to 36:02 and sit back and watch her walk away, overwhelmed, with that damn fish. Honestly, I control myself not to just write purely about Allison’s talent, because everyone is so good—our dear John Spencer and Stockard and Richard, always Richard. And Aaron’s writing: otherworldly. Toggling between sexy humor and deep personal relationships, all in service of the weighty storyline, is just confusingly excellent. We are blinded by the light.

Back in ye old days, when Allison and I were first neighbors—just a five-second walk in our sweats and slippers—I would ask her whenever she was down, “Well, do you at least feel better knowing you are one of the greatest actors alive? I think that would help me.” She would laugh and shake her head, delicately smoothing her bangs. “Oh, Janel…” she would say, “Oh, Janel…”

This episode, for being so darn serious—Bartlet’s MS is revealed and Leo is dealing with the ramifications of his past—is surprisingly hot. The flirtation between POTUS and FLOTUS was a delight that I did not remember. The show was obviously not known for its overt spiciness—but my hair blew back just a little when Bartlet suggested to the Mrs. that she take his temperature recreationally. Oh, Mr. President. And the mouth sounds coming from CJ and Danny? Just turn it up, go ahead. It’s positively West Wing porn.

And what else surprised me, like an invitation I hadn’t expected, was Stockard. Stockard, stretched out next to Martin in her stockinged feet, so easy, the intimacy so natural—I suspected as I watched, that she was about the age I am now. I had to ask, “Siri, how old is Stockard Channing?” and then did the math, and yes, bingo, the exact age I turned last birthday. It was heartening to see how sexy, how smart, how funny she was at an age I am quite certain she would gladly travel back to. Aaron wrote a whole woman. Not a sliver, a meager brushstroke, but a whole, lusty, gutsy lady. All of the women in this show, my gorgeous turtlenecked self included—the kissing (so much kissing!!) and the sass, smarts and vulnerability—has riled me up and given my middle-aged-actress magical thinking a tiny dust-off. Oh, Mr. Sorkin. And while I could write a tome, a rant, a library full of cynicism and reasons why I should be depressed—any actress past fifty could—instead I will think about Stockard. How she fastened Martin’s cufflinks without even looking, how she threw the covers over his legs, how she wore her experience lightly but boldly, and how I might consider expecting more. My dad always said that optimism was free.

I told my sister on FaceTime later that night that I planned to resurrect my positive attitude. That if Stockard and Allison could do it, then dammit, why not me. She generously did not point out that their careers were already in full continuous bloom at my age, nor highlighted the fact that they are both stone-cold geniuses, celebrated by all—because, well, she’s a nice person. Instead, she suggested, in a sweet way, that we spitball some ideas, come up with a plan B.

Meegan and I had always kept in our back pockets our late-in-life lady jobs, something we could do for fun, when we were too old to do what we wanted to but too young to stay home. Like most lawyers, she was not happy lawyering and would welcome an exit strategy. My job was Williams Sonoma and hers was Trader Joe’s. I like garlic presses and placemats and she likes Hawaiian shirts and cheap wine, so it seemed like a plan. But as we thought about it, now that we were here, actually later-in-life adjacent, we weren’t ready. We had more to give creatively, more dollars to make, more mountains to climb.

“Stand-up comic?” she suggested.
“Cat breeder?” I replied. “Or merchant marine? Maybe we should open a place together and make Mom’s cookies,” I said.
“That’s called a bakery, Janel.”
“Right, a bakery.”

Our mom was an amazing baker. She was good at everything she tried but chose, in her late-in-life, or “relaxation years,” as she referred to them, to stay at home. My dad was always encouraging her to do something with her gifts—sell that jewelry, bottle that scented oil; she really was so talented—but she demurred, instead preferring to make sure snickerdoodles were always in the tin when the grandkids came to visit or that she was near the phone when one of her middle-aged children needed her, which was often.

“I know. Why don’t you write a one-woman show?” Meegan asked.
“About what woman?”
“YOU, dummy,” she said, laughing.

So we kept on talking, my sister and I. After the kids clomped through the hallway up to bed and Marcelo snoozed downstairs in front of the TV, we continued brainstorming, chattering deep into the night like teenagers, dreaming about our futures and what it might be like to one day grow up and get exactly what we want.