Grateful American: A Journey from Self to Service(65)

Later, when I boarded the bus, I knew there was much healing still to be done. Not only for the civilian with the missing legs, but for all the service members. And for our country. My heart was still broken about 9/11, as it was for many of us, and I knew again that the wars weren’t over yet, that much more pain lay ahead. More troops would be wounded. More flag-draped coffins would be sent home.

The gears of the bus downshifted as we crested a hill. Far in the distance lay the lights of the city we were returning to for the evening. I felt strangely grateful again. Grateful I could do something. Grateful for every wounded person inside that hospital—for the sacrifices they made and the bravery they displayed. Grateful for every family member who sat beside each bedside, waiting, hoping. Grateful for the doctors and nurses and hospital staff who’d devoted their lives to help the healing.

That night I lay awake a long time. As I reflected on the day’s events, I knew something big was shifting inside of me. A transformation was now under way. I was no longer primarily an actor, even though I would appear in roles for many years to come. I was becoming an advocate, and my job was to carry a nation’s gratitude to the troops. I wanted to let them know the country they loved hadn’t forgotten about them. We hadn’t forgotten the sacrifices of America’s defenders and their families. And we wouldn’t forget—not ever, at least not if I could help it.

I didn’t fully know the totality of what my new role would hold. I knew I would never stop saying “thank you”—a good start—but maybe that wasn’t enough. A new generation of wounded veterans was growing, crying out for help, and maybe I could do a bit more. How? I didn’t know just yet. But I would start with the single steps that were in front of me. I would remember standing in our church on the National Day of Prayer just after 9/11, recall the feeling I had and the words of our priest that had great healing power. Perhaps God was calling me to do a little more.





CHAPTER 12


Honor. Gratitude. Rock and Roll.


Jenny, I don’t know if Momma was right or if . . . if it’s Lieutenant Dan. I don’t know if we each have a destiny, or if we’re all just floating around accidental-like on a breeze, but I . . . I think maybe it’s both. Maybe both is happening at the same time.” Standing over the grave of his wife, as a gentle wind blows, Forrest Gump speaks these words to his departed wife, Jenny, after she’s been laid to rest under their special tree.

I often wonder about these things. God’s plan for us. Destiny. Or if life is a series of random accidents as one small seed is planted, and years from now the “history we don’t know” is changed.

I think about how a ragtag kid, struggling in school, happened to be standing in a high school hallway at the exact right moment the drama teacher came walking by, changing the course of his life, and how that would lead to his getting together with some buddies and starting Steppenwolf Theatre. Or how one supporting film role for that kid became such an important story for wounded veterans everywhere. Certain events in our lives, certain turns we happen to make, or not make (if I’d gone right instead of left, if I’d gotten out of bed a little later that day), can lead to larger and more purposeful things that we never imagined—things that can inspire and reach many people for good.

In 1997, I played the role of Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire at Steppenwolf. Terry Kinney directed the play, and he hired a Chicago composer named Kimo Williams to create some original music for the production. A professional musician and professor at Columbia College, Kimo had fought in Vietnam, and we became friends. Kimo had heard I played a little music myself, so more than once he invited me over to his house for a casual jam session. The intensity of Streetcar, however, was exhausting, so during the show’s run I never took him up on the offer. But after we closed the show and I was set to head back to L.A., an evening became free. Kimo called up a couple of other musicians he knew, we ordered some pizza and beers, and we banged around on guitars, drums, keys, and bass. It was just a simple, fun evening with some like-minded guys. I didn’t know it then, but I think a tiny seed of something may have been planted in the back of my mind that would grow into something great in the coming years.

My next movie was Snake Eyes with Nicolas Cage, filmed in Montreal. Some of the local guys on crew had a band, and one guy kept a small rehearsal studio, so we all got together one evening and jammed. A driver on set owned a club with a dance floor. He heard about our jam session and invited us to play at his venue. I had hardly picked up my bass since my early twenties because I’d been so focused on Steppenwolf and my career, but playing at a club sounded fun. We needed another guitarist for the club session, so I called Kimo and offered to spring for a hotel and fly him up to Montreal if he’d play with us at the club. He said sure. We went into the rehearsal studio, learned some tunes, invited all the cast and crew from Snake Eyes, and threw a party. All of us musicians twanged onstage while everybody else bopped around on the dance floor. It was a relaxed and fun and crazy good time. I even spotted Charlie Sheen—in town making a movie at the same time—on the dance floor in a black fedora, arms in the air, rocking out with our cast and crew. From then on, whenever I was in Chicago, I’d call up Kimo if I had a free evening, and he’d get the guys together. We’d play a little music and eat pizza and hang out. That’s how we started.