The Havoc Journal
By Charles Evered
PLAYWRIGHT CHARLES EVERED DESCRIBES THE EVOLUTION OF HIS SHORT PLAY “ADOPT A SAILOR.” THE PLAY, SUBSEQUENT FILM AND FIFTY STATE TOUR HAS ENGAGED AND HAUNTED HIM FOR TWENTY FIVE YEARS.
“Adopt a Sailor” was born of an effort to somehow bridge what I considered to be a widening gap between the culture of art, and the culture of national service—in this case, military service. Its first iteration, a ten minute play performed in September of 2002 at New York City’s Town Hall, was a reflexive reaction to the horror of the attacks of September 11th. A program called “Brave New World” was organized, and New York area playwrights were asked to submit dramatic responses to that historical event. I remember my first reaction to the idea of even thinking about writing about the attacks— being something along the lines of revulsion. Even a year after, it was all still too radioactive. Too untouchable. For me, especially, there were connections that ran too close. When the attacks happened, I was a visiting professor at a small liberal arts college in the Pacific Northwest, and also a Navy Reserve Officer. My unit was in fact, based in Manhattan, and after the 11th, I spent days finding a way to get there. To help, in whatever way I could. A few days later, after securing a place on a flight, I remember landing on approach over New York City, and seeing the plumes of smoke still wafting out of the craters—where once the twin towers had stood.
When I got to the site of the attack, still a literal burning hole in the ground, it was as evident to myself as it was to anyone else, that as far as active “rescues,” were concerned, the chances had already hugely diminished. But, being a writer, I thought—perhaps I could at least witness, and document in some way, this singular horrible moment. Images from that time have never left me, and I hope never will.
When I got back to “real life” — that is, a relative cushy assignment as a theatre professor at a very well endowed college, the contrast was all too stark. By that time, symposiums and ad hoc gatherings had already sprung up. And why shouldn’t they? The tenor of them however, caught me off guard.
What I remember most is blame. Not self directed national introspection, as one would hope might occur in times and in academic settings such as these, but literal “blame fests”— how America had brought these attacks on herself.
I remember making the mistake of agreeing to be included in some kind of question and answer forum, where I was asked about what I had seen at Ground Zero. I remember a particularly empathetic young woman in the audience remarking about how bad she felt, how angry she was. I responded that her feelings were more than valid, and no doubt shared by everyone in the room. She corrected me, and clarified that it was the terrorists she felt bad for, that they had been so aggrieved, that they felt it necessary to fly airplanes into buildings filled with thousands of innocent human beings.
It was after one of these symposiums, that I found myself out in the middle of the idyllic college green. I was standing somewhat apart, feeling disoriented, while congregating all around me were fellow professors, each expressing that same disappointment — in their own country, that it had brought this attack upon itself.
I remember at one point looking down toward my boots —the same ones I had worn at Ground Zero. Along the stitching on top was a thin grey ring of dust. Dust that still clung to them from the burning pit I had left two days before– three thousand miles away. I wondered in that moment, what all the dust might contain — and “who” all the dust might contain, in all its microscopic form.
In what seemed like a flash, the confluence of these elements—and the horrific intermingling of them, shut something down in me. For days afterwards —and longer, loud noises and harsh lighting became my enemy. I fell into a silent depression that lasted probably longer than I care to admit.
A year later, I had moved to Belmont, Massachusetts, near Boston, to take up another position in academia. It was during this period where I was asked to submit a play to the program at Town Hall marking the first anniversary of the attacks.
I was appreciative for being asked, of course, but swatted even the idea of it down. After being asked again, I remember saying “no” to myself one more time, then walked straight over to my kitchen table and wrote the play in fifteen minutes.
I sent it in, convinced that would be the end of it, that it — like much of my work up to then—would die an anonymous death, and I would move onto my next project.
But, something about this piece resonated with people. The setting and context couldn’t be more elemental: A seemingly naive sailor—alone in New York City during Fleet Week, is “adopted” for a day—by an upscale couple in their fancy Upper West Side apartment.
“Adopt a Sailor”—in this case, referring to an actual program by which locals could take in visiting sailors for a day or so. Do their wash, feed them, whatever they might do to support them. The idea, that after these attacks—that three such disparate people might exist in a room together for ten minutes —seemed to set something off dramatically.
Within minutes of submission, we were besieged by what seemed like every actor in New York City that had become associated with this event; Liev Schreiber, Sam Waterston, Eli Wallach, Bebe Neuwirth, Amy Irving, Ann Jackson, Neil Patrick Harris, Josh Radnor, Michael Nouri, John Cullum, all appearing on different nights in revolving casts.
Even the New York Times gave it a good review.
I was surprised, to say the least. What was it about this play?
Looking back, I think it was mostly that it was one of the few that dared to express anger. But not inward anger, or any kind of navel gazing, but rather—anger at the attackers. It seemed to me, hearing it performed each night, that the audience was thankful for that.
And so, after its limited premiere, I understood the play was not meant to have a protracted life, and put it away with thankfulness and appreciation. I was also relieved in some ways it was over, as hearing it night after night brought up feelings I wasn’t keen to revisit.
So, I was as surprised as anyone — when four years later I found myself working on the play once more. I had been offered to write an episode for the hilarious series “MONK,” starring Tony Shalhoub. “Monk” was created by my genius friend Andy Breckman. After writing for the series, Andy offered me a commission to write a longer version of the short play he had seen years ago at Town Hall, and had apparently been very moved by. I again was hesitant, but at the same time so terribly flattered –that he had been moved. So, I set off to write it, and resolved—and I think wisely, to remove any direct reference to the attacks— because by this time, there had already been a glut of post 9/11 material saturating the market, and much of it, to my mind, was misdirected and in some ways exploitative. And I didn’t want any part of that.
Also, to me, the awful event that ignited the idea was never the actual heart of the story. To me, it was the relationship between three very different people, and how they might reconcile the deep gulf that separated them. Additionally, in a longer version, I would be able to explore what I thought were larger societal and cultural issues——hopefully even, with some humor. That longer version was given a small “showcase presentation” —in a theatre Off-off- Broadway, by excellent actors and a terrifically talented director. I was pleased the play had new life breathed into it once more, but again, assumed that was the end of it. A great bonus to this “re-birth” of the play was that my publisher, Broadway Play Publishing, stepped forward to publish both the ten minute and longer version of the play in one volume. It was a beautiful looking book, and I was appreciative. But again, the publication only cemented my feelings that the play had run its course.
Or so I thought.
A year later I found myself standing in the parking lot of the elementary school my daughter was attending in Palm Desert, California. I was there to pick her up, and as one does, I started to commiserate with a fellow parent. This parent in particular mentioned she was a film producer. Of course, in California, everyone is, so I didn’t think much of it. She asked me if —as a self-identified writer, I had anything that could be turned into a movie. I mentioned I had this “little play,” but wasn’t sure if it was film material. We exchanged emails, (this being 2006 after all), and that I thought– was that. Until a few hours later, when she sent me an email prompting me to “send your play.” I no doubt rolled my eyes and sent it, convinced that like most things, this too would be consigned to the ash heap of futility. It was a couple hours later, when I got an email from her again, writing in essence; “Okay, I’ll make this a movie.” At that point I most likely considered blocking her. Surely, only an insane person would want to make a movie out of a play by someone she met in a parking lot only hours before. The barrage continued: “Who should direct it?” she asked. And, seeing this as an opportunity to finally lose her, I replied blithely: “Me.” “Okay,” she replied. Now I knew I had a loon on my hand. And, thankfully, I did. Kim Waltrip, fellow waiting parent, would in fact bring my play to the big screen.
A few months later, there I was, being picked up from Pier 90 in New York City by a Boeing CH-47 Chinook helicopter, wearing an HGU-84P flight helmet that included a sketchy but audible communication system. Courtesy of the US Navy, I was being flown 25 miles off shore to the USS Wasp (LHD 1), a multipurpose amphibious assault ship that was to serve as the location for the opening scenes of our movie “Adopt a Sailor.” The higher ups in the navy, upon reading the screenplay version, consented to let us avail ourselves of millions of dollars worth of support—helicopters, a literal ship, and thousands of sailors serving as free extras. The absurdity of all this happening —four years after I had sat down at my dinky little kitchen table in Belmont to write a play I didn’t want to write— was not lost on me.
We dropped the star of our film off on the deck of the ship. It was the then little known Ethan Peck. He ran right into the scrum of other sailors, I yelled “Action” —and all at once, at age 42, I was a film director.
Back on shore, weeks later, we were shooting the interiors of the film in California. We had managed to convince two brilliant Emmy winning stars, Peter Coyote and Bebe Neuwirth no less, to appear as the couple. The whole process was a hard dream—meaning, it wasn’t easy making this movie in such a short time, but I was honored by the quality of artists that had come on board.
The result? A modest festival hit— was more than we could have hoped for. A premiere at the Palm Springs International Film Festival, a “Red Box” deal — when that used to be a thing, and a long platform life—that continues to this day. And so once again, I took a breath, convinced this play had finally run its course. Until: 2018, when I was looking for ways to get word out about a program I had started that sought to do the very thing—practically, that I had hoped to do with my short play fifteen years earlier. I founded the Evered House, an artist residency for those who served —so that veterans would have a place to create. The residency was dedicated to my father, who had served in World War II, and passed away in 1979. I wanted more people to know about the program, so in 2018 we launched a tour of “Adopt a Sailor” as a means to spread the word. The idea was to have the play presented in every state.
The protocol for getting the tour under way went something like this: The play and a paragraph long proposal would be sent everywhere: theatres, producing organizations, universities, local actor groups, individual actors, directors, veteran organizations, you name it. We sent a 20 minute version of the play, for practical purposes, as not every place would have the resources or time to do a longer presentation. What was our ask? “Twenty minutes, three actors, three stools.” That was it. The actors could be any ethnicity, any gender, and that’s what they ended up being. We didn’t require an audience, or financial out-lay of any kind. We didn’t even require they do any press. We just wanted the play to be heard in every state, as well as focus attention on the residency program. Even rehearsals weren’t required. We wanted to make it as streamlined as possible.
The majority result of those entreaties were no response at all. On one hand, disappointing, sure, but fair enough really, when you look at it this way: I’m hardly a household name, and though some of them knew my work, most didn’t and so our guess was most emails just never got read or passed on. Some were read and ignored, some decided right there and then, “no.” Some of them might have taken the time to read the play and just didn’t like it. Again, fair enough. Those that did respond tended to fall into two camps: “We love what you’re doing!” —and then nothing. Or, “We love this!—let’s do it!” —and we’d set it up. The most frustrating responses went along the following lines: “While we certainly support what it is you’re doing, I’m afraid we have no way of fitting this into our already onerous production schedule.” To which, we gently responded: “We just need 20 minutes and three chairs, and it can be done in an office, the lobby, wherever!” At which point, they would usually no longer respond, except in the case of one particular well funded non profit theatre in Kentucky. They responded with a series of ever escalating excuses, culminating in our gently pointing out that—in the time it took for them to keep writing back with excuses, we could have presented the twenty minute play several times over. But, again, fair enough. No one was under any obligation to join our quest. The blessing in that Kentucky rejection? Rather than it being done at the established theatre, it ended up being performed poolside at a local Motel 6 outside of Louisville by a brilliant young woman who happened to be on the cleaning staff. She had overheard our frustration about the BIG WELL KNOWN THEATRE — and asked if we wanted her to do it. She was not an actor. She just wanted to help. So she read it. Alone. Out loud. In her cleaning uniform. By the pool. And it was brilliant and moving and one of the best performances of the play I had ever seen.
Those that did come on board did so in a diverse and wide ranging manner. There were full productions, rehearsed readings, semi-rehearsed productions, productions on stage, around picnic tables, in fancy living rooms with views, in modest apartments with no views, coffee shops, offices and proper full on stages. The tour lasted six years. More than a hundred and fifty actors, tens of directors and a bevy of supporters.
What did we learn? Without exception, smaller, more community oriented organizations tended to participate more. Communities with a higher percentage of military veterans almost never said no. Those connected to service— did more, and wanted to help get the word out. Sometimes after a performance, the space we worked in would become an informal discussion arena. How do people feel about the military? What is their relationship with it, pro and con? How might a play like this counter or re-enforce people’s assumptions about those who serve? It was during these times—when I would sit in a small area off to the side, after the performance, and hear from a mom who was worried about her child serving overseas. Or, from young people whose peers had discouraged and sometimes even mocked their choice to serve in the military. Or, from a veteran who felt short changed by their time in service. It was times like these, when I was able to make a one on one connection—when I realized I did the right thing by dusting the play off and taking it for a six year walk around the country.
The play has become the backdrop not just to my career, but to my larger life as well. For most of my time spent in Hollywood, the legitimate theatre and the halls of academia, I’ve felt like an outsider—on the inside. Often feeling uncomfortable expressing the deep appreciation and even love I feel for my country. A country I recognize for being as miraculous —as it is imperfect.
In meeting after meeting, on sets or onstage, I would become exhausted defending it, or even just mute, or discouraged. In all those instances, regardless of where I was, I would feel apart. Like a ghost, in and out of being.
“Adopt a Sailor” was written as a plea for bridge building, unity and the hopeful tolerance of differing opinions. For me, more than anything else, the play has been a vehicle to engage with people I might never have otherwise met. To see parts of the country I might never have visited.
“Adopt a Sailor” brought me to the center of my own country, as well as I believe —closer to its beating heart. Time after time, I thought I had outgrown it, or evolved past it— but the truth is that in all its iterations, it’s been nothing less than a blessing. A blessing — born of tragedy— that I will always be grateful for.