Mr. Williams

He was a little guy with a news stand outside a comedy club in San Francisco. One of those people you immediately recognize as not terrifically educated, but extremely wise. He confronted the rockstar popular young comedian, Robin Williams, as he went in to do a show that would be taped for broadcast on HBO. As he tried to sell Mr. Williams a paper, he began commenting on his appearance. There were solicitous comments about his health and spirit. He advised, "Joke them if they can't take a fuck," before sending him in for his performance with the caution, "You take care of yourself, Mr. Williams."
Robin Williams was analyzed, diagnosed and prescribed, powerfully, by the little news stand guy. Who was played by Robin Williams.
That HBO special was the first time I ever saw Robin Williams in his free and natural habitat. I couldn't look away. I also couldn't stop hurting, both sides aching from the constant, deep laughter that rolled on, unabated, for the 90 minute special.
I reacted to Robin Williams that way every time I witnessed the spectacle of his performance of standup comedy.
I often found myself reacting to him that way on screen. Except when he tore my heart out.  Sometimes the humor and the pathos fell so hard on one anothers' heels that it was hard to recognize when and where one had stopped and the other began.  Just like life.
I knew he struggled with life.  He had several stops in rehab to deal with multiple issues.  Hell, he partied with Belushi and all of his contemporaries in the 70's California comedy explosion.  Just like I thought I wanted to.  He talked with David Letterman after the fact several times, each one, proclaiming that he was clean and doing better.  The truth may have been that he was attempting to self-medicate for the hurt and darkness he carried.
Does comedy attract people trying to deal with themselves by baring all and making light of it, or does comedy take people into those places? I don't have any idea, but it seems to happen over and over and over again.  I haven't done any research, but I bet that as many comedians have died at their own hand, of overdose or otherwise, as rock musicians. Ah, the glamor!
But let's be honest here for a moment.  Haven't we all thought at one moment or another about not being here?  I'm not talking about sitting down at the table with a gun or anything like that. But haven't we imagined what it would be like not to be in the circumstances of the moment?  Fortunately, most of us can still recognize a reason somewhere to go on.
Either that, or we're too afraid of how we might wind up if the attempt went awry.
So Monday, he died. The funniest man I ever saw. They said he had a belt around his neck. They said he had money trouble.  They said he had fallen off the wagon again, although his wife said no.  She said he had been diagnosed with early stage Parkinson's, leaving him with the prospect of losing control of his body and his speech, both so instrumental to his art. We have to know all that stuff.  All that stuff that has absolutely nothing to do with the tragedy of a supremely gifted man finding himself with no hope left whatsoever.
He knew, all those years ago on the HBO special, that he needed someone to tell him, "You take care of yourself, Mr. Williams." For whatever reason, he couldn't hear that voice anymore on Sunday night.
It is hard for me to imagine that that face and voice, so prominent in my life for the last almost 40 years, won't be back in the next movie or tv appearance or comedy special, but I'm just a fan. There are three people for whom he was Dad, and another for whom he was husband, and I can't begin to imagine their loss and hurt.
It is all just so heartbreaking. And there's nothing funny about it.