by Thomas Lee
Next month marks the 10th anniversary of Robin Williams’ suicide. I want to share my brief encounter with Williams because my experience confirms everything his friends, family, and colleagues have already said about him countless times.
It was 2011 and Williams was making his Broadway debut in a play called “Bengal Tiger in Baghdad Zoo.” I’m a big fan of the actor so I splurged and bought a third-row orchestra seat. The audience for the afternoon performance was relatively small.
After it was over, Williams came on stage and announced an auction to benefit the Broadway Cares charity. The prize? A chance to meet him backstage in his dressing room.
Holy shit. Should I do it? I’d probably get outbid anyway. I mean, we’re talking about Robin Williams here: Academy Award-winning actor! Legendary comedian!
But when Williams started the auction, no one would bid. So I summoned the courage to meekly raise my hand. “We have $100!” he shouted, pointing at me. Robin Williams just acknowledged my existence! I could’ve died right there.
Soon, people made higher bids, and each time they did, he pointed at me and shouted “Sir?!” So I had to keep going. The bidding got to $400, and I was shitting bricks. I really couldn’t afford it. Each time I raised my hand, I felt like I was going to puke.
I was talking to the person beside me when I felt someone tapping my shoulder. I turned around and another audience member pointed directly to the stage. Robin Williams was trying to get my attention.
“Hey chief,” he said with a look of concern. “Are you okay?”
Despite the excitement of the auction, Williams noticed I was looking increasingly distraught.
“Oh, I’m fine,” I replied, slightly embarrassed.
In the end, Williams offered the backstage meeting to four people, who bid $500 a piece, including myself.
I was the first one up. As I walked toward the dressing room, I agonized over what to do. Should I try to talk to him and risk saying something really stupid? Or stay silent and regret missing this opportunity?
When I walked through the door, I immediately noticed two things. One: Robin Williams had the hairiest arms I had ever seen.
Two: despite his manic on-stage persona, Williams suddenly turned quiet. He appeared withdrawn, drained. At the time, I didn’t think much of it as he had just finished a physical two-hour show.
I mustered the courage to say something like “I really like your movies.” I might have even mentioned Good Will Hunting or Dead Poets Society.
“Oh, thanks chief,” he said wearily. “I appreciate that.”
“I’m sorry for looking like I was so sick during the auction,” I said.
“Oh, that’s okay chief,” Williams said. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
We took some pics and he signed a copy of one of his comedy CDs. And that was it.
The episode was admittedly a small sample size, but I’d like to think it demonstrates the very essence of Robin Williams. His ability to read my facial expressions and offer compassion, even in the middle of the auction. His high octane need to entertain followed by a rapid deacceleration of mood and energy.
Williams’ suicide hit me hard, not just because he was so immensely gifted (very few actors can so easily vacillate between drama and comedy). But also, because I can relate so much to him. The need to love and be loved. The aching vulnerability. The sincere empathy. The loneliness. And most of all, the insatiable thirst for meaning and affirmation that he could only quench, albeit briefly, through work.
For Williams, work was not just about a paycheck but the big reason to exist, to live. He had killed himself after discovering he had dementia, which was slowly but surely eating away at his brain. Take away the work and you take away the reason to live, no matter how many friends, family, money, fame and success he had accumulated.
I lost several jobs over the past several years, and it nearly killed me. Suicide is never far from my mind. Because when I’m not working, the mind drifts to some very bad places.
It seems rather foolish, even egotistical, to compare myself to a great man like Robin Williams. But what makes someone like Williams so great is not his resume but rather that he could impact me so much. I can’t help but latch onto his spirit.
Rest In Peace Robin Williams. Hope God is looking after you chief.
(Editor’s Note: If you or someone you know is considering suicide, you are urged to call the Suicide and Crisis Hotline. Please dial 988.)
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