Almost.

I met the man three times in my life, twice on the streets in San Francisco and once while on the set of Patch Adams. Each time he had something to give me, and each time I didn't realize it until later.


The second time we met, and I use "met" loosely, there was nothing especially memorable about the situation, other than the fact that it was a "hey - that guy's famous!" moment. I literally ran into him as I was running around San Francisco with my friends; I'd got separated from my group and being the twitchy twenty something that I was, I started jogging around looking for them. I wasn't really paying attention to where I was going, just kind of running about, checking in stores and restaurants that they might have ducked into. I wasn't overly concerned about finding them for some reason - we were going to meet later on for a bite to eat, then head to Nickie's BBQ for some 70's funk wall-to-wall grinding.

This was in the days before cell phones (or at least before anyone but the rich folk had em), and I was looking for some change to call my answering machine, just to check if anyone had left a message. I'd poked my head into a little deli, only to get the standard answer "no change without purchase." I backpeddled out the door, right into some random dude on the street. I apologized profusely, letting him know that I knew I was an idiot.


"Not a problem. Everyone is sometimes. And sometimes idiots can be geniuses. I have a quarter, go ahead and take it," said the gentleman I was coming to realize was Robin Williams. I thanked him, offering him a dollar for his quarter (again, I was an idiot at the time)(and my wife thinks I still am). He laughed at that, tossed me a quarter, and we were both on our way.

I don't really remember beyond that. Being two decades removed, one thursday night at Nickies blurs into every thursday night at Nickies. I mostly remember the hot, sweat writhing of the crowd, the over capacity bodega heat and deep bass of 70s funk being spun by the dj. This was not the moment that Mr. Williams helped me close any deals.


The third time? It was on the set of Patch Adams. I was an extra, a face in the crowd in a med school lecture hall. It was being filmed at UC Berkeley, and I was teaching elementary school at the time. I'd heard that there was an open casting call for extras, so I called in sick, hoping to be chosen. I was, as were about a hundred others.

We had to show up early - I seem to recall it being six in the morning when I was ushered into a room that held about six metric tons of polyester pantsuits, bell bottom jeans and shirts with butterfly collars. I was given my wardrobe, then told to go sit and wait with the others. At this point, cell phones were coming into their own, but only as phones. The whole smart aspect of them was light years off. I worked on trying to write, grade some papers and get a little bit of reading in. It was boring as hell, but at least I wasn't at work. Plus, we got free food.


An eternity later, some of us were shown into one of UCB's lecture halls. It was a stand in for a school in Virginia, and we were supposed to be first year med students, in an intro lecture. We were told where to sit, then listened to an actor go through a speech a number of times ("First: do no harm…"). There was some filming being done, but mostly blocking and crowd shots.

Around ten, the director quieted us down. "As you all may have heard, there was a certain event that transpired last night, one that had delayed Robin a tiny bit. He'll be here soon, but I think he's still recovering from his Academy Award win for best supporting actor!" There were cheers then, and lots of applause. When Robin showed up on set, we roared - we had an Oscar winner among us!


As soon as he walked in the room everyone shut up. It wasn't a slow dissipation of sound, a lulling murmur - it was immediate silence. Robin walked in. He smiled. Then he held up his statuette. We went crazy.

Robin was on the rest of the shoot. He started his banter, his famous monologuing, and didn't stop. He sat in the row behind me, just over my shoulder. None of us could keep a straight face - it was a private comedy show, and we were loving it. We eventually managed to get through the scene, then went our merry ways. We, the extras and the crew, we'd been given a gift that day, a gift that, to this day, I am thankful for. I remember the laughter. Not the improvised content, content that would be all over the web today, but the actual laughter. I remember the physical pain in my sides from laughing too hard. I remember my lungs constricting to the point that I thought I would pass out. I remember the tears of mirth that could have filled a kiddie pool.


I remember Robin's smile. His exhausted, proud smile. He seemed… happy. Content for a moment.

But it was the first time I met him that I remember best of all.

It was 1988 and summertime had just begun to draw its lazy hand across the calendar. I'd just graduated from high school, sort of. I would be off on an adventure in north Africa soon, thanks to an exchange program known as AFS. The program had also brought a bevy of high school exchange students on a four or five day stop in Albany, a little hamlet across the bay from the City, an offshoot of Berkeley. I don't remember how many students there were, it might have been twenty, it could have been sixty.


What I do remember is that my hormones were kicking into overdrive. There were girls. Girls of all shapes and colors. Girls with accents. Girls with smiles. Girls that were giving me whiplash.

When I was that age, females were beyond "mysterious." They were all… goddesses. They were all objects to be worshiped, things to be put on pedestals.


Did I mention that I was an idiot?

Eventually I would figure out that women are just people, and my best friends would all wind up being women. But that was later. At that moment in time, my 1988 self was a goofy doofus that had only been able to stammer at my female peers. I was determined to change that. The busload of foreign exchange students allowed me to break out of my shell, try on a different personality for people who'd never met me before.


I wound up befriending a group of German kids, including a seventeen year old with a pixie cut who I'll call Giselle. She was hilarious, wry and smart as hell; add those things to her tiny soccer player body and little elven smile and you have a recipe for a brain implosion on my part.

Somehow I managed to hold my own. I even managed to charm her a little (it helped that she had a dorky sense of humor like me). The first couple of days we drifted closer, doing the whole innocently holding-hands thing, the arm-punch thing, the her-head-on-my-shoulder thing. The usual youthful dance of innocence. I was impressing myself… then I let my idiocy shine.


I had no idea what I was doing; I just wanted to impress her. Apparently that included lying. I don't remember what it was about, exactly, possibly that I knew every band that ever did anything, maybe that Clint Eastwood was my uncle, maybe that I saved the life of a baby by taking on a biker gang - some shit like that. And it was shit, complete and utter shit of the bull.

And she called me on it.

I was embarrassed - utterly mortified. I took off, just bailed, while she and the other two in our little cadre laughed their asses off. I checked out, not able to bear myself, wishing that I could crawl out of my own skin. Giselle eventually came to find me, coaxing me back into the group as we were off on a tour of the City. I tried to get back into the hand-holdy interactions, but she was done with that.


I was crushed.

It was hours later, and we were all back to joking around, having fun. One of the German guys was asked directions by some other tourists, and he obliged. He neglected to tell them that he'd never been to San Francisco before as they traipsed off in the opposite direction of their destination. I rolled my eyes and took off after them, fully intending to set them on the right path. I got sidetracked, however, when I noticed a certain celebrity heading our way.


My idiot brain decided to jump in. "Hey, guys, it's Robin Williams! He was my neighbor when I was a kid!"

I mean what the hell?!? I didn't even know that was going to come out of my mouth before it did, and now I was stuck.


Giselle was the first to respond. She said that I should introduce them. The others thought that this was a good idea.

"Um, well, he's heading in the opposite direction than we need to go, and, uh, well, he's probably busy, and, um, we should let him have his privacy, and, um, well he probably won't remember me. It was a long time ago…" None of these excuses rang true. I'd no choice. It was either fess up or put up.


"MR. WILLIAMS!" I yelled "ROBIN!" i jogged towards him. He stopped and looked at me. I don't know if the look was here-we-go-again or hey-a-fan-that's-nice or I-am-going-to-kill-the-next-person-who-bothers-me. It didn't matter. I was already too deep in it.

"Hey there! I, uh, don't know if you remember me, but I told my friends," I cast a quick glance at Giselle to see her beaming at me, "I told them about how we used to be neighbors. I doubt you remember, it was a long time ago." Another glance at Giselle. "My name's Jason?" I asked


Robin had it figured out. His look changed completely, his smile fat and eyes laughing. He chuckled as he shook his head. "Oh, Jason! How are ya, kiddo? Haven't seen you since you were, well, it's been a while. How's your mom doing? She still have that bursitis? And whatever happened to that cat, the one that kept eating my flowers and crapping on my porch?"

I'm not sure if those were the exact words, but it was there. He was playing along - he was the living embodiment of improv. Always said yes.


It went on like that for a couple more minutes, his riffing getting crazier and funnier by the second. The Germans were in stitches. Giselle was cracking up.

"Well, kids, it's been nice meeting you. Let me have Jason for a second, then you can go."


He took me aside, talking softly, out of earshot. "Listen kid. It's great to perform, but you don't have to. Not to get friends. Just be yourself. They'll like you just fine." He looked back at Giselle, then at me. "She'll like you just fine."

And he was off.

As my small group walked off in the opposite direction, I was acutely aware of Giselle's hand nestled firmly in mine. It burned like the heat of a billion suns, but it was a good heat. A dry heat. We spent the day running around the city, watching the street performers at Fisherman's Wharf, eating street food and overdosing on chocolate. It was glorious.


That evening it was the farewell party. Giselle and I found a nice quiet room to say goodbye to each other in.

And here's where I tell you that I stretched the truth in the title a wee bit. Things did get physical between us - her lips were soft and earlobes delicious. I may have even grazed her breast with my hand, but nothing more than that. We spent the night cuddling and talking and enjoying each other's company.


They left at ten the next morning, and we did like all summer teenage flings do - we promised to write, to keep in touch. We did once. Twice, but then… life moved on.

If I know anything, I know this: if Robin Williams had not played along, I would not have found the courage to be myself, and I wouldn't have had that night with Giselle.


Mr. Williams touched my life three times. Each time, he gave me gifts that I can never repay, but I can, perhaps pass them along.

Laugh until it hurts.

Be yourself. They'll like you just fine.

And sometimes, idiots are geniuses.

Nanu-Nanu, Robin, Nanu-Nanu.