The night I met Robin Williams

As the world  mourns the comedic genius of Robin Williams, fans have turned to social media to remember a man who touched millions so deeply that the emotions they are experiencing run an unprecedented gamut from grief to heartbreak, despair and utter disbelief at his tragic suicide.

And, as recollections of the actor’s most famous films are shared, and stories of his huge heart and quiet kindness offer insight into the man behind the maniacally funny “Mork” or soulfully stirring teacher in “Dead Poets Society”, I find myself remembering the night I met Robin Williams. A night I’ve never forgotten, and never will.

It was a night in 1985, and New York City was alive, one of a sea of nights when the streets were throbbing with life and creativity and dance-all-night energy. I was working my first professional job as a reporter, for a Manhattan weekly. Covering everything from the crack epidemic rampant on the upper West Side to the panic sparked by the newly emergent AIDS virus or the new Yuppies, New York City was my beat, and for a kid from Brooklyn, a girl who might have become a cliche forever characterized by the downtown R train or the spandex pants worn to 2001 Odyssey, the disco where Travolta rocked the infamous white suit, the city was my ticket — the chance to prove that I could write my future.

But, as much as I believed in my fierce drive to become a reporter, I was still only 19, shy and uncertain of just about everything. And when my editor assigned me to the high-profile society circuit, I was scared. What would I wear? What would I say? These were A-list celebrities, models, stars of the stage and screen. Why would they want to talk to a green reporter, straight out of school, when there were so many professional and more seasoned editors?

And yet, dressed in God only knows what — thankfully, I can’t remember, because if I could, I’d undoubtedly cringe — I’d head out with my photographer to the clubs and discos, now long gone, faded forever into the time capsule of that singular era. Studio 54. The Limelight. Danceteria. Area. Heartbreak.

Drinks were flowing and disco balls reflected the young, rich and beautiful undulating on dance floors across the city.

The night I met Robin Williams, I was covering an event to benefit AMFAR, an organization dedicated to AIDs research, with supermodels who’d posed for an ad campaign to raise awareness.

I walked into Area, a club known for its giant fish tanks, feeling even more paralyzed with ineptitude as I saw Christie Brinkley and her catwalk colleagues draped around the room like so many diamonds.

Then, suddenly, there they were. Robin Williams was standing at the side of the room with Christopher Reeve. They’d been roommates at Julliard together, new actors honing their craft, and both were still, looking back now, so young. So very, very young. But what struck me most was the deep friendship the two so clearly shared. What I remember most was their easy banter, and the laughter. So much laughter.

When I mustered up the courage to walk up to them, notebook in hand, both were charming, funny, and most of all, kind to a young girl who may not have had the polish or years of experience shown by so many of her colleagues. I must have looked and acted my age, and was painfully shy, but both took the time to thoughtfully answer my questions, chat for a long while, and take beautiful photographs. Now, both are gone. And two incredible lights on the entertainment canvas have forever faded to black.

Back then, it was all new. The future was an empty page, their stories yet to be written. It would be years before the world would learn of Reeve’s tragic horse riding accident, follow his brave journey as he faced life as a quadriplegic and say good-bye when he lost his brave battle. But through it all, Robin Williams remained steadfast by his friend’s side; numerous media accounts describe how he was the first, after Reeve’s accident, to make him laugh, dressing up as a doctor and entering his hospital room with a Russian accent and a ray of hope in the darkness — a lifeline when the man who’d portrayed Superman, a man of steel, was feeling broken and unsure of whether he could go on.

Williams vowed publicly to stand by his friend’s family after his death, and a man of his word, he did so until the day he died.

Today, I find myself wishing with all my heart that Christopher Reeve had still been alive on that dark day when Robin Williams was so wracked with depression and despair that he could find no way out of the darkness. I wish he could have reached out to his old friend and asked him for help, for the strength to get through the pain and over the hurdle to the other side, smiling and laughing together at the dawn of a new day.

I’ve always thought that when Reeve died, something inside Williams must have died along with him, a friend close as a brother. The friends we make when we’re so young, when we’re filled with optimism and dreams and the belief that the future is forever and every stage is ours, when there’s still music and magic and, in Williams’ case, a string of movies to be made that touched our collective souls — those are the best friends of our lifetimes.

There’s a line in Williams’ movie, “Dead Poets Society,” where he tells his students, “Thoreau said, “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Don’t be resigned to that. Break out.”

And, despite the inner anguish that must have been his lifelong adversary, Williams did it; he found a way to break free of the ache inside him and become the world’s most beloved clown, sharing laughter with a generation and giving hope to those blind with pain. Just as he told his students in that same film, “Carpe, carpe diem, seize the day, boys, make your lives extraordinary,” he was able to do just that — and leave a legacy rich with talent and human kindness. His life was, indeed, extraordinary.

I just wish I could turn back the clock and walk back into that New York City nightclub one more time to see Robin Williams shooting the breeze with his lifelong buddy, young and alive and laughing.

I wish, along with the rest of the world, that Robin Williams had been able to see just how deeply he was loved. And how fiercely he will be missed. Forever.

And I wish, more than anything, that somewhere, Robin Williams is with his old friend Christopher Reeve again, and they are laughing.

Lisa Finn is the editor of SoutholdLOCAL.com, RiverheadLOCAL’s sister site for the Town of Southold. She is a journalist whose passion is telling the stories of people’s lives. She has a deep love of literature, theater and the beach. She lives in Southold and has one son, Billy, who graduated from Emerson College in May 2014.