My friend Willem from the Chelsea Hotel passed away. I hate that term…passed away. ‘Cause the truth of the matter is that he died. And as much as I believe in an afterlife and that he is in a better place…it still really fucking sucks. It was too sudden, and he was way too young and full of life.
One of my last blog entries has a photo of him during Second Thanksgiving. While everyone mingled and drank, he was disco dancing in the background.
And that was him. The first time I ever met him, he had been to the Farmers Market that day (he was an amazing cook), and within four seconds he was accosting me with a cucumber, holding it up to my mouth like a microphone. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” He had a big wicked grin the whole time, ’cause that was him too.
He was one of those people who drew you in immediately. I mean the guy literally warmed up a room. I had only known him a short time – three and a half months – but I took it for granted I’d know him forever.
My last memory of William: in his apartment at the Chelsea, drinking shots of whiskey…Jefferson, Thomas and I introduced him to YouTube (what decade were you living in, Willem?)…and, just like that, he was hooked…suddenly he was ecstatic, pulling up songs and videos from the 60’s and 70’s, stuff he hadn’t seen in years…really hilarious stuff….a Nancy Sinatra/Lee Hazlewood video complete with artistically blurred shots of her on the beach…and we were all watching and laughing hysterically. Then we put on the BeeGee’s and Willem and I danced… Jefferson and Thomas watching from the couch and rolling their eyes at our awful choice of music. But Willem didn’t give a damn. He’d do anything he wanted to do… he’d say anything he felt like saying, and it was impossible to be offended by him.
“Show me some moves, Willem!” I told him. So he did. We taught me the correct way to do the twist and the mashed potato, all with a cigarette in his mouth and a glass of whiskey in his hand. And the dude had moves. He talked about the Beatles when they were young and Amsterdam when he was growing up. He talked about the boat he was building (his baby). Later he read us all Bob Dylan lyrics in his best gravelly Bob voice…then Dylan Thomas poems…and honestly, that man could read poetry (and it wasn’t just the sexy accent either). He had passion. He was hilarious and silly - but honest and kindhearted. He could ask a poignant question – one that, had anyone else asked, you might get offended – and you’d answer him honestly. You knew he wanted the best for you, and it came from a place of love.
Willem: always the center of attention
Memory of Willem – He knows some famous, hardcore experimental filmmaker, a lesbian who does really edgy, raunchy sex stuff… he is asked to audition for the lead in her new S & M film…he’s never acted before in his life, but he doesn’t let that stop him – he gives it everything, despite the fact that he’s a straight guy playing an abusive leather daddy with lines like “You’re my bitch, bitch!”…and he practices his for us, really getting into it, making me laugh till I cry. “I’m gonna be a star!” he tells us. ”I need an agent!”
Memory of Willem – taking me aside the last time I saw him…his voice low and his eyes kind…to tell me that I shouldn’t be so hard on myself.
Willem – telling us his cat is really a “Can-Can Girl” … then petting her back to which she instantly responds by raising her butt. ”See! She’s a Can-Can Girl!”
I had thanked Willem in the acknowledgements for my book. Even though I’d only known him a short time at that point, not even a month, I’d wanted him in there. It had been a crazy time in my life, and he’d given me kindness and comfort when nothing felt stable. He made me feel stable, which is incredibly ironic since he’s spent so many years living in the Chelsea Hotel of all places…the least stable place in the world.
The last thing he told me, the last time I saw him, right before I left his apartment…make sure to get his last name right in the acknowledgments. Well, not the very last thing. The very last thing was him with a big smile, tapping his feet and singing “These Boots Were Made For Walking” as we headed to the elevator at 2 am…
I’ll miss you, Willem Van Es.
This is for you:
