Tall Bill proved 'he who is least is best'

By Daryl Glen

Whenever I go to The City where I have many friends, for a few weeks, I call Los Gatos for any local developments. Usually it's of the "no news is good news" variety, but last week was different.

"Why are you so sad?" my friends said after I finished talking on the telephone.

"Tall Bill died; he was a friend of mine," was the only reply I could muster, suddenly in a state of semi-shock.

Bill had been quite ill recently, but he was only middle-aged and seemed on the upswing, and I never expected his passing, much as had been the case with my own father, who died equally unexpectedly some years back.

Perhaps it was this slight tinge of deja vu, but for the first time on hearing of the passing of a Los Gatan I had known, I could hardly hold back the tears.

"Tall" Bill Whelan was a fixture in town for 30 years, although I'd only known him and his girlfriend Vivi for the last few.

I'd see him in the morning at The Black Watch where we would both go for coffee and I'd share his newspaper or he mine. We had a running joke: I could borrow his newspaper if I didn't doodle on it, as is my wont. Occasionally I forgot, for which I was contrite, but he always forgave me (although sometimes grudgingly so).

He was invariably ending his "day" at this point, as he worked the night shift at a local gas station; mine was usually only beginning. At times I'd pass the station, which is just around the corner from my home, on the way to The Watch while he was still working. I'd see him, still in his uniform, and he'd wave his ebullient wave, and I'd feel better about the day already.

Over time I got to know his Norwegian girlfriend Vivi, with whom he had lived in the mountains for many years. I found her to be as charming as he, and I was grateful to him for introducing us. She and I had both lived in New Orleans and in Piedmont, Calif., during various periods of our lives, and I had lived with several Scandinavians during my younger years in San Francisco, so of course we became thick as thieves.

Eventually Bill even got to know my mother, doing some work for her, with which she was pleased. We both felt bad that Bill had no real home and lived in a camper, but he seemed happy to have just a little piece of land on which to park and never complained.

Maybe it was the fact that he grew up in San Francisco, my adopted city of choice, that made me feel closer to him than some other locals, or maybe it was his utter lack of judgment of me and everyone else in an area that is not always so forgiving of idiosyncrasies, but I think Vivi was on target in a poem that she wrote and distributed at his memorial service:

His patience and understanding
Went beyond comprehending
Did not question people's actions
Only gave supportive reactions

I also couldn't help being reminded of the aphorism "he who is least is best." In this case I would have had to agree with that.

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News reports of the death of 49-year-old Bill Whelan indicated that his body was discovered when the door to his pickup camper came open while the vehicle was being towed. The truck had been reported abandoned. Los Gatos-Monte Sereno police, in their press release, said Whelan was a transient known by the police to park his truck around Los Gatos.--Editor

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