The office of our friend Jimmey was in a writer’s bungalow in the back of the Fox lot, tucked away beyond the prop and set barns, far past the lot’s famed New York street. Pee Wee was the previous occupant during his Playhouse years. He left behind a long sofa, each cushion a different Sixties pastel with black piping—turquiose next to salmon up against butter yellow—super poppy and like its show, the piece was childlike. Billy and I loved it, so much so that we begged Jimmey to sell it to us and he did when his office was outfitted with new furniture.
I don’t remember exactly how we got it to our Venice bungalow with its separated upstairs loft in the backyard, but that’s where it landed and for years, we lounged and played and cuddled on that thing before I found Billy dead on it at 8:45am on January 21st, 2002. It was MLK Day that year.
After his funeral, Billy’s family went back to the loft so they could figure out what they wanted, pieces of Billy, the things he loved, stuff that they would cherish and remind them of him. Chris chose his substantial vinyl collection. Matt took the electronics. Amie, his niece, wanted the couch, and had it moved to Saint Elmo, Illinois, the tiny town where Billy grew up.
I’m not sure what happened to it after it left the loft, but I know I was glad to never see that fucking couch again.