Life On Comedy's Edge -- Comedian Robin Williams Is On Like An Unwatched Pot Of Boiling Water, Riding A Stream Of Consciousness

NEW YORK - It is the last in a long day of interviews for Robin Williams, the final stretch of a different New York City Marathon. He is sweating, red-faced, his blue eyes slightly dimmed. A wave of the genie's hand and an assistant produces a tall, cool glass of soda.

But just as Williams settles onto the hotel couch, there's a knock on the door. It's Billy Crystal, in town for David Letterman's TV show. The two comedians laugh and embrace. They crack jokes, converse in a dialect that sounds like Moscow in the Catskills. Crystal sits down for a few minutes and they reminisce, beginning with their first encounter, a benefit years ago in San Francisco.

"It was huge," Williams says. "Steve Martin, Martin Mull. It was run by this big guy who looked like Sidney Greenstreet, who made great chopped liver and never paid you. . . .

"It was wild," Crystal says. "They had Melissa Manchester . . ."

". . . Loudon Wainwright."

"It was an obscure benefit," Crystal says.

"Now, for you esoteric fans," Williams calls out, "Please help save the shrimp, ladies and gentlemen!"

Crystal throws his arms around Williams and they pose for pictures. After more jokes about chopped liver, they recall how they once sat in the announcing booth for a New York Mets game.

"It was the second game he had ever been to," Crystal says. "I asked him what was the first game and he said, `I saw the San Franciscos.' "

"Happy to be in America!" Williams shouts, back in Borscht Belt-Russian ecstasy. "Thank you bat and ball!"

"He was doing a Russian baseball player," Crystal explains.

"We only have left field!"

Loud laughter. Unprintable gags.

Crystal has to go, but the show is just getting started. Williams is "on," in touch with whatever it is that makes him shake and erupt like an unwatched pot of boiling water. It seems wholly spontaneous, beyond the boundaries of mere publicity.

Ladies and gentleman, the genie has left the bottle.

"You have an internal critic, an internal drive that says, `OK, you can do more.' Maybe that's what keeps you going," Williams said. "Maybe that's a demon . . . Some people say, `It's a muse.' No, it's not a muse! It's a demon! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! THE LITTLE DEMON!!"

His mouth is gnarled, his lower lip in danger of shooting off like an arrow. He is impersonating Groucho on acid. He is giving pornographic interpretations of the Rorschach print blot on his T-shirt. He is a family man promoting a family movie, "Mrs. Doubtfire," but right now no children are in the room.

Even when he talks about the film, the discussion borders on adults only. "Mrs. Doubtfire" stars Williams as a struggling voice-over artist whose eternal playfulness drives his wife (Sally Field) to divorce him and gain custody of their three kids.

Grieving over the separation from his family, Williams dresses up as an elderly British woman and gets hired as the nanny.

"There's no other way to realize what mandatory bondage women go through than to put on four hours of makeup and go out and enjoy your afternoon, go out on a hot day in a wool skirt," he said.

" `Now do you understand? Twenty-eight days and the mood changes! Maybe a little hormonal RUSH will get you going!! DO YOU LIKE TO HAVE YOUR INSIDES RIPPED OUT BY A CHILD!!!' "

Williams, 41, grew up in the suburbs of Chicago, Detroit and San Francisco, the son of a wealthy auto executive he addressed as "sir." The only child in his parents' spacious homes, he invented characters and acted out their parts. He discovered his gift for mimicry by mastering the voice of his maternal grandmother, whom he only met by telephone.

His first major influence was Jonathan Winters, another miner of the stream of consciousness. Later, he was turned on to the great stand-up performers: Lenny Bruce, Richard Pryor, George Carlin. Their acts were not warm and lovable. They were just being themselves: frightened, angry, confused.

After college, Williams worked in small comedy clubs in San Francisco. He made a guest appearance on "Happy Days" that led to his own sitcom, "Mork and Mindy." He was also a popular guest on "The Tonight Show" with Johnny Carson, once sharing the billing with Bob Hope.

"It was interesting," Williams said. "He was supposed to go on before me and I was supposed to follow him, and I had to go on before him because he was late. I don't think that made him happy. I don't think he was angry, but I don't think he was pleased.

"I had been on the road and I came out, you know, gassed, and I killed and had a great time. Hope comes out and Johnny leans over and says, `Robin Williams, isn't he funny?' Hope says, `Yeah, he's wild. But you know Johnny, it's great to be back here with you . . .' "

Williams laughs, maniacally. `Yeah, he's wild," he keeps repeating, the words sliding out of one side of his mouth. One voice leads to the next: Hope blends into Bing Crosby who gives way to Don Rickles who segues to Moe of the The Three Stooges.

Asked how people react when they see him in public, Williams offers two versions. Passengers next to him in airplanes tend to request quietly that they be seated elsewhere. The less celebrity-shy might do anything from asking for an autograph to suggesting material even Williams wouldn't touch.

Now living with his second wife and their children in San Francisco, Williams likens his comedy to the daily jogs he takes across the Golden Gate Bridge. There are times he will look over the edge, one side of him pulling back in fear, the other insisting he can fly like Garp.

"Maybe there's something in your mind that gets afraid of that thing. `We should still hold as long as possible. I don't think we should let the id out yet. Robin, I'm really afraid, because you know, you've been in therapy and I don't think you've worked out everything in your mind.'

"Then, there's the demon: `C'MON, TALK ABOUT IT!' Even as a journalist, you're saying, `C'MON, TALK ABOUT IT!' But then there's the other thing: `No, no, no, don't talk about that. I know you want to jump in the stream of consciousness, but it's going to take you to the edge, into the abyss. . ."