Ugh. The ethical dilemma of the impossible friend.
Today was Rip Claassen’s birthday, and also the day I learned that he had died of a massive stroke two weeks ago. Rip was involved in many aspects of my life: he was my son’s homeschooling tutor and his first employer, he was the costume designer that I turned to most frequently as artistic director of The American Century Theater, and I also hired him as a stage director on a couple of occasions. He was a very talented, sweet, kind and sensitive man.
He was also a very eccentric man with a lot of problems. That photo above is how he looked and often dressed in his later years, but Rip—and this not unusual for a costume designer—was likely to wear the damnedest things, including pajama bottoms, in public. He was, as he would usually tell you soon after he met you, what they used to call an Asperger’s sufferer—apparently Asperger was a Nazi or something, so the name has been “cancelled”; I don’t what the condition called now—which means that he was bad at reading social cues and tended to get obsessed with certain topics to the extent that he couldn’t focus on anything else. But Rip did a marvelous, courageous job of coping with and minimizing the damage caused by this malady, and I respected him for that. In fact, I urged him to market a service of helping parents of children with that autism-spectrum problem. (He never did.)
Rip bought a theatrical supplies business which he promptly drove into bankruptcy with his quirks. Grace and I loaned him a substantial amount to help him buy the business (okay, it was Grace’s idea), and it was money we never saw again. After that disaster, Rip started asking us for more “loans”—not just us, but my wife was generous and sympathetic to a fault. Eventually, it was the only reason we ever heard from him: he was desperate, the wolf was at the door, he was homeless, nobody would hire him. I gave Rip pro bono legal services and other assistance, but after handing over a couple hundred more dollars that we really couldn’t spare, I finally convinced Grace that we weren’t going to take his calls and emails any more. The Marshalls were having their own problems, and a friend in need who only contacts you to fill that need is a perplexing friend indeed.









