Willie, however, is determined not to fail.
Jeff Newton
Baby throws a tantrum when his "mommy" Anita tells him he has to eat his broccoli and cheese.
courtesy of William Windsor
Willie Windsor in his early Nashville days, circa 1976.
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It's hot and muggy outside Bogie's, a biker joint on 26th Street and Indian School Road, and the early-evening sunlight shines through the cracked back door, illuminating a layer of cigarette smoke hovering above the bar.
Baby has yet to arrive. In fact, he's 45 minutes late, despite the promise that he'd be here early to case the joint.
Finally, William Windsor appears in the foyer. His face is flushed and he's visibly winded from the walk over, from his apartment a few blocks away. He enters to an ovation of silence and disbelief. A tiny Navajo woman pushes herself up from her stool to get a glimpse, and two men in tight corduroy shorts have forgotten to light their cigarettes. The lull continues for about five seconds before a lanky 50-something asks aloud:
"What. In. The. Hell?"
"Hey, man," Windsor says, placing his "binky" on the counter before extending a hand.
He wears a pink bonnet over his golden locks, a pink polka-dotted dress that barely conceals his diaper, white bobby socks with lace trim, and those patent leather shoes. He sets a rag doll down gently next to his pacifier on the bar.
"Sorry I'm late," he tells me. "Gas prices these days, you know?"
Turns out, William Windsor can afford a tank of gas every week for the next 20 years without having to work another day for the rest of his life. But overzealous frugality is certainly not the oddest thing about a man who once locked down the seat of his toilet for months to become incontinent.
Windsor says he doesn't want to be asked about "family or finances." But over the course of the next three hours, and several weeks, Windsor reveals much about both.
He begins by explaining what happened a year and a half ago:
Three weeks after his father's death in December 2003, Windsor threw away every piece of grown-up clothing he had, bought an oversize crib, a specially made high chair, a diaper-changing table, and a closet full of specially made baby dresses, rumba panties and onesies.
Now, he's sitting at Bogie's, eyeing a pack of Marlboro Lights ("I really shouldn't be smokin'," he says, straight-faced. "It's important for me to maintain an image.") and ordering a Budweiser (bottle, of course), attempting to explain HeidiLynn, who just might be pooping her pants as she speaks.
For nearly 50 years, Windsor tried to conceal a secret desire to live his life as a 2-year-old. "The baby thing" had him spending his childhood allowance on diapers and baby bottles while his friends bought comic books and bubblegum.
Growing up, Windsor was a social outcast, until he discovered his love for theater at Arcadia High School -- and his booming singing voice. Both took him all the way to Broadway, where he starred in Hair, in the lead role of Claude, at the height of the anti-war movement of the early 1970s. Then to Nashville, where he chased his dream of becoming a country singer and songwriter, but failing to meet his potential.
He eventually divorced his wife of 11 years, was homeless, addicted to crack, and an alcoholic, struggling to find balance between his "adult baby" lifestyle and the normalcy he felt obligated to pursue.
But a year and a half ago, William Windsor was given another chance when his father, the grandson of H.H. Windsor, who founded Popular Mechanics magazine at the turn of the 20th century, died and left Willie and his three siblings a small fortune -- close to $1.25 million each.
Windsor has yet to collect his share of the inheritance. That comes later this summer. In the meantime, he's making plans, setting up investments, and being a grown-up as seldom as possible.
"Sometimes, though, I have to be an adult," he says. "I have to take care of my responsibilities."
The stares and laughter are a part of the appeal of the "24/7 extreme AB/DL" life. Which is why Windsor chose to meet at Bogie's, a bar he admits is pretty rough.
"I do enjoy pissing ignorant people off. I like to point out how stupid people can sometimes be," he says, with the faint Southern accent he acquired while splitting time among Tennessee, Alabama and Mississippi for most of the past 25 years. Then, he lights up a cigarette, with mild hesitation. "But to be honest, I don't really piss off that many people.
"I've found that most people are at the very least tolerant, if not downright supportive of my appearance."
Just then, Dan, one of the new arrivals in the tight corduroy shorts, approaches. Already drunk, Dan struggles to put together a sentence, opening his mouth to speak, but unsure of the question he wants to ask.
"Wha--," Dan begins. "W-w-why?" Then, he finally spits it out.
"Is that baby powder I smell?"
"Yeah," Windsor replies. "Do you like it?"
Dan begins to sway, nearly falling over until he props himself up with an outstretched arm on the bar.
"Not really," he says, inches from Windsor's nose. "It kinda stinks."
Dan's delivery makes them fightin' words. But Windsor has a way of defusing these kinds of situations, he says, which happen so infrequently, even he seems surprised.
