It’s 1:30 in the afternoon on a quiet Monday. I mean, it’s not noisy in here. We have tables filled with patrons, but it’s just that nobody is speaking above the sound of the background music. It takes a few moments to realize why the silence is so bothersome. Big Bill Chambers isn’t chatting up the whole room in his deep baritone voice from the corner bar stool. He’s gone. Bill knew he was on his way out. Before his triple bypass, Bill told me that he had actually died in a local liquor store while purchasing bread for a ham sandwich. He was out of bread. When the paramedics revived Bill in the ambulance, he invited them to his house for sandwiches. I told him then that if he let himself die, he would have to live atop the fireplace in our café alongside a picture of our friend, the late Dennis. Bill loved the idea. So it goes. Bill kept me company every Saturday and Sunday morning. He arrived just prior to opening, sat at the end of the bar and started telephoning his posse: “Hey, Blondie, get your ass out of bed and join me for breakfast. The beach won’t be there all day.” And so he would continue down the list, waking people early on Sundays, filling our little café with groggy but thirsty beach dwellers. Bill loved the beach, horseshoes, raspberry mimosas, screwdrivers, good-natured chiding, his numerous friends, largebusted brunettes and small butts. Bill’s routines are what led to the discovery of his death. His buddies Kelly and Stephen telephoned on a stormy Monday morning, Feb. 9, asking me when I last spoke with Bill. They were standing in front of Bill’s apartment. The television was on. Bill would not answer the door. I started bawling. I knew. We all knew. He had missed breakfast on Saturday and Sunday. Bill told me that he had long ago been shamed out of his ego. “I have no ego. What’s the point?” he would ask. As I look over the pictoral history posted to our memory board, I notice many spoofs of Bill: In one, he stands next to our ghoulish Halloween mannequin, which is exactly the same height and build as Bill. Neither has hair. Bill’s giving the maitre d’ a manly hug, brother to brother. My two favorite photos capture the heart of the man. In one, he gently cradles a teacup poodle, snuggling the pooch close to his face. In the other, Bill stands surrounded by a circle of friends. Not unusual for Bill. Bill knew everyone … or at least introduced himself. That is how Bill acquired the nickname “The Mayor.” Bill was in a small town in Mexico, celebrating whatever holiday was at hand and greeted townfolk as the mayor. People believed him; I did, many years and miles removed. In fact, that is why I am writing this salute. So many people claim Bill’s friendship that I have been unable to locate one central party coordinating a memorial. One such celebration occurred last weekend as a pub crawl and another is scheduled this month at Kate Sessions Park by another group of fans and yet another beach gathering is planned by an unrelated pack. Yet I do not know the family to even ask their wishes. So, here is my contribution — on behalf of a Voltaire Street proprietor, our staff and the other pubs located within two blocks of us. There are many measures of one’s lifetime accomplishments. I sort of have to back into this stuff: I don’t know where Bill attended school, his academic laurels or even the names of family members. Bill never fathered any children that had, to the point of his passing, knocked upon his door. He was generous and kind to the children of others. Bill never built a bridge to nowhere; that would be impossible given the range of his social circle. Bill did not vote for Obama. He never bought Tommy Bahama shirts or smoked Cuban cigars on my patio. I will tell you what Bill did do: If you loaned him money, you got it back — on time. Bill was damn fine company, never moody or mean. As a bar owner, that resonates. When he laughed, it was heartfelt. No phony crap. He was flippin’ hilarious and kept me amused during many frantic, understaffed mornings. I bet you this: People will remember Bill and his antics for many years — beyond those of his short 50 years. I guarantee you that anyone who brings so many diverse personalities together should have been a diplomat. Perhaps that explains his early departure from this mortal plane. — Brenda Wakefield is the owner of O’Bistro in Ocean Beach.