The Other Richard Simmons

Many years ago, in the era historians call the 90's, my life crossed paths with the man-child, fitness guru Richard Simmons. What is a "fitness guru"? I dunno. But I do know you don't have to show any proof that you are one. That's why he isn't "Dr." or "Nutritionist" Richard Simmons.
Anyway, I was, at the time, the assistant manager at a Super Crown bookstore in Whittier, California. Every now and then we had authors signing books, and as it so happened, non-doctor Richard Simmons wrote a cookbook. So, bingo, our store will host a signing from him on Thursday.

Tuesday afternoon, I was manager on duty (I really liked that job, and the employees were as close a friend as anyone could get). I got a page that the phonecall was for a manager. The person on the other end asked for my name and said, "Please hold for Mr. Simmons..."

What the hell was he calling now for? His "people" asked for 6 bottles of water. He's gonna get that. He wanted a "tasteful" plant. Got that ready. A padded chair, red with wrought iron frame. Scrounged that too. Did he want parade? Some fresh goats milk? Some whores?

Then, I hear a high pitched screeching voice that will haunt me forever, even with the filter of the tele-line...

"Hi, Michael! It's Richard! HIII-igh!!!

"...er... hi..." What else do you say to a 40 year old maniac in sparkle shorts and a fro?

"So, is there a HUUUUGE crowd there waiting for me? Is there magic in the air? Are you excited?!"

My pause was probably a lot shorter than it seemed. But, I never want to hear Richard Simmons ask me if I'm excited ever again as long as I live. Or, hear him say "HUUUUGE" like that. Never the less, no, there were no crowds, as it's only Tuesday and not Thursday.

So, I say after an uncomfortable pause, "What are you talking about? You're supposed to be here on Thursday..."

Then after a long long silence, I hear the voice of the devil himself. Almost an octave lower, full of venom, and not a hint of fruityness...

"...........what?......"

"You're supposed the be here Thursday..."

I then hear the sound of a hand rapidly and angrily covering the mouthpiece of a phone, some shuffling of the receiver, and I hear Richard bitching out his people!!!

"What the hell am I calling this place for?! What do I pay you for?!!..." The rest was muted grunted anger and spite. After a short time, I once again hear the rustling of a mouthpiece and a "Richard Handler" comes on and apologizes for the error and hangs up.

Thursday comes and it's a circus. All kinds of overweight people are hanging around the place. One thinish guy is carrying a pair of size 70 Levis and smoking outside. The vernerable picture of health! Inside, Richards people have actually brought in boxes of Kleenex. Boxes. From the back of the store walks a sober dower Mr. Simmons in an overcoat. A handler hands him a magic "protein" shake, downs it and five minutes later, he's like a hyperactive ritalin child. Then in swoops Richard himself, followed by throngs of beefy followers, like Christ reborn. Reborn in satin short shorts and a sequined tank top.

He immediately leaps on top of the table provided for him and sits crossed legged there like he's holding court. What about that damned iron chair ya cheese eatin' bastard! And I saw that book of yours. Three hours to make a tiny portioned rice and egg dinner. We all know you eat a fresh duck every night, made by a squad of personal cooks and chiefs.

I then see him lord over the people for an hour. His people place the most pathetic ones in front, including boat-pants Levi-man. He spends like 10 minutes with each person, gives a benediction, has them cry forever (cue Kleenix prop!), lays hand on them to cure their scurvy of something, then has his mafia escort them out after some pix and a personally signed book. He does this for about eight people for that hour.

Then he has to go! His royalty requests that all subjects open their books to the first page and he goes down the entire slashing an "X" in each book. He could have saved himself the trouble and brought a stamp with his name on it. Then his people surround him like a human shield and shuffle him out, in order to avoid Howard Strern's people awaiting for him outside the store. And back to his limo, Mr. Ordinary Person goes, to his booze and blow I suppose.

So I guess I can say, for once in my life, I was sweatin to his self important BS.