An Encounter With Richard Simmons in a Train Station

Philadelphia was abuzz - the excitement, palpable.

Richard Simmons - fitness guru, 80s icon, Deal-A-Meal cardshark - would reign supreme at Philadelphia’s commuter hub – 30th Street Station, on The Day of Our Lord, April 2, 2009.

He was invited to represent the revered Ocean Spray brand, hocking healthy dried “Craisins,” and anti-oxidant ladened Cranberry Cocktail (10% juice by volume) to the throngs of Philadelphia area commuters. 30th Street Station was one mere station away from my usual morning train stop!

I penciled ‘Meet Richard Simmons’ into my daily planner.

On that fated day, I exited, somewhat apprehensively, at the unknown and grand 30th Street train station. It was approximately 8:37 a.m. I tentatively exited the train, expectant that Simmons would be right there on the platform, waiting to greet me personally and shower me with Ocean Spray ™ products. No such luck; the platform was devoid of any such “Sweatin’ to the Oldies” pitchman. Accordingly, I embarked on escalator, descending deep into the bowels of the cavernous 30th Street Station, keeping aware for any sign of Simmons. Perhaps he would be lurking in a dark corner, a thin shadow topped by a mound pouf of shadow hair - throwing packs of Craisins ™ at passerbys? Perhaps he would be stationed behind some sort of kiosk to protect him from adoring fans? Where was he? I wound through the dizzying maze of underground thoroughfares and tunnels until the hallway opened up and deposited me into the cavernous Main Concourse of 30th Street Station. I knew at that moment that I ventured straight into Simmons’ den. In the middle of the concourse swelled a small circle of about 20. The faint sound of “oldies” wafted from some unseen source. There was no stage, no lights, no banners. Just a circle of commuters. I knew this was it. As I approached, I heard it; - the screeching, shrill, grating utterances of what could only be the cartoonish man himself. He emitted a string of indecipherable noises and squeals folded in with pure, unadulterated joy and encouragement. I approached further still until I saw him - a bedazzled, be-sequined, bedecked sprite, flitting about like a fabulous bumble bee. He wore what could only be fan-submitted attire; a black tank top proudly emblazoned with a blinding red, sequined heart. His white and blue-striped shorts rode dangerously high on his thighs. His hair, brittle with age, boasted more volume than an oversized beach ball. A shining bald spot perched in the middle of the nest of hair, hidden, only slightly, by the remaining bouffant. The man was like a Chihuahua – a hyperactive thing flitting here and there, singing, dancing, hugging, whispering, leaping, kicking, stretching, frolicking. It made me dizzy. Curious onlookers - who just happened to have camera phones - documented the event from the sidelines. It played much like the filming of a nature show documentary - those studying him not wishing to be observed. I’m not sure anyone was actually there to meet him. It seemed the crowd just stumbled, bewildered, upon this sight of sights – wondering why Simmons, today, was featured in their morning commutes. Simmons interacted with those few who approached him (one man put his wife on the phone with Simmons)- and with those who didn’t. Some passerbys were unceremoniously ripped from their automated, zombie-like morning trek through the concourse and straight into the arms of the beast himself. They were bewitched, bedazzled and bewildered – perhaps thinking it was all just a bad dream. Workmen dragged a tall ladder nearby, with the aim to replace a burnt-out bulb high above on the wall supporting of the concourse’s cathedral-like ceilings. Simmons broke free of the crowd and scurried up the ladder – at first unnoticed by the workmen. They soon, however, realized that an 80’s fitness guru had commandeered their ladder, and awkward hilarity ensued.

Sporadically, Mr. Simmons broke out into song and dance, accompanying the sad lone speaker vainly delivering ‘oldies’ from whence to sweat, whose sounds which were absorbed and lost in the commuting hubbub. Then…Mr. Simmons spotted me. I had been nervous; my hands sweaty, my heart racing. I tend to succumb to that condition whe

never any celebrity is near – no matter what the condition. I had been lurking for nearly 10 minutes, working up the nerve to approach. But Richard took care of the approaching for me. He advanced while I resisted the instant and instinctual urge to flee. “Can I get a photo, Richard?” I offered meekly. He obliged.

And then..he attacked. Like a ravenous lion devouring an antelope, I was ambushed. Attacks, mauling, embracing smooching; the side of my face unsafe from the smacking and slobbering that was administered. I, in vain, tried to escape. It was terrifying.

I squealed. The crowd laugh. And Simmons embraced more tightly. “Kisses are fat free!!” he shrieked, before throwing me aside to move on to the next unassuming observer. Shaken, I grabbed my Craisins TM from a nearby display and ran.