Read the Cover Story: What Happened to Richard Simmons?
Richard Simmons wasn't himself. Outwardly, though, everything appeared just fine: In February 2014 he showed up for the weekly Saturday-afternoon class he had taught for more than four decades at his famed Slimmons Studio in Beverly Hills. And at 65 he looked as fit as ever, wearing his signature uniform of skimpy shorts and a tank top. But Ava Minett, a regular client at Slimmons who attended the class, recalls that the hyperkinetic exercise guru seemed uncharacteristically tired and distracted that day. "His energy was different," says Minett, "like he wasn't physically present in the room with us." A group of concerned regulars crowded around him, gently inquiring about how he was doing. "Everything is fine," he assured them. But Minett didn't buy it. "You know when you just know that something isn't right? I knew." After Simmons kissed and hugged everyone, a woman asked, "Will we see you next Saturday, Richard?" He smiled and told them what he knew they wanted to hear: "Yes, girls."
It would be the last class he ever taught at Slimmons-and the start of a deepening mystery surrounding the public disappearance of the man who brilliantly leveraged his painful childhood and outsize personality into a multimillion-dollar fitness empire. Today the self-described "clown prince" of fitness-a pop-culture fixture who once relished hugging strangers and regaling talk show hosts-lives a life of solitary seclusion behind the walls of his Hollywood Hills mansion. Now 68, he hasn't made a public appearance since January 2014, and his primary companion is his longtime live-in housekeeper Teresa Reveles. But the further Simmons has retreated, the more curiosity has grown-fanned by former Daily Show producer Dan Taberski's hit podcast Missing Richard Simmons, which drew millions of listeners and sparked frenzied speculation about the reason for his self-imposed exile from the spotlight: Is he depressed? Privately transitioning? A hostage in his own home?
The tiny circle of people who still have access to Simmons say the rumors are baseless and hurtful. Michael Catalano, his longtime manager, calls speculation that Simmons is transitioning into a woman "absolutely untrue" and says he is in good health. "He looks great," says Catalano, who saw him just over a week ago. "He's trim and he has a beard. The other day I told him, 'There are people who think you are a very overweight, depressed woman,' and he just laughed." At the same time, the attention from the podcast-which Simmons doesn't listen to-along with "all these falsehoods," says his manager, has been "tough" for him. (Through Catalano, Simmons declined People's request for an interview or new photos.)
Reports that Reveles is cutting him off from the outside world are a "complete load of crap, and you can print that," says Simmons's publicist Tom Estey. "She takes impeccable care of Richard. She's nothing but a blessing to him."
Nor is Simmons depressed, says his brother Lenny, 70, noting that his only sibling is simply tired of the limelight-as Richard himself told Today during a phone interview last year, insisting that he just wants to be a "bit of a loner" for a while."My brother is fine," says Lenny, who along with his wife, Cathy, spent five days at Richard's home over Christmas. "He calls me every Sunday, and we have a nice conversation-it's not me calling him, that's him calling me. He's always been the way he is now. He's always had his quiet time. It's just that people only saw one aspect of him, and now that they aren't seeing that, they think that something has happened, that something is wrong."
Still, there have been signs of trouble: Last June Reveles called 911 to report that Simmons was exhibiting "bizarre" behavior, and he was subsequently hospitalized for what he said was dehydration. "I do not know the cause of it, but when he went in and they checked his fluids, they said he was severely dehydrated," says Catalano, who says he is "absolutely" not incapacitated.
Although Simmons told Entertainment Tonight last year that he still weighed 150 lbs. and was exercising daily, he has acknowledged issues with his knees. (He had replacement surgery on one.) Then, around the time he taught his final exercise class in 2014, Hattie, the last of his beloved dalmatians, died. "It was very, very hard for him," says Lenny.
It was around this time when friends began to notice that Simmons was receding from contact. "I was very close to him," says June Park, owner of the Los Angeles boutique Wigs Today. "But I don't know what's going on, because I can't get him on either of his phone numbers. People stop by his house, but nobody gets to see him." His assistant Elijah Jones, who has worked for him for 35 years, shares the same frustrations. "I want my friend back in my life the way he used to be," says Jones, who last spoke to Simmons in 2014. When Jones told him how beloved he remains by his fans, Simmons looked teary but did not reply verbally. "Based on the 35 years I have been with him, when he doesn't say anything, that can be him taking it in," says Jones. "We both had tears in our eyes, and we both ended up crying. I wish to God I could drag him out of his house to see me, but I can't." These days when Jones calls, he speaks to Reveles. "I trust Teresa if she says Richard is okay," says Jones. "If Richard wants to speak to me, he will ask to speak to me."
Several weeks ago the LAPD showed up at Simmons's front gate for the second time in a year to check on him. "We went out and talked to him, and he's fine," says detective Kevin Becker. "Nobody is holding him hostage. He's doing exactly what he wants to do."
There is no doubt that Simmons has always written his own rules. Born Milton Teagle Simmons (he changed his name to Richard at age 11) to onetime vaudeville performers Shirley and Leonard, Simmons was raised in New Orleans's colorful French Quarter and has repeatedly described his childhood as a "constant struggle." In his 1999 memoir Still Hungry-After All These Years he wrote of his father's sternness, "Leonard liked order in his life, and if something was slightly amiss, God protect you." Food became a refuge, and he struggled with his weight from an early age. "At 4, it didn't bother me," Simmons told People in 1981. "But at 5, I knew what people were saying. The worst part was not being accepted by my peers." Savagely bullied for his weight by classmates, he learned the skills of salesmanship, hawking homemade pralines on street corners to bring in extra cash for the family while dreaming of one day becoming a priest. Even as a boy, the wisecracking Simmons realized he could use his quick wit to keep the outside world from seeing the pain he felt inside. "He was absolutely depressed growing up, but he would hide it with humor," says Antoinette DiPiazza, 69, one of Simmons's closest childhood friends. "He never knew how to let go of that depression."
At his all-boys Catholic high school, the bulimic teen was bullied further. "When you think of Catholic schools in New Orleans in the 1950s and '60s, it was not a good place for people who were different-it was a survival-of-the-fittest atmosphere," says local historian Ed Branley. "Sometimes the kid who doesn't fit in or is fat is going to get bullied."
It was during high school that Simmons-who embraced his flamboyant persona early on but has never publicly discussed his sexuality-found that he could comfort other wounded souls when a friend's mother broke down in front of him after being given a "piggy pin" at a weight-loss-program meeting. "I'll never forget the look of shame on her face," he wrote in his memoir. "From the very beginning of my life, it was me playing the role of brother, confessor, listening to people's stories, either to lend a sympathetic ear or sometimes to give advice."
The 5'7" Simmons weighed nearly 270 lbs. when he graduated from Cor Jesu High School in 1966. He spent some time in a seminary but ultimately dropped out. "Black was not my color," he later quipped. He soon traveled to Florence to study art and not only landed a bit part in famed Italian filmmaker Frederico Fellini's classic Satyricon but appeared in more than 100 commercials for everything from yogurt to underwear.
An anonymous note left on his windshield that read, "Fat people die young; please don't die," sent him on a nearly lethal dieting binge. He dropped 112 lbs. in 2 months, lost most of his hair and ended up in the hospital with malfunctioning kidneys.
When he moved to Los Angeles in the early 1970s, his health crisis had forced him to learn everything he could about nutrition. After a series of jobs, including a stint as a maître d' that he quit after realizing, "I can't feed people this stuff," he opened Ruffage and the Anatomy Asylum, a combination health-food eatery and exercise studio, in 1975. Nobody, including the scores of celebrities who dropped by, had seen anything quite like it-or like Simmons, who would often hop in the laps of new customers and tell them they were fat.
By 1979 the frenetic weight-loss evangelist had become a bona fide pop-culture sensation, receiving upwards of 25,000 fan letters a day. And over the next four decades, he wrote five bestselling books, produced more than 50 popular workout videos, organized cruises, appeared on talk shows and crisscrossed the nation connecting with legions of devoted fans. "I never saw him get tired, and the man got up at 4 in the morning to start his day at the gym and make calls to the East Coast," says Jones. "He was a nonstop ball of energy."
One of the first celebrities to harness the power of reality television, he would reach out to overweight fans-often with cameras in tow-and dole out equal parts advice, sympathy and tough love. He did the same when cameras weren't around, say those closest to him. "He's helped millions of people lose millions of pounds," says Estey. "And for 40 years he took care of everyone but himself."
And taking care of himself, says his brother, is exactly what he's doing now. "After 40-odd years he just decided that he wants to rest, and I certainly can't blame him," says Lenny. "If I have any message at all for his fans, it's this: It doesn't mean that he doesn't love and think about his fans, he just decided that it's time for him to be quiet and enjoy his life. I've been on numerous cruise trips with him, and they were exhausting to me. I can't imagine what it was like for him." And so, even for a man who seemed to run off a spotlight-powered battery, the time had come to "cut off" his career, says Lenny. "It's his decision not to be seen."
These days he spends his time watching the news (60 Minutes is a favorite) and game shows (Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune) and relaxing in his garden among the many visiting hummingbirds. "When I look at him, he still looks like my brother-he has the beard, and his hair is a little grayer, but you expect that at 68," says Lenny. Does he have any regrets? "He doesn't seem to. He never says,'I wish I was doing this, or I'm upset about that.' It's more, 'I enjoyed doing what I did, I hope I made a contribution, but I don't miss it.' "
In the end, maybe Simmons himself answered the riddle surrounding his life now way back in 1981, at a time when his career was first exploding and everything seemed possible. "I work real hard to make people laugh and to make them think," Simmons told People in a rare moment of self-reflection. "The day I don't love any of this, I'll walk away."
-With Julie Mazziotta, Rose Minutaglio, Gabrielle Olya and Christine Pelisek
