by Akim Reinhardt
The only time I met Rex Reed, I was about seven years old. I went with my dad to Reed’s apartment in The Dakota on Central Park West so he could offer an estimate on painting the place. My father ran a very small general contracting business called Ken’s Home Improvements. Typical jobs involved him and one or two other workers. His theory on acquiring customers was to work for rich people since they had money; economies of scale were anathema to his soul. Reed qualified. A film and cultural critic for the New York Times, GQ, and Vogue, he’d been a judge for both the Berlin and Venice International Film Festivals by the time my little feet traipsed across his hardwood floors in the famous 19th century building with custom apartments and famous residents such as John and Yoko, and Betty Bacall.
The details of how my dad met Reed were vague. By family lore, they were two Southern transplants living in New York City who bonded over a mutual love of Dr. Pepper, which was not yet a national brand; Reed was importing it from Texas by the case. There might’ve also been some theatrical connections as my father, like Reed, was a failed actor. Before siring me, he’d worked off-off Broadway designing and building sets for outfits like the Living Theater. Maybe John Tebelack, the man behind Godspell and another one of my dad’s customers, had recommended him to Reed. Or maybe Reed recommended my dad to Tebelack. Regardless, there we were, Rex offering me a soda while I stared at what I saw lying on the living room floor: a baby zebra rug. I was transfixed. Was that a real zebra? Yes it was. But what truly held my eyes was the void of the zebra’s own: two big, oval holes where its eyes would have been were it still alive. It was one of the eeriest things I’d ever seen.
Though I never saw Reed in person again, he remained a tangential figure in our lives. He was famous enough to pop up on TV from time to time. I remember seeing him as one of the judges on The Gong Show, praising and canning various acts of marginal talent on the campy talent program. He had a cameo in Superman (1978) and occasional guest spots on fare such as The Love Boat and Fantasy Island.
Then one December, when my younger sister and I were about 4 and 10 years old, Reed mailed us a Christmas gift: a five gallon bucket of popcorn.
It was a kid’s dream. Three flavors of popcorn: salted, caramel, and chocolate. And more of it than the two of us could go through in a holiday season, even accounting for our father occasionally walking by and pulling a man-sized scoop.
No one had ever given us anything so cool. Read more »
I was a minor mess in high school. Had no idea what to do with my curly hair. Unduly influenced by a childhood spent watching late ‘70s television, I stubbornly brushed it to the side in a vain attempt to straighten and shape it into a helmet à la The Six Million Dollar Man or countless B-actors on The Love Boat and Fantasy Island. I couldn’t muster any fashion beyond jeans, t-shirts, and Pumas. In the winter I wore a green army coat. In the summer it was shorts and knee high tube socks.