Letters to the Editor: Remembering Rex Reed

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi

I first met Rex in 1972 in Florida. I was a journalism student in my second year of college when I wrote Rex a brief, three-paragraph letter asking to interview him. He responded with a five-page handwritten letter detailing how impossibly busy he was—major deadlines, phones ringing off the hook, hundreds of letters weekly. At the end of this tale of woe, he invited me to pick him up at the Orlando airport and have dinner before he spoke at an event for Air Force wives in Cape Canaveral.

I arrived at the airport and we walked to my yellow Corvette. Rex, who had no filter, immediately delivered his first unsolicited critique about my car. He was hilarious. As we drove to the motel, the second critique arrived—this time about my name.

My birth name was Richard, but living in the south, I’d acquired the nickname Rikki. Rex asked how I came up with that ridiculous name and spelling. I explained my grandmother loved the childhood story Rikki-Tikki -Tavi and proclaimed that was my name.

Rex sounded off: “In England, Richard is Dick. That’s a no. In New York, Richard is Yo, Rich. That’s a no. In the south, Richard is Ricky, and definitely not spelled like a childhood tale. From now on, it’s Richard. Got it.” I said OK.

His motel surprisingly had a nice restaurant. Over dinner, we talked about our journeys as two young southern boys on a mission. A handsome, perhaps gigolo-type young man approached our table, probing to see if there might be interest. There was not. Yet another critique followed—Rex noticed the gentleman’s expensive bracelet. My mother was a major Bvlgari customer, and I recognized it immediately. When the check arrived, Rex made no effort to pick it up. In all our years together, I never knew Rex to pick up any check, ever. I wasn’t fazed—my father always paid for everyone, everywhere.

Rex asked if I’d like to stay over. Not wanting the two-hour drive back to campus, I checked into the room next door. We continued talking in Rex’s room, eventually falling asleep while staring at the ceiling from our separate beds.

Rex’s humor was profound. His constant complaining about work made me realize he truly loved it—loved to complain, and more than anything, wanted to be famous. He barked a lot about life, but I saw him as a dog barking with his tail wagging. He loved deadlines. He almost never laughed. Instead, he had a grin.

I decided to have fun with his humor. I found a printing store, composed a “form letter” for Rex to use, had 1,000 copies printed, and sent them to his New York apartment—along with the exact Bvlgari bracelet he’d criticized. I knew he admired it. His response was immediate and hilarious.

In 1975, I moved to New York City. At Rex’s insistence, I found an apartment on Central Park West where we could be near when turmoil engulfed us. He also insisted I use his answering service, where live operators answered our phones. We shared a magnificent lady, Louise, who reminded me of Mabel King in “The Wiz.” She fiercely protected us and never shared anything about our lives to anyone—not even Rex’s callers to me or mine to Rex.

I first learned of someone named Rick who answered Rex’s phone and took messages. Once, he telephoned to probe my friendship with Rex. I’ve always been fiercely private, and I asked Rex about Rick, adding I wasn’t cool with anyone asking about my private life. Rex said Rick was his assistant, though I suspected otherwise—he was there too late and sometimes too early. Rex never talked about Rick. I knew about Rick, but as we were not romantically involved, I didn’t think twice about his edits in his life, or even mine. Years later, Rex would share more, particularly about Rick’s untimely death.

My friendship with Rex wasn’t one where I leaned on him. He, though, leaned on me several times, especially when peril knocked at his door.

I am petrified to share this, as I am not a writer, and stepping into his world in print is something Rex would no doubt greet with his notorious, mischievous grin. More than anything else, Rex wanted to be famous and loved. Rex was both.