Leonora LaPeter Anton on Limo Bob wanting reality and getting it
Robert Strauser's fingers lumbered across his laptop keyboard under the weight of 12 chunky diamond and gold rings. He wore 33 pounds of gold chains, dark sunglasses, a black Fedora, snakeskin boots. He'd brushed Just for Men, dark brown, into his skinny boxed beard.
Limo Bob, as he likes to be called, was attempting to connect online by Skype with a reality show producer. He had a lifetime of stories to tell her, about how he had once owned the longest limo in the world; how he'd lost it all and had to sell Barney dolls on the street; how he had come to Florida after someone blew up five of his limos.
Limo Bob wanted his own reality show like a teenage boy wants a girl he can not have. He could see it now. He would don his gold (all $1 million of it) and the fur coat that Mike Tyson gave him back when he chauffeured him. The cameras would pan as he emerged from the back of one of his limos with his midget maitre d', Shorty, his ex-wife, his current wife, his adult son and daughter, all under the watchful eye of his stiff-faced bodyguard, Tank.
The computer in front of Bob clicked to life and a woman's face appeared on the screen.
"How ya doing?" he said, smiling broadly.