Under The Sun

By Dena Stewart

It was January of 1987 when Stewart and I started our new life on Miami Beach. A month later, when our car rental lease expired we decided not to rent another one. We planned to eventually buy a car for trips off the barrier island, but in the meantime we were getting around just fine on bicycle and foot and when necessary, public transportation.

When Bayside Park and Marketplace opened in downtown Miami, we took a bus to the large complex with gift shops and theme restaurants. The ride took longer than we expected, but it was our day off from setting up our studio and art gallery spaces. We were in no hurry. We had a pleasant time playing tourists and when we had enough, we headed towards the bus stop to make our way back to the Beach. By then it was mid afternoon. The sun was baking. With no shade to shield me I was growing impatient and sweaty. Twenty minutes into our wait a shiny black limousine stopped for a light directly in front of us. Jokingly I stuck out my thumb as if to hitch a ride. To my surprise, the back door opened, a thin, nice looking man jumped out and with no questions asked ushered us into the back seat of the car. He got into the front seat next to the driver.

“Where are you heading?” the man asked. “South Beach. You can drop us off anywhere once we get over the causeway,” Stewart answered. “No problem. We’ll take you anywhere you’d like. I just need to make one brief stop first. And feel free to have a drink. The bar is fully stocked,” he offered as the driver drove off. Stewart and I were in ecstasy. This was a much nicer way to get around than the slow, crowded bus.

Left alone with the chauffeur for about ten minutes our curiosity got the best of us. “Who is he?” I asked. “Bob Seger, the musician,” the chauffeur told us, proudly showing us a beautiful pearl ear-stud the superstar had given him. Of course I knew Bob Seger and The Silver Bullet Band, but out of context he looked like one of us. When he returned to the car, his mysterious mission accomplished, we began to talk. He introduced himself and said he was killing time. He had missed his plane to London where he was scheduled to appear in a concert with Whitney Houston later in the week and was booked on a flight leaving that night. I tried not to sound like the enamored fan that I was. He seemed genuinely happy to have people to hang out with while he waited.

We invited him to our Lincoln Road studio, along with Jaime the chauffeur, who said his uncle owned the limo company. Jaime was a model who drove the car when he wasn’t strutting the runway in Paris or Milan. Bob, that’s what he said we should call him, looked at all the artwork in our studio and selected one of Stewart’s paintings to take away with him; but he didn’t have his checkbook or enough cash to pay for it upfront. “I’m sorry we aren’t set up yet to accept credit cards, but if you mail me a check, as soon as it clears I’ll FedEx the painting to you,” Stewart told him. Stewart was not as quickly enamored by celebrities as I was. “Honest. You can trust me. Here’s my home address in Michigan,” Bob replied, looking slightly rebuffed by Stewart’s response. “No problem. As soon as your check clears I’ll FedEx the painting to you,” Stewart repeated and put Bob’s unlisted information in his pocket.

The four of us, Bob, Jaime, Stewart and I then went to Ocean Drive for cocktails. Jaime let us out of the limo directly in front of the trendy Carlyle Hotel veranda. I felt like a superstar as all eyes, including those of other artists we had recently met, turned towards us. In those days it wasn’t often one would see a sleek black limo on Ocean Drive. After Jaime parked the car and rejoined us we all bantered a bit, downed several rounds of Absolut on the rocks, Bob quoted lines from one of his latest hit songs and invited us to join him at Joe’s Stone Crab for an early dinner before heading to the airport for his nine o’clock flight. Unfortunately, Joe’s was closed for a private party so instead of dining on upscale seafood we went to Puerto Sagua, the popular Cuban greasy spoon. At 7:30, Jaime insisted we leave so that Bob didn’t miss another flight. Stewart and I agreed to walk home rather than cause any additional delays. Bob kissed me and told Stewart he looked forward to receiving his painting. He wasn’t offended. We exchanged phone numbers with Jaime. After all, there might come a time when we’d need a chauffeured limousine.

The next morning Jaime called. He sounded frantic. “Did Bob give you his phone number?” he asked. “No. Only his address. Why?” we asked. “It seems that he skipped out on his hotel bill, his credit card was invalid and he didn’t pay for the limo service. Bob Seger is an imposter!”

“Hey, at least I didn’t give him my painting,” was Stewart’s reaction. I was disappointed. I liked Bob. I wanted him to be a superstar. Jaime was just plain angry at being scammed. We formed a bond. Later on, in between modeling jobs Jaime was the doorman at one of the trendy clubs on South Beach. He let us into the VIP area even when our names weren’t on the list.

P.S. The Michigan address “Bob” gave us turned out to be a gas station on some isolated road. However, when we looked at some photos on album covers, he did bear a striking resemblance to the real Bob Seger.