Daniel Conderman 
I’ve always been the kind of guy who stays out of the spotlight. Part of that is bad luck—I got tangled in more fiascos than I care to count—but mostly I just never saw the point in hogging attention. I’m Bob Sacamano, by the way. If you’ve ever talked to my buddy Kramer, you’ve probably heard my name.
My First Tangle with Kramer
I met Cosmo Kramer back in the late ’80s, working a temp job at a weird little rubber factory in New Jersey. He barreled through the door, looking to buy wholesale rubber chicken novelties (long story) and ended up bonding with me over free coffee in the break room. He never called me “Robert” or “Mr. Sacamano”; it was always “Buddy!” from day one. Our friendship was sealed when he discovered I could score leftover merchandise at cost—sometimes questionable condoms, sometimes bizarre T-shirts. Didn’t matter to Kramer. He was all in.
The Not-So-Routine Surgery
Shortly after we met, I needed hernia surgery. Typical, right? Well, in my case it took a turn. I was half-awake on the operating table and started babbling about rubber chickens. The surgeons freaked out; I freaked out worse. Next thing I know, Kramer’s telling everyone I was “cut open like a fish.” Ever since, folks on the Upper West Side think I’m some half-mad experiment gone wrong. I was fine, but I do flinch sometimes—just a side effect of hearing hospital alarms in my sleep.
Defective Condoms & Factory Follies
I bounce from job to job: one day it’s a T-shirt press, the next it’s a phone directory printing gig. The big fiasco everyone remembers was the condoms. I’d gotten a sweet deal from a buddy who ran the assembly line. Let’s just say if “Quality Assurance” had been a step in production, we missed it. Kramer was thrilled—until he found out they might be defective. To this day, I still feel kinda bad. I was just trying to help him out (and maybe make a few bucks on the side).
Adventures in Florida
My dad, Bob Sacamano Sr., retired to Florida, so I spent some time down there. I heard Jerry Seinfeld’s parents lived nearby, so I called Kramer—figured maybe we could grab coffee if Jerry was in town. Every time we tried to meet, though, something came up: some pen fiasco, a run-in with a neighbor named Klompus, or a meltdown at Del Boca Vista. Eventually, I gave up and went fishing with my old man. Caught some nice snapper. Missed Jerry every single time.
Life on the Sidelines
People ask, “Why don’t we ever see you?” Easy: I’m always hustling. I’ve sold ponchos, postcards, you name it. A lot of these deals don’t pan out (like those novelty phone books that reversed everyone’s names). Meanwhile, Kramer’s always telling the others about my escapades, so I’ve got this reputation as an accident-prone magnet for weirdness. Granted, I’m not the luckiest, but come on—the stories get, uh, embellished.
The Courtroom Close-Call
When those four ended up on trial—Jerry, George, Elaine, Kramer—the prosecution subpoenaed half of Manhattan. I got a letter too. I guess they figured if Kramer told so many “Sacamano stories,” I must have some major gripe. Truth was, I didn’t. Sure, the guys used some shoddy rubbers I supplied—nobody’s perfect. George gave me a weird nod in a lobby once, but I think he had gas. Elaine always seemed nice. Jerry? A little aloof, but never wronged me. So I stayed out in the hallway while an angry parade of old acquaintances paraded in. The bailiff asked me, “You going in?” I shrugged. “They’re not half bad. I can’t help the prosecution.” So I tore up my note and headed home.
Living Happily Unseen
Look, I’m not complaining. My life’s good. People keep telling me I’m “unlucky,” or a “walking curse,” but I see it differently: I just happen to fall into interesting situations. I love Kramer like a brother—even if he turns my minor mishaps into legends of doom. And no, I never made it onto Jerry’s stage, or even on camera, but that’s fine by me.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from hanging around the Seinfeld crew, it’s this: the stories that get told are bigger and more bizarre than real life. Meanwhile, guys like me live in the margins, satisfied that not every anecdote needs a spotlight. If you ever see me on the street, feel free to say hi. I might have a line on some discount ponchos or leftover T-shirts. Just don’t believe everything Kramer says—he means well, but when it comes to Bob Sacamano, the tall tales are at least half the fun.
And hey, Serenity now… it actually works, trust me.
