Fabio was coming to Bullocks. He was pitching his cologne.
I already had a bottle. From San Antonio.
So what.
I have a new blouse. Low cut, ruffles, pretty. Beats those suits I usually wear to work.
I have a new skirt. Slit to the waist. Well, it does wrap. My staff call it my slut skirt. Black. Flowing. Long. Sexy. Well, feminine. At my age, I gave up on sexy.
I definitely do not look like an engineer. You can tell I've been shopping.
I think I'll wear these things. With some pretty shoes. No ŒI love comfort' for me today.
My car has been serviced. It has gas. And oil. And tires with tread. These are good things.
I have vacation time. Lots of it. I was saving it up.
I was still hesitant. I went to work.
"Why"; say my staff. They check out my clothes. They giggle. They ask me why I am there. They are amused at the effect Fabio has had on their staid and proper manager.
My staff encourages me. "Leave" they say. I do.
By 8:30 AM I am on the road to LA. I know this road. I have driven my children to scouting functions many times. I know every McDonald's and gas station on the way.
It is an easy drive. One hundred and thirty miles. I have time. He is not due till 1 PM. I get there early. I find the shopping mall. I even figure out where to park.
I am suddenly shy. I get strange like that sometimes. I walk around the mall. I find the store. I finally find a sign. Good. He really will be here.
I was not sure.
I stroll around the store. I browse, I am good at that. I have window shopped all my life.
I check out the display they have made. His after shave. His shirt. Him. Not as good as San Antonio. They have to find a sales clerk to wait on me.
I check out where he will be.
I am so early, they are not ready. They look bemused. They aren't quite sure what to expect. Like, who is this man?
That's OK. I am nervous. Excited. I will do my hair, fix my make-up and check that the skirt is hanging right at least ten times. I will spray on his cologne. It makes me think of him.
They said it would. It does.
By 11:30, I am no longer the first in line. I am third. Then forth. That's fine.
I start to talk with the others in line. We begin to compare notes. We are hesitant at first. After all, we don't know each other. Not yet.
What will he sign? Can we get more than one picture? Who will hold the camera?
A few women make mad dashes back to their cars. They have bags of calendars, photos, books and now cologne.
The store has security guards. A few anyway. They scowl and try to look important. We are told we have to buy something to get near him.
I already have my cologne.
I already have signed calendars. Although, I still haven't figured out how he spelled my name. That's OK. He scrawled "Love, Fabio" across another one. I am content. It hangs above my bed. The month is not important. Neither is the year.
I have the photos from San Antonio. When I was handing him my stories. Just before he picked me up. Just before the camera jammed.
I look like a wreck. He looks beautiful.
I want his autograph on the photo. Maybe he can scrawl it across my face.
I also want a hug. I'd love a kiss. He sometimes kisses you on the cheek. He has a nice mouth.
The adrenaline begins to pump. The time is creeping slowly forward. The crowd gets bigger. And noisier.
We feed off each other.
We drive our excitement to a fever pitch.
We suck clorets.
We check our lipstick.
We check our hair.
It is a frenzy of preparing.
The time of his arrival is getting closer.
Will he walk down the line shaking hands? He did that in San Antonio. In the morning he did that, before the mob scenes. By that afternoon, he was in a coma.
This crowd is not large. He will have time for us.
We watch. He is so tall we know that we will see his head above the rest. We look for that mane of blond hair. We turn at each sound, wanting to be the first to catch his arrival.
They trick us.
He is whisked on to the stage, bypassing the line.
They have the security guards firmly in place this time.
His partners are also placed around him. Guarding him from the crowd.
They are pretending they are in control.
Fat chance! Little do they know!
We are Fabio fans.
We are women of determination.
We skipped work.
We drove miles.
We stood in line.
More importantly, we are mothers.
We regard the guards as errant children.
We will humor them. To a point. Then we will intimidate them.
He is there. That is all that matters.
The store rep mumbles into a microphone and tries to explain how it will be done. How many seconds of bliss we will have. Who will handle the cameras. What will be done with our purses. How many things he will sign.
This woman likes to live dangerously.
They tried for order.
We ignored them.
We prefer chaos.
We clutched our items to our chests and got ready.
He was in jeans.
Torn jeans.
Tight torn jeans.
Sigh.
I bite my tongue. I will have to use control not to misbehave. It is tempting. The devil. He knows what he is doing.
He is wearing a sedate blue jacket and an open-throated white shirt. He has his black tank top underneath. He is sitting on a bar stool. We check him out.
The first three women make their pass to the stage. They get a few autographs. I shoot their pictures as back-up to the assigned photographer. (A store person drafted for the occasion.) We have exchanged names and addresses.
My turn. The guard grabs my purse. Another grabs my camera.
The stage is high, but what of it? My skirt is slit. I can climb. No obstacle shall stay me.
I hit the stage fast. Well, we are supposed to hurry.
I grab a hug. I press my self against his cheek for the photo. I hit him so hard he braces himself on the table.
I am suddenly not moving a fast as I should be.
"Do you have something for me to sign?" he patiently prompts, purring in his deep throated accent.
Dazed, I offer the pictures. Two of them. 8x10s. And an enlarged color copy of the cover of the Pirate. His signature was printed on the cover. So what? I want it again.
He signs his name in a flourish in gold ink. He is patient. He always is. I guess he's used to all this.
He warns me to keep the pictures uncovered until the ink dries. I numbly thank him and flee the stage.
My heart is pounding. I am weak in the knees.
What fun!
An LA Times reporter is interviewing us. I want them to have positive things to say. I am tired of the negative press.
I give her copies of my stories. (She later quotes me in an article.)
We extol his virtues, known or otherwise.
We want a good story.
I am promised copies.
We stay, these women I am now acquainted with, and take more photos. I catch his eye from time to time. He winks. He smiles. I use up all my film.
We note that a few daring souls have gone into line for a second pass.
I told you we would prevail.
Three of us form a group and get back in line.
The security guard makes an effort to control this.
I am brazen. I grab (gently) Peter Paul's arm. I explain that we want a group photo. I ask if it is OK. He nods. What could he say? I think they are starting to recognize me.
The guard is silenced.
We win.
Fabio has taken off that jacket. Squeals of delight have accompanied this action. He is getting warm. (I'll bet!)
We run to the stage when it is our turn and tell him we want a group photo. My camera.
He is signing perfume bottles. The store people have him signing things in between assaults. He asks us to wait a moment while he finishes a bottle.
We are polite.
We wait.
We sigh.
I get to stare at the tear in his jeans. His shirt has been working itself open for an hour. I stare at that too.
I am proud of myself. I did not grab his thigh. I wonder if he knows how close I was to loosing control?
He stands up and grabs me in a bear hug. I get pulled right under that huge right arm. Fabio now has a firm grip on my shoulder. I snuggle in. My favorite spot. I've been there before.
I hang on to his waist. I've done that before too.
He has large hands.
He has the other two women in his other arm.
He poses.
We all smile.
We get them to take two photos. To prolong the experience. Why not?
We are ecstatic.
Fabio just smiles.
I don't want to know what he's thinking.
We flee.
The guards are exasperated.
We don't want to antagonize them too much. Poor babies.
It takes us 30 minutes to make it out to our cars.
We do not want to leave.
We are too excited.
We roam around in the shopping center, laughing, shrieking, being noisy in general.
Men just look.
We hold up our trophies.
They shake their heads and sadly walk away.
How could they compete?
I cry all the way home.
I can't see for the tears so I stop at Capistrano.
I eat a fish sandwich and drink coffee at McDonald's. It's the same one I stop at with my kids.
This is how I blow my diet. Food is solace.
I blow my nose and try to calm down. Adrenaline after shock.
I have had a whole day off work. No kids. No male chauvinists. No demands.
And a hug. From an adult male I adore.
It was worth it.
The photos are great.
I scan them on the computer.
I make myself a screen saver for my Quadra.
(The other meaning for big Mac.)
I send copies to my new friends.
I decide I will do this again.
My kids still think I'm crazy.
What do they know?
I'm going to Nashville.
They've started their campaign.
I am not listening.
I don't care how much they beg and plead. I don't care how dirty they leave the house. I don't care how many doors are slammed.
I am not taking them!
Fabio will be there.