Absolutely Fabio

Ruminations on the belle epoque.

by Ashlea Halpern

I turned 25 last month. That makes me one quarter of a century old, or 175 in dog years. To my interns, that's ancient. To my parents, it's old enough to pay for health insurance and young enough not to use it. For me, being 25 feels like one long, hideous joke, where every second wasted is a second questioned — and every second questioned is another second wasted. I've been on this planet for 25 years, and what have I done with my life?

This may seem tangential and wholly unrelated to what this article is speciously about (Fabio, aka the King of Romance, hanging outside the Shops at Liberty Place mall last Friday in a tricked-out Mediterranean faux-butter mobile), except that it's wholly related in a tangentially specious sort of way. Let me explain.

Fabio's old. Forty-eight, in fact. Going on 50. Going on dead. He's spent arguably the best chunk of his life caressing the bronzed shoulders of beach-lite heroines and starring in I Can't Believe It's Not Butter! commercials. Through all of this he's been the butt of a thousand jokes, and still he finds the graciousness to laugh at them. And for that, he is a better person than I am.

These are some of my thoughts as I stand outside the glass ICBINB! truck parked at 16th and Chestnut streets, awaiting Fabio's arrival. Butter butlers in white gloves beg curious passersby to line up for free pics. On the fringe, a billion-year-old Asian woman plays a bamboo flute and collects pocket change in a plastic bag. This makes me sad, but the soundtrack is fitting: This is what happens when "it" boys get old.

Inside the truck, a fake palm tree cuts off at the ceiling, and a short, sandy path swaddled in ferns leads to a verandah dressed with wicker chairs, a patio table and an assortment of fruit-filled vases. Two of the truck's walls are photo-papered to look like some anonymous Medi paradise — Corfu or Rhodes or maybe Montenegro. An underdressed model stands at the truck door shivering and handing out "Recipes for Romance" booklets on a silver tray, while the butlers on the street slather fat dollops of new ICBINB! Mediterranean Blend atop cold, onion-y muffins.

"Why work when you can have Fabio?" they shout. "He'll butter your muffins!"

The playfulness, of course, is spliced with Unilever agitprop: "Excellent source of omega-3 fatty acids! Seventy percent less saturated fat than butter! Naturally cholesterol free!"

And then, the golden words: "Fabio has arrived!" There, strolling east down Chestnut Street, is the man of a thousand heartbreaks. His white sports coat and tragicomic hair float miles behind him. Bystanders' eyes bulge — they wonder aloud if it's a joke.

"Oh, he does look good!" muses one woman. "And I thought he was ugly!"

Beneath his tawny, weathered skin and ravinelike crow's feet, Fabio's still big and strong and far more handsome in person than dragon-slaying, bodice-ripping jokesters might imagine.

Young women in herringbone coats and ponytails gather three and four deep. Ironic twentysomethings with pink dreads and rolled pant legs wait in line, snap a pic and wait in line again. An elderly black lady in a hair net and pea coat stops cold. Her giant eyes blink from behind thick glasses as she watches Fabio scoop a woman off the ground and flash a sparkler for a row of cameraphones. She squints. Do her eyes deceive her? A nearby butler whispers, "He can do that to you, you know." His eyebrows rise scandalously. "How long has it been?" The woman laughs and moves on.

"So he resorts to this now?" smirks a balding biz-casual type to my right. "Makes you wonder — is he a man's man, or a man's man?" Heh, snort.

This sort of sideways remark proves typical of the guys on location. Fat jerseys point and laugh; gold chains jeer out their driver's side windows; and suits shake their heads incredulously at the scores of women (and bike messenger boys) lined up for photo ops. Even the teens working the cash registers at Payless ShoeSource across the street tickle their armpits and make ape faces through the glass.

Eventually we join the line. The woman ahead of us is a squealer. "I gotta take off my coat so I can back it up riiight," she pants between fits of laughter. The people behind us frantically dial their friends on cell phones, begging them to come down.

Once inside the truck, my nerves fray. I see Fabio's eyes wander, and so does my imagination. Is he ticking off seconds on a giant, invisible clock? Gazing at his weary reflection and wondering where his life went, or how it might've been different?

I'm elbowed back to reality. It's my turn.

I step toward him, hesitant at first. He tells me to relax. We take pictures. A Titantic-esque bow pose. A banana-feeding shot. A wedding-night cradle. It's at this moment that a tiny part of me falls in love with this aging sex icon. Fabio's more than hot — he's a survivor.

I want to ask him things, to talk about life and beauty and getting old and what it all means when you're dead and gone. I go to speak, but the words melt right off my tongue. Like Ralphie frantically searching his head for "official Red Ryder, carbine-action, 200-shot-range model air rifle, with a compass in the stock," I stare blankly. Fabio stares back. The line surges behind us. Toes tap. Jaws grind. Our time is up.

My big cliche questions go unasked and unanswered. Which, I guess, is how it was meant to be.

Questions? Comments? Can you believe it's not butter? E-mail ashlea.halpern@citypaper.net. No phone calls.