I just broke a nail typing this story and it was all the fault of the Supermodel.
I was downtown, riding my Vespa, when who should I see but Henri. There he was, standing on the sidewalk, gaping at a woman painted entirely in silver who was posing in the street.
A bored photographer circled the Supermodel, snapping her every grimace and gesture, as she pranced on his command. The supermodel sashayed her hair and mouthed off.
“Break time, Jackson. Your ideas are so bizaare. Where will you shoot me next, under the Broad Street overpass? How about on the tracks that run along Earhart. Make it exciting.”
“Exciting?” Jackson looked up from the microscopic screen of his digital camera.
“Oh, you know, stand beside the railroad track as the Amtrak Superliner comes passing back and forth. Those nutty train engineers in New Orleans can’t figure out if they’re coming or going.”
“Here we go,” Jackson cried, as he scooped the Supermodel into his minivan and headed to the next shooting location.
Meanwhile, Henri paced on towards the Permits room. I snuck up close to eavesdrop as he talked to himself. Maybe he was going to the Health Department? Then he started muttering about the Fire Marshal. Finally he checked his wallet and asked a cop where the Revenue room was situated.
He got out of sight and I didn’t hear the rest.