Plot eureka

Ran into another guardian bum-angel yesterday. I didn't take his picture for fear that it would reveal he didn't exist.

FYI: it was not the same street prophet who predicted last month that our final offer on the house would be accepted. This guy was wearing a gray T-shirt that read: "I lost my #. Can I have yours?"

I was taking pictures of these fine ladies at the corner of 2nd Street and First Avenue (outside of Ivanka Ska's House of Ska) when this bum-angel said, "You should go across the street and see if the photographer over there needs your help."

I looked across the street, saw nothing, and snorted, "What photographer?" 

"There's a photo shoot at the post office. The models are wearing the same kind of getup as the mannequins. If I were you, I'd go see if the photographer could use a hand. You never know."

Because bums are northern stars, I sighed, pedaled across the street and watched as two statuesque (albeit extra terrestrial-looking) models pouted for a short blonde photographer who looked not unlike myself.

Intimidated by these specimens and feeling pretty weird about approaching the photographer, I pedaled back to the House of Ska and told my guardian bum-angel that I felt uncomfortable interrupting the shoot.

"Hey, you know never," he said. "She might not need your help now, but in the future say she's got a job that requires an extra set of hands, she'll remember you."

"I don't have any business cards," I replied.

"So," he said, challenging me. "What you do is you come back to the store here - I presume she works for the owner - and you leave your card and say, 'I saw you had a photographer out here Saturday. If you ever need help, or she's not available, call me.'"

Thanking the guy for his two-cents, I pedaled home and considered the idea. 

Later that night, while walking to CVS to get the usual chocolate ice cream, ketchup and charcoal, I had an epiphany. A plot epiphany.  It hit me when I passed a woman in hospital scrubs who, after rushing to get off the bus at 4th Street and 8th Avenue, asked me for directions to a house by the bay.

The plot epiphany was so powerful that it instantly made my stomach hurt. Scurrying home with my bag of ice cream, ketchup and charcoal, plot poured from my mouth like frothy Pop Rocks. 

It is the first plot idea I've ever had. 

With Joe's help, I ironed out some details, hammered out a synopsis and lovingly named my protagonist. 

Anyway, what I'm getting it is ...

I'm leaving my regular post at the newspaper. I put in my unofficial two-week notice last week. Instead I'll work as a freelancer, which will allow more time to write for myself and supplement the income I'll make as a nanny.

A nanny you say?

Yes. In two weeks I start watching seven kids in St. Pete.

Seven kids you say?

Yes. One family. Seven kids.