The Little Things are All I Need
Staccato, tenor notes ripsaw through my REM sleep.
It’s dark. Disoriented.
My own bed?
Pillow is different, sheets are the wrong texture.
Hotel.
Oh yeah, I’m working.
This is my second of four work trips in two weeks. Geography, immaterial.
Roll over to silence phone alarm. It’s 5am on… I haven’t known what day it is for a while.
The calendar is also immaterial, for now, because sunrise is sunrise. If my phone is beeping this early, it’s because exteriors are on the schedule today.
It’s not officially summer yet, but the pre-dawn humidity is offensively ripe, so I’m not even going to think about showering just now.
Need coffee. Start the coffee.
Accidentally rip the coffee pod while tearing open the outer packaging. A fine mist of Colombian roast settles around my feet, and thus the first word I speak out loud today is irate and four letters.
Sorry, Mom.
I open another pod without civilian casualties. Flip the switch. Red light means brew. Achievement unlocked.
I thumb a few AAA batteries out of their charger and clumsily insert them into remote transceivers.
The alien din of my alarm is bad enough at this hour, so I prep gear under the desk lamp’s flaccid haze.
I notice the steam escaping through the seams in the cheap coffee maker. It shapes the light with fluid, feminine grace and I feel myself smile with appreciation.
It’s the little things.
The fog is clearing in my mind.
Only 5:10am, but I have to get outside quickly.
Because glass.
Wretched, interior-temperature glass.
It’s 80 degrees and 80% humidity outside.
The second I step outside, I can look forward to a fog bank of condensation between every glass element in the lens.
I could sleep another thirty minutes and still be outside to work in plenty of time, but I’ll need at least twenty minutes for my wide angle to get to temperature.
Final gear check. Fresh SD card. Fresh batteries. Fresh coffee. A resultant smile.
Again, the little things.
The little things add up to all I need.
[It’s probably more of a stupid grin, actually.]
I pocket a key card. I open the door. I swing my tripod through the doorframe and catch the door with my toe at the exact moment to silence its closing from a slam to a demure click. Muscle memory.
Not much of a party trick, but useful to not make pre-dawn enemies.
By the end of the day, I will have sweated through several shirts and showered at least twice to banish the symphony of untuned aromas that will attempt to cling to me as the day progresses. I’ll alternate between chugging water and coffee, and anything resembling “self-care” will be limited to a meal with a vegetable and some Zquill or CBD to make sure I sleep.
When the job is done, I’ll spend at least a week’s worth of work hours at my computer, turning stacks of raw images into vacation dreams that glow with their own light. These images will generate revenue that will make my fee look like couch money.
The early mornings and sweaty days will create images that sell joy and leisure to people looking for their next vacation spot.
I make no secret that I think marketing is a dirty business, and it’s a constant battle to engage with it without making moral and ethical compromises.
But I really do love this shit.