flows into personal insult territory as swiftly as she glides into her white Mercedes. There is virtually no change in the tone of her voice, so you almost have no way to prepare for the hit. I deflect the question to which there is no easy answer and bring the conversation back around to her, which is how we both prefer it, really.
“Kel, if Harris is really the great guy you think he is, he’ll understand. Otherwise, I just don’t see how you could pull it off. Maybe if you guys stay together for awhile, Mom and Dad will come around. Look, I gotta go. I’m flying out…”
Oh shit, I think, as I pull back the words that almost tumble right out of my mouth. Maybe it’s a stray cancer cell infiltrating itself into the part of my brain that controls verbal stupidity.
Sure as a cold sore on your wedding day, Kelby pounces.
“What did you just say?” she barks. “Flying out of what? Where do you think you’re going, El-La, and why don’t I know about it?” Then she goes in for the TKO. “Does Mother know you’re going somewhere? Are you taking a commercial airline?” She says it like she has rotten mustard on her tongue. I quickly scan my options, realizing there are few that can level out this mountain of crap I’ve just stacked up for myself. I just don’t have access to a bulldozer at the moment. I’m on my own.
“Look, Kelby,” I begin, “it’s no big deal. I’m heading to L.A. for a couple of days to visit Lauren.” I pray silently in my head she’ll accept this and shut up. The less she knows about this trip the better. She goes fishing for more.
“El-La, really…AGAIN? Haven’t you pushed her far enough, and shouldn’t you tell someone when you’ll be leaving? You know Mom will have to inform the flight crew if you’re going commercial. El-La, you can’t not tell her.”
Technically, Kelby’s right and I’ve violated the rule the most. We’ve all been reminded time and time again to clear our commercial itineraries with our mother’s office. The fact that Kelby is now sitting on this golden nugget of a secret could be a disaster. All it will take is a phone call to our mother for the whole trip to sink, and I’ll be given yet another lecture about presidential protocol, and my personal responsibility to myself and my nation. My mother is forever worried about us being used to inflict greater damage on the country. That’s why our flights must be cleared individually from the gate, and then monitored on White House radar from takeoff to landing. That’s also why we are forced to use these ridiculous encrypted cell phones to call each other. She has no patience with us when we attempt to skirt our way around the rules.
As much as they have told us our whole lives that we are just like everybody else, no special treatment, in reality we are not like anybody else and special treatment now dictates our every move.
Without even trying, I add yet another dilemma to my quickly crumbling life.
How in the world can I get to L.A. without my mother alerting the National Guard?
Chapter 5: Dezi
From my office, I make arrangements to overnight my lighting equipment the day before I fly out to L.A. I connect with Time’s West Coast editor several times, exchanging emails and ideas on how to make sure the shoot goes flawlessly. The senator also emails me to discuss the day, and we work out the location details and wardrobe. Even though I spend hours planning each shoot in my head, I never share my exact vision with my clients, preferring them to be pleasantly surprised with what we end up with.
Damn, I’m good. With the touch of a button, I can enhance a shade of pink to either side of the color wheel. I can pump it up to a color that borders freshly drawn blood, or blush it down so gently it’s soft enough to wrap around a newborn baby. I love that alone time, when I’m inside my dark studio playing on my computer with the edge of an eyebrow, or the shadow that falls along the side of the mountain. The tricky part is keeping the subject real, while enhancing its deepest elements. I see it behind my closed eyes before I lay it out in final print. I memorize the tone and texture and wait for the moment of impact when I know it’s just...about...perfect.
Some of my absolute coolest shots have come when the NFL commissions me for a game. This is typically when the Giants or Jets are home and I’m listed as a good local contact. Given my vast knowledge of the game, and my fantasy football expectations, I have to remind myself to stay focused on the players and not the game itself. Not easy. These days football is larger and more violent than even I can remember. Guys seem to be bigger, and I mean that both in size and personality. Gone are the gentle end zone dances, or harmless spikes into the turf. Now, they prance in from the five-yard line, teeth bared, ink blazing on each exposed arm, even in sub-freezing temperatures. I especially dig the huge tangle of dreadlocks some of them are sporting now, long rows of black syrup that fly in the wind and give me the most insane shots. On a good day I can grab the exact moment the dreads rise and spread out like the tentacles of an octopus. They look animalistic, wild, and so fucking intense it makes my head spin. Goddamn it, this sport kicked my ass then handed it back to me in a sling. I don’t want to, but I still love it with all my heart.
No matter the shoot, no matter the day, I rely solely on instinct and seamless preparation so there are never technical glitches that pop up. I plan the entire shoot in my head, how I’ll have to make sure the shot is as sharp as possible, limit the light if I’m working for a clean black and white. The art of photography can be daunting to learn, so I’ve really tried to pave my own way. I take risks with my subjects, placing them in uncomfortable positions that may seem awkward but are guaranteed to churn out the most stunning results. I remind them that my lens works much like our retinas, registering an image as particles of light, which complete each other upside down. The camera’s inner wiring operates like our eye muscles do to flip the image right side up, fusing all those tiny particles of light to complete a picture. It is virtually the same way our brain processes what our eyes see to form a memory.
By then they are staring at me, open-mouthed and dazed. Once I have thoroughly captivated them with the very entrancing process they usually stop the grumbling and contort to any level I ask.
I prefer to fly solo when I take a job, no assistants on site. I also think it helps develop a certain level of trust between my subject and myself that might be lost when too many eyes are watching. As my reputation for exceptional work began to develop and I took on more high-profile clients I made a promise to myself to keep work entirely separate from my personal life. No dating clients, no heavy flirting on a shoot, or inappropriate nuances. My work is intense on its own merit. We work hard together, and while I might dig at my clients a little, I want them to leave feeling as if they gave me a glimpse of their souls and I treated them with respect.
Melissa’s role is to stay put in New York with the busy work and we both like it that way. She’s a young single mother who needs the freedom to dart off midday and check on her son at daycare. She knows I’m meticulous about the details of my schedule, but not a total dick if he needs her, too. He’s a cute little guy, comes in sometimes to mess around with some of my pocket cameras. No father to speak of, asshole took off when he found out Melissa was planning to keep the kid. She never speaks of him, and I always make sure to spend a little bit of man time with the boy to show him all guys don’t suck.
I box my equipment and walk it over to Melissa’s desk. She’s on the phone so I leave her a quick note with the shipping address in L.A. She already knows the drill, she’s done this a hundred times, so I give her a wave and head out of the office. My flight leaves early tomorrow morning out of JFK. I’ll hook up with the editor once I land, scope out our shoot location, and make sure my equipment is locked and loaded. Then I’ll head off to my hotel to chill, try to relax, maybe even hit the gym for a run if my legs haven’t been entirely cramped during the six-hour flight.
Working
