But it was a serious question. “I have to ask,” he finally says when I don’t respond.
“Uh, no. I’ve never really been that interested in the stars.” I rarely read the tabloids and am the worst star-spotter out there. But I don’t tell him that. I’ve always wanted to be a CIA agent too. I don’t tell him that either.
J.R. has little faith in me beyond avoiding a restraining order, that much I can tell, but it’s clear he’s also fascinated by the prospect of hiring me. I offer variety to the stale, mostly male paparazzi culture. Some softness. Womanness. At the moment, CXN doesn’t have any female shooters. “Almost nobody does,” he says. “You’d be freelance too, pay your own expenses and find your own stories.”
Apparently I was hired. Sort of.
And why not? The risk for him was minimal, and if I were as talented as I was confident, his payoff could be big. An agency makes 40 percent of every freelance picture it sells, and one sales guy can easily market the photos of twenty or more photographers every day. The more photo contributors CXN has, the more money they make.
From J.R. I request just one thing: equipment to borrow until I can afford my own. J.R. rummages through a closet and finds a dusty camera, the kind whose batteries last not quite twenty minutes of consecutively being “on,” and some other parts I’ll need. He leans out the window and takes a few test shots of a seagull on a telephone pole. “It seems to work,” he says, and hands it over.
“When I was on the streets,” J.R. offers, “my partner was a woman. She made twice the money I did.”
“Does she still work?” I ask.
“Nope. Decided to go have a baby.”
I smile at the thought. J.R. doesn’t care if I’m interested in the stars and he doesn’t care if I have experience. He only cares about one thing: if I can make him money. I’m another camera on the street, and a pink one to boot.
1. Refer to the Glossary of Paparazzi Terms in the back of the book.
2. Unless noted, names of celebrity photo agencies have been changed.
Year 1
Chapter 1
City of Angels is a false moniker. It’s vampires, not angels, that run the town. Exquisite but bloodthirsty, Los Angeles was sucking the life out of me. I was losing vision, confidence, and most of all, hope. One swift bite would kill me. And I, with my cup half-full of self-assuredness and optimism, was one of the strong ones.
Like most, I had come to the city to pursue my dream of working in “the industry,” the film and television business. I arrived eighteen months prior with a boatload of confidence and five years of solid production experience. Why wouldn’t I get hired?
I applied for hundreds of positions. New postings appeared online every hour, and my résumé met many of them word for word. After a month of receiving no responses, my search broadened: waitress, coffee shop, sales girl, temp job, anything. I breathed easier when Priscilla’s Coffee in Studio City hired me. But it wouldn’t take care of the rent or other mounting expenses. I continued applying for production work and during the next six months received two responses to my inquiries. One resulted in the two-day Brian Austin Green gig; the other in an interview for work on a reality show, which I did not get. It seemed thousands of talented, experienced people were applying for the same jobs. Like available men in the city, there were just not enough to go around.
Eventually, I bagged the search for a TV job and spent all my free time working on my real dream: an undercover media project that I couldn’t figure out how to film (and which if I told you about, I’d have to kill you). To pay the bills, I picked up odd jobs and continued working as a barista, then waitress. A year and a half later, I had almost gone through the $12,000 my brother had lent me when I first moved to the city and wasn’t sure how I’d continue to make up the discrepancy between my meager paychecks and my expenses, nor how I’d ever pay my brother back.
Loneliness was setting in too. Besides money, I needed a man. I had hit the mid-thirties panic: still young enough to have kids (I want three!), but needing to start now. And my heart longed for a mate, not just a baby. Most guys I met, however, were like me: artist-types working at restaurants. But unlike me, these men gave priority to their dreams over their relationships. They didn’t want wives; they especially didn’t want babies; and they had endless things to do before they thought of settling down. I knew I needed to escape my hipster Los Feliz neighborhood and find manly men who were more concerned with women than their “art,” but I didn’t know how. The little I’d dabbled in Internet dating had left me feeling even more desperate.
Not only was I lonesome, I was bored, a curse like death for an extrovert like me. I had fantastic girlfriends, but socially, I longed for the male interaction and constant community I had had before moving to L.A., as a backpacker traipsing my way through parts of Europe, Southeast Asia, Australia, and New Zealand. I get my energy from others, and if I’m not around people—a lot—I start to fade. Serving lattes to customers at Priscilla’s Coffee for eight hours didn’t cut it.
And then, there was the “diving board.” For years, I had been having this strange recurring vision: a picture of me on a high-dive board, bouncing. I interpreted it to mean that I was being prepared for something, and that I was bouncing to get ready—to get height, so that eventually I could jump. For some time, I had been asking God, Can I please dive off already? Didn’t you make me with a purpose in mind? Why is my life such a waste?
I needed direction. I needed fuel. I needed money, a man, and motivation. My prayers to God had become fervent: if I didn’t get help—quick—those bloodsucking beasts (destitution, loneliness, and purposelessness) would smell weak prey, and I would be taken. In other words, without a big break soon, my days in this city were numbered.
And that’s when God whacked me over the head with the paparazzi.
* * *
The Monday after visiting CXN’s offices, I start working. “It’s official,” I tell my friends. “I’m a pop… I mean, pap,” I explain, stumbling over the funny nickname the paparazzi call themselves. (I realize that some of you will initially have a problem with this term and you will only be able to think of a gynecological procedure. Don’t worry, that will pass.)
New pap training begins on “Robertson,” a stretch of Robertson Boulevard between 3rd Street and Beverly Boulevard. Here, expensive shops and trendy restaurants line the sidewalk, and every day, the dining and shopping attract at least one famous person. Dozens of paparazzi loiter the pedestrian-friendly sidewalk waiting to spot that someone.
By the end of the week, I have shot one celebrity: Danny Bonaduce. I probably don’t have to tell you how little the world cares about Danny Bonaduce. It’s like a sports photographer going to a pro football game and shooting the water boy.
After five days on Robertson, it is crystal clear that I have no idea what I’m doing, and if I want to succeed at this job I’ll need help. So, both by way of necessity and because he’s charming, I choose Aaron—the unintelligible Scottish guy—as my mentor. He has no idea what he’s in for.
* * *
On Saturday, my friend JoDeane and I are out for a neighborhood stroll. After my lackluster week on Robertson, I’m beginning to question my new career choice—perhaps I misinterpreted God’s message—and Jo’s talking me through it. We are a couple of blocks from my apartment when we see a classic convertible with the top down turning into the entrance of Prospect Studios.
“Do you know who that is?” JoDeane whispers as we walk past the studio driveway while the smoking-hot guy in the convertible whom I do not recognize in the slightest waits for us to cross in front of him.
“No. Is it someone famous?” I ask.
“Patrick Dempsey. Doctor McDreamy. Please don’t stare, Jen.”
I do anyway. I swear, had he even a dim resemblance to the gawky teenager in the old 1980s flick Can’t Buy Me Love, I would have recognized him. Surely. The man in front of us, however, is neither skinny nor awkward. He is not yo
uthful or gangly. He is not the least bit self-conscious. What he is is strikingly attractive—a strong-jawed, manly man with a thick mane of dark hair atop his head and a six-o’clock shadow any woman would want burning her body. He is possibly supernatural.
Let me be clear: JoDeane has a talent I now wish I had with my new gig. She always sees celebrities. She has this weird celebrity radar. As I mentioned, I’ve seen Brian Austin Green. And I needed someone to tell me it was Brian Austin Green, and then I needed him to tell me who the hell Brian Austin Green was. Of course, I’ve also now seen Paris and Britney. And let’s not forget Danny Bonaduce. JoDeane, by comparison, has probably seen, like, twenty-five celebrities this year alone.
Later, when I tell J.R. about the Dempsey sighting, he agrees it’s “worth a go” and assigns me to Aaron via an email. Aaron and I are to meet at 8:30 a.m. in front of Prospect Studios. My first official assignment—I am stoked!
* * *
“I didn’t sleep the night before” is unfortunately not a cliché but a full-blown reality for me. The morning mirror disappoints—a lack of rest is harder to hide when you’re thirty-five and a half.
I stick on a hat to cover what I can, throw on Hudsons—my only pair of designer jeans, which I wear most every day—a “Sweet and Toxic” T-shirt from Urban Outfitters, and the cowboy boots I’ve had since college. I skip out the door and walk down the street to meet Aaron at the studios.
“Hi!” he says, giving me a hug. I’ve noticed Aaron hugs like he never wants to let go. “How’s the new pap?”
“Goooood,” I say, suddenly shy.
After pleasantries, I describe Patrick’s car as best as I can remember considering my pea-size regard for vehicles. “It was small. And blue. Possibly?” I show him where JoDeane and I walked, and exactly how the convertible pulled into the studio lot. I also tell him that I read that Patrick is a “family man” and deeply in love with his wife, a “regular” woman.
“That’s not gonna help you spot him,” Aaron says, rolling his deep blue eyes.
After briefly considering the rest of the information, Aaron moves his SUV to the lively four-way intersection near the entrance of the studio, pulls to the curb, and parks. “This’ll do,” he says. Apparently Aaron thinks the stop-sign intersection is the best place to watch for Dempsey’s arrival to work, which later I realize makes sense: it’s much easier to shoot into a nonmoving vehicle. Aaron grabs two packets of sunflower seeds from inside his car. “I’m peckish,” he says, then hops out and onto the hood of his 4Runner.
I hesitate, not sure what to do.
“Right here, luv,” he says, patting the metal beside him.
For the next three hours, we sit on Aaron’s car, not looking out of place in L.A. where anything goes, and I play a role at which I’m adept: overeager student.
I’m still using the camera from J.R.’s closet. Aaron picks it up. “I don’t understand it,” he says after turning a few dials on the back. “It’s a piece of shit,” he decides.
“Well, what should I do?”
“Put it on automatic for now. Buy another. We’ll rely on mine today.” (Note: “Automatic” isn’t really a setting on a professional SLR camera. The “Program” function, which automatically sets the f-stop and shutter speed, is what Aaron meant.)
Aaron’s Nextel, a walkie-talkie, chirps on and off all morning with pap friends checking in. “Any action? Any action?” they always begin with.
“No action. No action,” Aaron responds.
“You need to get a Nextel,” he tells me.
Paps use Nextels more than their phones. “Especially on follows,” Aaron says. “If you got a partner, you don’t have time to dial and wait. Ring, ring. Pick up. When a follow’s trying to lose you, ya gotta get to your mate, now.”
Aaron’s body jitters and his leg shakes when he talks. I don’t mask my study of him: he’s wearing well-worn designer jeans that hang loosely on his skinny frame, black Converse lace-ups with holes in them, and a vintage plaid button-down. His thick blond hair falls in his eyes and could use a trim, and he wears horn-rimmed glasses that make him look like he could be working on a PhD. He’s trendy, I think. Just like everybody in L.A. I also notice that he has a mole on his cheek in the same spot as Cindy Crawford does. I don’t know Aaron’s age—haven’t asked ’cause I don’t want him to ask mine—but I imagine he’s about thirty.
The morning passes. Aaron has gone through both packets of sunflower seeds plus yesterday’s “leftovers” from his pocket. These seeds are his breakfast and lunch, I notice. He eats them like a bird—pops one into his mouth, cracks it between his teeth, digs the seed out with his tongue, then spits out the shell. “Dexterous tongue. Important,” he mumbles at one point. Not sure how to reply, I say nothing.
By noon, Aaron’s bored. “Let’s go find someone,” he says as he jumps down from the hood and chucks his very expensive camera on the front seat. “We’re going to trawl. Get in.”
“You mean troll?”
“No. I mean trawl.”
“Trawling” or “trolling” is the equivalent of police “cruising,” and according to Aaron, paps, like the cops, spend significantly more time trawling and waiting for celebrities to appear than being in action. Trawl is British for “troll.”
So, we take off. On the way into town, Brian, another CXN pap with a sexy accent I can’t yet place, beeps in on the Nextel and we make a plan to meet at “Halle’s.” Apparently, Halle Berry’s house is in the heart of West Hollywood and a central place for paps to convene. Aaron says if you gotta meet up, you might as well do it at a celeb’s house. “You’re always keeping tabs on ’em. Gotta know who’s in town, who’s staying at home, who’s shagging at their boyfriend’s,” he says.
With light traffic, it takes us about twenty minutes to get there. Just as we pull up, Brian’s SUV is U-turning, and he circles his arm out the window and motions for Aaron to follow.
“Sweet. There’s the vixen.” Aaron points to the white SUV that’s two cars in front of Brian’s. “That’s her.”
“No way!” I squeal. The novelty of seeing a celebrity will not wear off for quite some time.
We follow Halle for barely a mile. Then she pulls into the parking lot of a veterinary office. Aaron whips his car into position, as does Brian, and the two hang out their windows taking pictures of her from about fifty feet away as she walks into the vet holding her dog.
The camera echoes a fast chuh-chuh-chuh, chuh-chuh-chuh. “You’ll start to love that sound,” Aaron says when he’s done.
I agree. It is a lovely sound, like money coming out of a slot machine.
Brian pulls his SUV around next to us. “Think she saw us?” he says to Aaron.
“I think so. She obviously didn’t care.”
“We got it anyway.”
“It’s nailed,” Aaron agrees. “Let’s get outta here.”
“I heard Gwen’s at the Ivy.”
“Yeah, me too. See ya there.”
* * *
I know the Ivy. Everyone in L.A. knows the Ivy. It’s a restaurant on Robertson where celebrities go to be photographed and other diners go to see celebrities. All lunch entrées are $28.50 and mediocre. I’ve eaten there once, and (obviously) didn’t see anyone famous…or at least didn’t recognize them. “It’ll be a gangbang,” Aaron warns, “but it’s good practice for you.”
That makes me nervous. I’ve only ever witnessed a gangbang, never joined one. As we drive past, I see a mass of bodies surrounding the restaurant. We find a metered spot a few blocks away, and Aaron gets out fast, fiddling with his camera. Since my camera has one functioning setting—Automatic—I don’t have anything to fiddle with.
We walk briskly. When we are two blocks from the Ivy, Aaron looks up and points to a convertible sports car stopped at the light ahead. “Hey, is that the kind of car Dempsey drives?” he says.
“Yeah, it looked something like that.”
I grab his arm. “Aaron, I think it’s him.�
�
“Run,” he says without missing a beat.
“Huh?”
“Run,” he says again and pushes me forward. “Go get it.”
I’m thinking, if Aaron really believed Dempsey were in that car, he’d be running with me. But I run anyway, something I will get good at, and when I get to the intersection, the car is still waiting, and—you’re not gonna believe this—the same smoking-hot guy is inside! The light changes and he wants to turn, but two girls are walking the crosswalk in front of him so he must wait. My camera is to my face now, and I call out, “Patrick!” He looks up, then back at the road like he doesn’t see me. I snap five frames before he drives off.
I feel higher than I’ve felt in months as I walk, beaming, toward the gangbang. It’s in this moment I realize I will succeed at this job.
Aaron stands tall and fair in the crowd of mostly Latino men. He’s easy to spot outside the Ivy.
“It was him, Aaron! Can you believe it?”
“Did you get it?”
“I think so. I took five pictures.”
“Let’s see ’em.”
“Remember, I gotta preserve the batteries. We shouldn’t.”
“Ahh, right. Well, I’m sure you got him. That’s great, mate. Your first set. Congratulations.” Aaron appears excited for me. He’s told me this business is cutthroat and competitive, but he doesn’t seem that way. How bad could it be?
“What should I do here?” I ask, ready for another hit of adrenaline. There doesn’t look to be a way to move closer to the restaurant, and I can’t see over the thirty-something paparazzi heads crowded up against the patio rail, much less shoot.
“Nuzzle up in there,” he says, softly pushing me into the pack.
I wish to blend in, but know I do not. I feel like the new kid at a school where no one speaks my language. The pap crowd rocks like gentle waves, up and back, and eventually I make my way in and off to one side. I’m elbow-to-elbow with bunches of non-Beverly-Hills-looking guys wearing baseball caps and droopy gangsta-like trousers, all toting massive cameras. No one speaks to me and no one makes eye contact, but I can feel I am noticed furtively. Aaron, who stands with Brian on the other side of the heap, winks at me every once in a while.
Shooting Stars Page 2
