The concert starts at 9 p.m., and twenty seconds into the first song, “Baby One More Time,” the games begin. At least twenty security guards are posted throughout the venue, and they descend on us quickly. Camera-clutching paps are booted out one after the other. I last a long five minutes, a credit to being female I suppose, and when I do get the boot, security tells me that I can come back in if I ditch the camera. They don’t know I’m a pap. So out and back I go, camera again shoved in my bra.
When I return, some guy who is sitting behind a post and perfectly angled out of security’s eye is chatting up Elif. The guy appears to be an obsessed Britney fan (as he thinks we are too, of course) and is happy to lend a hand. I switch my camera to video mode, hand it over, and the guy records a full two of the five songs performed by Britney. He never gets busted.
After twenty minutes, the concert is over. Britney also played “Toxic,” a fantastic song in my opinion. And, man can she can dance. At $75 a ticket, I’d pay to see her again even if I weren’t a pap.
The paps convene outside. Toby was kicked out early, as well as all the other Rodeo-ers, and Mario is desperate for shots. Coming back empty-handed to Channing, Rodeo2’s owner, is not an option for him. In this case, there is more at stake for Rodeo2 than just picture or video sales. Rodeo2.com, the agency’s website, prides itself on being the “Britney insider,” and this one-off concert is big news in her world. There were no “official” press photogs at the event, so pap photos are all there is to tell the story. Since other agencies won’t sell to Rodeo2—it being a competitor—the only way Channing can get material for the site is from his paps, or others, on the street.
Right off, Mario and Toby approach us to see what we’ve gotten. Although CXN would like to have our video, and would expect it, video is a new venture for the agency and it hasn’t sold one of Donna or Elif’s submissions in five months. Since I am on full commission, and Elif needs money, we are interested in talking.
At about one in the morning, Channing calls me. He offers me $9,000 for the video. I agree (of course!) and make arrangements to drop by my chip at his house when I get back to town. He’ll greet me with a check.
Ten minutes later, he calls back and changes the deal to $3,000. I work him up to $3,500 but have little leverage. Evidently someone else also has video of the concert—not nearly the quality of ours, we find out later, but good enough to ruin the exclusive.
Channing’s home office is situated in Brentwood, an expensive neighborhood on the Westside that’s chock-full of celebrities. At 4 a.m., Elif and I knock on his door. We wait only a moment before he opens it. Channing is wearing a tailored shirt and does not appear sleepy in the slightest. He shakes our hands and sits with us on the front stoop where he apparently does all his business; no one is ever allowed in the house.
An attractive man in his early forties, Channing is polite but not charming, calculating but not conniving. In a refined French accent, he asks me to come work for him. He says he’ll pay me ten grand a month. I tell him that I’m already making that. (The reality, though, is I’ve gotten only one paycheck so far. Which, in fact, was for over $10,000, but it was also for my first four months of work. But Bartlet told me the money would keep coming—“Your payments have kicked in now,” he said, meaning that the three-to four-month lag in the initial collections from the magazines has been waited out. Finally, I breathed ever so slightly easier about my building debts.) Mostly though, I don’t want to work for Channing because he requires bimonthly negotiations: each of his paps comes to his home every two weeks, stands on the front stoop, and makes an appeal for their salary based on what they brought forth during the period. I bargained my way through Southeast Asia always feeling like I was getting ripped off. I prefer to get paid an exact percentage of my sales, and CXN gives me 60 percent directly deposited into my bank account. That’s my speed. But for one night—and $3,500—the Southeast Asia way is amenable. Channing writes me a check, and I hand over my memory chip.
* * *
We drive home down Sunset from west to east. There is no traffic and we clip through intelligently sensored lights that change quickly to green. The early morning light tints blue on the still sights of the city.
In L.A. at this time of year, the sun begins its defeat of the night at the miserable hour of 5 a.m. Though I wish it happened later, there’s something satisfying in seeing the light win every day: the wakening reveals a beautiful city. It’s not an in-your-face beauty, like that of Istanbul or San Francisco; rather, unlike its celebrities, L.A.’s looks sneak up on you. Think of a woman whom a man may at first dismiss as plain, even ugly—What does everyone see in her?—but whose splendor, like an avalanche of snow, builds and breaks and descends, suffocating him before he knows to run. In one day, he goes from feeling nothing for her to being in love with her. Suddenly, he craves this woman like his morning caffeine: he must have his fix. Her every imperfection—a gawky figure, pimples, too large of a nose—is now a beauty mark in his eyes.
This is the beauty of the City of Angels. Like the way Il Sole—where Jennifer Aniston and Courteney Cox eat—nudges into a decrepit strip mall and now flanks the priciest boutiques in town. Or the way the windows in Red Rocks cover an entire side of the bar and reveal their out-of-place hippie clientele to the surgically enhanced West Hollywood pedestrians. You can see the beauty in places like the ordinary Starbucks on the corner of La Brea and Sunset, where the extraordinary Spice Girl Mel B gets her lattes, and down the street from there at the stucco Rite Aid building where the spectacular Kate Bosworth shops for a humble tube of toothpaste.
To my left, at this moment, is the forest of the Hollywood Hills. If you search a little, you can find buried treasures under her leaves. As I drive, I notice the palm trees that line Sunset Boulevard. But you’ll only notice them if you look up; they’ve grown too tall and look like telephone poles to the unobservant eye. As I go a bit farther and hit the Hollywood Walk of Fame, tourist shops beckon—the Indian incense wafts out their doors and Bangkok T-shirts hang in front windows. I love it when I reach east Hollywood, near to my home. Here are Spanish tobacco stores, Thai restaurants, and Armenian markets. Here, the dilapidated buildings still reflect the mastery of early twentieth-century architecture, and outside their doors is where the homeless sleep in cardboard boxes. One more mile, and I’m in Los Feliz. Los Feliz is home to all colors, nations, and ages, rich and poor alike, famous and unknown. The World is here: a mad palette of humanity rubbing together in unexpected harmony. Life is here. And my home is here, my beloved home.
I break the silence. “Man, what a night.”
“Who is this man, Jennifer?” Elif responds sleepily. “You Americans are always talking to Man.”
I just smile.
* * *
Bartlet was right: the money did keep coming. From here on out, I never made less than ten grand a month. Of course that wasn’t all profit—I had loads of equipment to buy, other operating expenses, and taxes to pay for—not to mention that loan from my brother to pay back, but it was still more money than I’d seen in years. The cash would flow on the back end too: residuals continue, that kind of passive income that makes “dreams” possible.
But don’t think I sold out for money. Papping was never my end-all, nor was it any means to an end. It was just part of a journey, and the money produced from it, with a light gust, would blow away as quickly as it appeared. I knew that. Especially in L.A., a home I loved, but one where quicksand abounds. So I paid off my debts as quickly as I could, continued to live as I had been (with the exception of more frequently indulging in designer jeans), and saved the rest.
* * *
Summertime changes the paparazzi’s typical “doorstep in the a.m./troll in the p.m.” daily routine. Bathing suit shots constitute the most valuable stock in photo libraries, and it’s important to rack up a few each season. Even if the shots aren’t exclusive, bathing suit sets have strong residual value because they are rare: Jennifer Lopez i
n a bikini is shot once, maybe twice a summer. So if a mag needs a picture of her in a bathing suit (and the mags always want the most recent), then they’re buying yours until she’s shot again next year.
In the beginning of the season, the ocean is a welcome change. Within the Malibu city limits are several beaches, as well as the Country Mart, the outdoor shopping area and eatery which brings needed reprieve—and food—to a hot and sandy celebrity-scouting beach sit. And for every three or four hours you put in at the Country Mart, you can pretty much guarantee seeing someone. A-to D-list, celebrities love it.
So once May hit, Elif and I started spending every Saturday and Sunday in Malibu. Both of us had it in our heads that we could get “Jennifer Aniston on the beach” if only we were patient. My car stayed packed with paparazzi essentials: changes of clothes, extra socks and shoes, a couple of bathing suits for beach transformations, sun umbrella, beach (i.e., camera) bag, cooler to fill with camera gear, towels, water bottles, Spy Hawk GPS tracking device to attach to celebrities’ cars (Kidding! I would never use that), and so on.
Along Malibu’s beachfront, million-dollar homes run side by side, broken up only by an occasional restaurant. If the residents could pay a billion dollars to own the sand in front of their houses, no doubt they would. But God bless us, America still owns her beaches…so if you wanna plop yourself on Jennifer Aniston’s sandy lawn and stay a while, ya can.
Aniston’s home is perched in front of a beautiful part of the beach—not too crowded, fairly wide for Malibu, and practically speaking, accessible. If you get to the PCH by say 11 a.m., early enough to find “a park,” you don’t have to walk far to the beach access point near her house. Small and unpretentious compared to its neighbors, Jennifer’s house has a large deck about a hundred feet from the water. This is enclosed by an unsightly waist-high plastic railing that allows her to see out but no one to see in.
We never know for sure, but since Jen’s security comes out every hour, we think she’s home. Even so, that doesn’t mean much. Jen is a self-publicized homebody and can stay inside for days at a time. I’ve heard stories of paps sitting on her for a week, sure she’s home—even seeing her do yoga through the windows—but never seeing her leave. Jennifer also has a home thirty minutes away in Beverly Hills. It’s the one she and Brad Pitt bought together. Up a winding, narrow road past Halle Berry’s, Toby McGuire’s, the Olsen twins’, and Keanu Reeves’s, Jen’s house is ten minutes from Sunset Boulevard at the tip-top of a Hollywood hill. The view kills but so would the isolation.
Elif and I have gotten familiar with Aniston’s security guards because they stand out: two large men not particularly in shape, kind of like football players ten years past their prime. They are always cleanly shorn and dressed business casual in slacks, shirts, and blazers. Even off the beach, no one dresses like that in L.A. Every hour, like clockwork, they come out to patrol, standing at the corner of her deck and sweeping the beach with their eyes. They always lean down and check under her deck too—paps have been known to hide in the spaces under the beach houses.
Though they never photograph us, we’ve heard that Jen’s men occasionally take pictures of any paps sitting on the beach. (Brad and Angie’s security do this too.) I think it’s just for intimidation purposes; though I wouldn’t be surprised if our mugs were compiled in a monthly newsletter to all relevant parties. Honestly, that’s what I would do if I ran her security. That way, if we ever followed Jen to her favorite hideaway (Cabo) and tried to stay at the same hotel (which paps have been known to do), we’d be spotted straight away. Of course, photographing paps could also have a more legitimate security implication, like differentiating us from real and potentially dangerous stalkers.
Sometimes one of Jen’s guards will take her dogs for a walk. I’m always tempted to take shots when this happens—my colleague Bradley has made a lot of money off Jen Aniston’s dog—but I don’t because I don’t want to give myself away. Not that the guards haven’t figured us out. Who else would come out every weekend, even on the chillier spring days, and stay bundled up under a sun umbrella in the same spot?
Every once in a while another pap will stroll by us on a celebrity scouting beach walk. Beach paps can be spotted a hundred yards away: they don’t wear a bathing suit, they wear sneakers, and they carry a bulky backpack slung over their shoulder. Although it’s less practical, Elif and I take pride in making ourselves fit in. We wear bikinis or cover-ups, go barefoot, and carry “beach bags.” Frankly, I don’t think we look really suspect until about five o’clock when we start to shiver. We hear that Jen, like the marine life outside her beach house, becomes most active at dusk—an evening walk-the-dog shot is what we’re hoping for. Besides, if we haven’t left Malibu by three, we might as well wait till after seven or we’ll encounter two hours of freeway standstill.
We don’t just read away our time. Elif and I scan the beach for movement, and one of us will take a stroll every hour or so to scope. No sense in sitting in front of Jen’s house if Courteney Cox, her neighbor by about fifteen houses, is sunbathing outside. Of course if I go stroll, there’s always the chance that Jen will come out and I’ll miss it. I carry my cell so Elif can call, but it’s slow beach walking with the weighty camera equipment situated non-ergo-dynamically in the disguised beach bag. I usually meander to the eastern end of the beach toward Charlize Theron’s. Charlize’s house isn’t actually on Jen’s beach, but it can be seen from the end. I’ve heard she walks her dogs too, and who knows, I might get lucky. I used to think how uncanny it would be to stumble upon a celebrity at just the moment when she’s, say, walking her dog. But the more I wander, the more I find that sooner or later—and not so infrequently—someone does walk her dog at just the moment I stumble up. Weave your web and they’ll fly in.
Today, Elif and I see movement about one football field down the beach from Jen’s. It looks like a group of people and more than the average number of beach walkers. We go check it out. Five or six paps are set up with long lenses outside a house. One of them tells me that Jessica Alba is doing a photo shoot and that the crew has made a pact with the paps: they’ll send Jess out, we’ll take pictures, then we’ll leave them alone for the rest of the day.
Nobody’s happy I’ve joined, but they’ve seen I’ve been paying my ocean dues, so they don’t say anything. Jessica, who can’t stand the paparazzi but is too gorgeous for us to ignore, comes out wearing a white bathrobe and stands statue-still and completely expressionless. We take pictures. All the same shot. Now everyone has one shot, the same one (which will sell—it is Jessica Alba in a bathrobe, after all—but not for very much). After about five minutes, she goes back inside. We wave, nod to the crew, and leave.
On the walk back to Jen’s, we run into Simon, also trolling the beach.
“I don’t care what deal you made,” he says after I tell him what happened. “Jessica Alba’s in a bathing suit. Go back.”
“Really?”
It takes us thirty minutes to walk around the photo shoot to the other side of the beach where we must be to use the remaining sunlight. We traipse over sharp rocks and through knee-deep water. I’m carrying the “five hundred” (500mm lens), which feels like it weighs as much in pounds. It is the same lens I used to attempt shots of Tori and Dean at “Inn Love,” and the office has lent it to me for my beach sits.
Simon accompanies us and is technically “jumping my job,” but since I’m still learning the game and he helps me out a lot, I don’t say anything. We’re not the only ones with this idea either. Three of the six photogs who were there originally are now shooting from this perch.
We stand about three hundred feet away, and Jessica’s really tiny even in the five hundred. I walk across someone’s porch to get about fifty feet closer than Simon and the other guys. The crew has sent one poor lad with a measly piece of white poster board to block us. He’s deficient in equipment and outnumbered, and I’m sure he’s peeved to be missing Jessica in her bathing suit. He’s also c
hivalrous and ignores my presence to concentrate on the men. I gratefully accept the advantage.
We shoot for about thirty minutes—a couple of wardrobe changes—until the sun is gone. I have no idea what I’ve gotten or if it will be salable once the images are enlarged and cropped. Jessica looks like a tiny spot in all my images.
Simon and I regroup at the Country Mart Starbucks; we’ll edit together. We order coffees and sit down with our laptops and camera cards. Before he starts his edit, he pauses, “I’ve been thinking,” he says. “This was really your job. I jumped it. I’m gonna give you my photos.” What Simon means is that he won’t take credit—or money—for his photos. He is going to give them to me, and I will send them in with only my name on them. This is typical Simon behavior and why he’s the Most Popular Pap in the business. He’s not dumb, though. The money he loses by being nice, he gets back double in information. Simon can get almost any location information or home address he needs, and he’s tipped off by other paps all the time. Everyone owes Simon. Me included. But “thanks love, that means a lot” and a peck on the cheek is all I can offer for now.
We transfer the images to the computer. Simon looks at his, then mine, and then with gravity in his voice says, “I can’t offer you one image, Jennifer. You out-shot me on every frame. Nice job.”
I am stunned, both by my shots and, more importantly, by Simon’s kind reaction. Humble, supportive, and adult: a pap anomaly. Today Simon gives me much needed money (my “full 60” percent) and, more critically, confidence.
The quality of my set is grainy due to the long distance, the low light, and the necessary pull-up in the frame, but there’s no question it’s Jessica Alba in a bathing suit. And that sells.
Over the next year, I’ll make about $5,000 on those frames, my images superior to the competition’s not because I was a better shooter, but because I had the right equipment and the gumption to crawl those few feet closer.
Shooting Stars Page 11
