Shooting Stars

by Jennifer Buhl

  My frames outsell the competition’s. I’m learning the game too.

  * * *

  Aaron and I have been distant for a month now, and it’s been good. We talk only when work necessitates. We have barely seen each other, and my self-esteem has risen.

  Word on the street is that he and Claudia despise each other. I don’t want to know the details, so I don’t ask.

  Today, Aaron calls to see if I want to get a couple’s massage, his treat.

  I am obviously not going to pass up a free massage. And since for the coming weekend I’ve already purchased two tickets to Josh Kelley’s concert, I invite Aaron to go along. I don’t know many of the songs sung by Heigl’s fiancé, but since she does so much for me, the least I can do is be a Josh Kelley fan.

  Date night arrives, and we meet at Aaron’s apartment. The moment I lay eyes on him, I realize I’ve missed him. I can tell he feels the same.

  We start with a Thai massage on Abbot Kinney, the fashionable street in Venice Beach; then stroll to a perfectly lit restaurant where we have dinner. “This feels like a date,” I say.

  He responds by wrapping his fingers around mine.

  When we get to the Troubadour, a historic concert venue in West Hollywood, Aaron holds me from behind as we listen to Josh and sway to the music. It’s so natural, so comfortable being in his arms. When the show is over, we make a point to find Katherine. We didn’t bring our cameras inside and need her to see that. Aaron says it’s important in celeb/pap relationships to not photograph them sometimes. He says it gives them some power back and humanizes us.

  Katie greets me with a giant bear hug and thanks me for coming. I gush over Josh, who was truly fantastic, and her neighbor Martin says hello to me, reminding me that we met once outside Katie’s house. The girlfriend who was with her on the mani-pedi day smiles at me too. Seems I know all of Katie’s friends who are here.

  This is the first time I’ve been in a level social setting with a celebrity and her entourage. Honestly, it feels no different than if I were talking to any other interesting new acquaintances.

  Drink in hand, Heigl is in a fabulous mood and doesn’t seem to care whether I’ve brought in my camera or not. The others are a bit more perplexed at how this paparazzi thing works and appear to be peering into my purse expecting me to bring out the guns. I hang with Katie’s crowd for about five minutes until I feel like one of the gang. Sensing that, Aaron gently escorts me back to the car where he reminds me, “You’re not one of them. She’s not your friend.” (He makes me repeat it back. I am begrudgingly thankful for the reminder.)

  The night ends as picture-perfectly as it began. We snuggle on the sofa. Aaron caresses my face with his hands, then moves down my body.

  “Let’s not rush things,” he says. “We’ll have plenty of time.”

  Jennifer, I say silently to myself, Aaron will never love you. Remember what it is you really want in this world.

  I repeat it.

  And again.

  * * *

  I don’t sleep with Aaron that night, nor do I sleep over. I know those are unwise choices for “attachment” reasons. A few days later, my prudence pays off.

  The incident occurs at a kids’ swing set store in Calabasas and doesn’t seem like that big of a deal at the time. It is a Britney gangbang, but with only a dozen of us, very manageable.

  There is plenty of parking in the dirt lot across from the store, and along with a few others I walk across the lot toward Britney’s slow-circling vehicle when I happen in front of John, a British guy from West Coast Wing who is visibly upset that he is last in line on the follow and is not yet out of his car.

  “Get out of the road, bitch,” he yells, leaning his skinny frame out his giant SUV. John has a soft, young face so he has to bark extra loud to be taken seriously.

  Obviously, I should ignore him, but “Fuck you!” spews from my mouth, and for extra spite, I slap his window as I pass his car.

  John’s passenger, Adnan (the pap who would soon have his first date with Britney), reciprocates with a “Fuck you!” back at me.

  Now, normally, I’d ignore this exchange—worse happens—but Adnan and I have become friendly acquaintances, and although John never talks to me, he is friends with my CXN coworkers. During a lull a few minutes later as we were waiting on Britney, I ask non-confrontationally, “What was going on there, guys?”

  “Go fuck yourself, bitch” is their general response, and suddenly sensing that Tall Poppy Syndrome has them in its grip, I don’t say anything further.

  We shoot Britney, then follow her back home.

  Two hours later, she comes out again. This time she has a larger entourage in tow, but she never gets out of the car—she just goes for a drive down Robertson to pick up more paps, around Beverly Hills three times, and back home. Now parked beside thirty cars on the shoulder of Mulholland, I am in my car when the phone rings.

  J.R. is speaking as fast as I’ve ever heard him speak: “I’ve fielded several phone calls about you today, and I’m tired of it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He goes on to say that if I don’t leave Britney’s right then, the threat on the street is that any and every CXN shooter will be blocked when working on her in the future.

  “I can’t have you fucking it up for my staff,” he slurs.

  Many of his words are unintelligible, but what I am able to piece together is that John and Adnan have corralled their friends into calling CXN and “telling on me.” I don’t know what they said—truth or lies—and I realize this sounds like grammar school, but tears well up anyway. I am really upset that they would stoop to such low tactics for such little payoff. But more importantly, I am stung deeply by J.R.’s reaction. What boss doesn’t stick up for his worker to some snitch paps with little to go on, especially a worker who gets to the job on time, who’s responsible and responsive, and who frankly nails it more often than most of the salaried staff?

  When we hang up, Bartlet calls a minute later. In a tough-love attempt at sympathy, he tells me to ignore J.R., quit crying, and “more than anything…don’t let them see you cry.”

  Which, I realize, is just what they need to see. I hang up, and with a red, tear-stained face, walk over to a large unkindness of ravens. John and Adnan aren’t there, but enough witnesses from the swing set store are. They fall silent, immediately giving me full attention.

  “I need a break.” No one moves when the tears reemerge and I am unable to speak for ten seconds. I continue. “I shoot well. I drive well. I know what I’m doing. You don’t have to like me, but you all need to lighten up.”

  Heads stay low and voices quiet as I walk back to my car. The group quickly disperses, and a couple of guys murmur “sorry” under their breath as they pass my car window. One even leans in to pat my shoulder. I know this group, made up of mostly Rodeo2 Brazilians, are not the culprits, but I know word will make it back to those who are.

  Nextels spread gossip as fast as chirps through a cicada field, and my phone starts ringing. I ignore most calls but answer Aaron’s.

  “Are you OK, babe? What happened?”

  I start to cry again.

  “No tears. I’ll be right up to sort it out.”

  It takes him fifteen minutes to get to Brit’s estate on the edge of the Valley, and he greets me with his usual I’ll-take-care-of-everything hug (and even a little kiss). He listens patiently as I tell him exactly what happened.

  “I’ll go talk to them,” he says like a man.

  He will punch them, I think. At the very least, berate them in my defense.

  From the car, I watch as he walks up to John and Adnan, gives them high-fives, and offers them a handful of sunflower seeds. Ten minutes later, he returns with a big grin and word from the enemy, “So, here’s the deal: John just doesn’t like you. You’re gonna have to live with it.”

  My heart stiffens. Ice shoots through my veins. I am furious and it shows.

  “What! And that
’s an acceptable reason for you?”

  Aaron’s brush-off response is, “What do you want me to do about it? It’s not my fault. Stop having a go at me.”

  What did I really expect from him? Beginning to cry again, I ask him to leave. And he does.

  On my way home, I Nextel Simon and tell him the story. “What’ve I told you, Jen? No one is your friend in this business.”

  “But you’re my friend. You would have stuck up for me, wouldn’t you have?”

  Simon stews on that for a while. Then he comes out with, “I do like ya luv, but really, I barely know ya. It’s been less than a year.”

  And that’s when I truly realize how alone I am in this business—and how this business probably isn’t all that different from any other industry. Few people in our world today stick their necks out to right a wrong, regardless of whether it’s for a friend or a stranger. The paparazzi are no exception.

  The Battle of Bosworth, Round 4

  Cumulative score: Kate: 3; Simon and Jen: 1

  GAME OVER

  “Neighbors are complaining. You’re gonna have to move on, ma’am,” a female member of L.A.’s blue coats says to me as I sit unobtrusively on the side of the road at the bottom of Christina Aguilera’s street.

  Most likely, Christina’s Beverly Hills neighbors have never met one another, never left their house on foot, never even smiled at someone on their street. But I betcha all of them could tell you if a foot slipped off the sidewalk onto their lawn. They keep tabs. And they should: many have worked eighty hours a week for the last thirty years to obtain their million-dollar properties. If something happened to them, what would have been the point?

  “I’m parked legally,” I say, energy-less. I already know I won’t win this argument.

  I’m a fine-looking female in a fine-looking car (I got a new Prius recently!) and not at all threatening. The cop knows perfectly well what I’m doing, and she knows I’m no threat to anyone but Christina (who likes it anyway) or possibly Penélope Cruz, who also lives on the street (who hates it, but on a side note is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen). The cop also knows she can’t make me move.

  But I move anyway. With the Bosworth incident still fresh in my mind, I don’t feel like getting my name in any more little black books.

  And speaking of…

  In my mailbox that evening: legal papers from Ms. Bosworth and her attorneys at Lavely & Singer, who Bartlet says are the celebrity attorneys so I should be proud. Eight pages of legal documents on heavy stock paper stating that Simon and I “placed Ms. Bosworth in fear for her personal safety and well-being.” Saying that we “laid-in-wait…” (I like this term; it sounds like we’re tigers) “…for approximately two months…” (This simply isn’t true; we doorstepped her just five days over the course of two months) “…and threatened to publicly disclose private and confidential information regarding Ms. Bosworth, absent her agreement to succumb to [our] demands.” (Oops. That was what she got from our friendly note?) It also says that we “chased Ms. Bosworth’s vehicle at a high rate of speed, recklessly swerving in front of Ms. Bosworth’s vehicle and then abruptly stopping in front of her preventing her from driving forward.” (Quite by accident I ended up in front of her. She could have gone around, as I motioned for her to do. She chose not to. Besides, we don’t “chase,” we “follow.”)

  The letter talks about our attempt at “extortion.” (Which, according to my friend Georgia, who is a lawyer, Ms. Bosworth’s attorney needs to read up on since my note is not an example of extortion. “Maybe blackmail,” says Georgia, “but definitely not extortion.”)

  The letter warns us not to come within one hundred yards of Kate or further legal action will ensue. It neglects to mention how Larry, Kate’s Dukes of Hazzard bodyguard, obtained my name and address, or why he was running around L.A. with a badge from a Cracker Jack box.

  I must admit, I am relieved. At least now I know the card she’s playing, and it’s only a warning. I won’t have to drain my account to hire a lawyer to explain to a judge that the note I left in Kate Bosworth’s mailbox, like the one I left at Adrian’s, was “cute,” and she needs a better sense of humor. And, most importantly, I won’t have to spend time in jail while my eggs rot. (I kid you not, that thought has kept me up many nights.) Simon and CXN get the same letter—another relief as misery loves company, especially company with more money. Plus, they don’t seem all that worried.

  Kate’s stubborn, but a solid game player. She fights as well as she drives, and at least for now has won. Simon and I will not go anywhere near her house or the Runyon Canyon lookout point. Though she may do well to change her nail salon—if I see that Black Ford Escape at Planet Nails again, I just might be tempted to arrange a little gangbang upon her exit. Then she can meet the real savages of this world when they follow her to her secret home in the Hollywood Hills.

  And considering half of the paps are illegal, I imagine it would be “hella” challenging for Larry to get all their addresses.

  Chapter 16

  These days, it takes about as much time to get famous as it does to fill up a bathtub. Over the last few months, I’ve watched Katherine Heigl and Hayden Panettiere become household names. No pap knew them last season. Now they’re worked like 800-count cotton and worth as much.

  At the moment, Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgens, newly hatched pretty-young-things and currently coupled, are at their dawn of fame. Except for tweens, no paps knew Zac-essa six weeks ago.

  I wasn’t particularly anxious to work Zac. I’d heard he was a bitch, a term usually reserved for female celebrities, but one bestowed on Zac because of the way he drives. I actually think paps are just jealous his car’s so fast.

  Zac lives in a nondescript apartment complex in Studio City. Vanessa lives around the corner at her parents’ equally modest house. Though Vanessa is the easier get, I have less desire to work her—she just doesn’t excite me. In my opinion, Vanessa’s star power is all on the coattails of Zac, her High School Musical co-star, and these days, as the money is rolling in consistently, I’m getting pickier about who I work.

  But all signs point toward Zac becoming big, and it’s important that paparazzi know how to work all big stars. You never know when your paths will cross. So, one late afternoon when I’m in the area, I troll by his place. After keeping it to themselves for two weeks, my coworkers were glad to hand over his address, tired of the near-death follows and lack of shots. Along with the address, they told me how to check for his car through the iron-gated parking garage to see if he is home.

  I peer in and see his sparkly black Audi jutting out from the last space. Finishing the day here is as good as anywhere, so I pull to the side of the street and park where I’ll easily notice if his car exits. There’s one other pap waiting, a young Armenian guy who waves at me. I wave back. It’s nice to be cordial for a change.

  About twenty minutes later, Zac’s supercharged Audi pulls out so quickly that the other pap, who by then was standing outside his car talking to me, never even gets on the follow. I feel a pang of guilt for contributing to his loss, but not enough to answer my phone when he calls four times hoping I’ll catch him up. Following Zac at 60 miles per hour through small subdivisions requires my full concentration—and now I have him “exclusive.”

  Zac spends about five minutes darting down random streets trying to lose me (the Prius has a feistier engine than you might expect) before getting on the bottlenecked 101 South at Laurel Canyon. For an instant, Zac is trapped. I take the opportunity being presented and pull up beside him.

  It is the first time I’ve seen Zac in person. Aww, look at him. So young and harmless are my thoughts.

  “Window,” I mouth and motion for him to roll his down, a move I’m sure he’s never seen before. He’s curious and complies.

  “Hey, Zac.” I try to sound flirty and powerless. “I’m the only one on you. Is there any way I could have a couple of shots?”

  “Are you sure no one else i
s on me?” he says copying my lingo. He swings his head around, scanning the freeway.

  “I’m sure. The other guy lost you at your house.”

  “Well, I’m just going to a friend’s, but if you want, you can. And, by the way, anytime you ask, I’ll give you shots. I just wanna be asked.”

  I wonder if he’ll kiss me if I ask. He may only be twenty, but whoa! he does not look harmless with the window down. Oh no. Zac is one smokin’ hot boy.

  We drive the remaining distance slowly. When we arrive at the friend’s house, I wait while he primps in the reflection of his car window. With skinny jeans and a backpack slung over his shoulder, he turns to me, winks, and flashes the peace sign. I fire five or ten times. Chuh-chuh-chuh, chuh-chuh-chuh.

  “Sorry for driving so fast,” he says. “There’s another guy who drives your same car. I can’t stand him. Thought you were him.”

  “No worries. Have a good night. And thanks,” I say sincerely.

  Wonder what Zac thinks of Mrs. Robinson? Or, if he even knows who she is.

  * * *

  The next week, taking advantage of my window, I work Zac again. This time, when he pulls out of his garage I immediately roll down my window and wave so he can see that it’s me and not “the pap he can’t stand.” He pulls to the shoulder, leans out his Audi window, tells me where he is going, then drives there slowly. When we arrive, he blocks the other paps from getting shots and smiles just for me. I’m appreciative. I’ll take all the bones he throws. No doubt, it occasionally helps to be a woman in this biz.

  But, woman or man, the pattern’s always the same: like a prime steak over a hot flame, Zac’ll be “done” in a few months. So I have to strike while the iron is hot.

  Pap My Ride

  The Ideal Pap-Mobile

  When I replaced my reliable yet hard-to-miss red truck with the shiny, spanking-new, fully loaded silver Prius, it still wasn’t fully outfitted for the job. Vehicles are as critical to paparazzi as their 70–200mm lenses, and serious considerations go into pappin’ one’s ride.