Shooting Stars (15 page)

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 in 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 chivalrous 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.

And finally it feels like I turn a corner. No, I didn't have the instinct to “go back,” as Simon had directed, but I did have the instinct to seek out the scene in the first place, and then to shoot it. Today is a turning point for me in confidence. Now, just like Donna and Elif, I'm not worried. It's gonna roll from here.

Confident in the money too, Alexandra (one of “the girls”) and I go jeans shopping. I buy Citizens in straight leg black, Hudsons in boot-cut washed, and Sevens in skinny blue. And just in the nick of time too.

A text from Jed, my former coworker at Tropicalia reads:

“Man,” I say to Elif, “I hate getting nighttime tips.” I've worked all day and edited into the evening, so another set means I'll be working till ten and then editing into the night. That means nighttime tips are only worth doing if I think I can make enough on them to circumvent my following day's doorstep. 'Cause I'll sleep in. Besides, “
flashing
someone up,” as night shots inevitably do, at a neighborhood restaurant—especially one in my neighborhood right next to where I used to work—is humiliating. With giant bursts of flash, everyone looks. And beyond humiliating, in this case, “the guy from
Entourage
with the curly black hair,” is Adrian Grenier—my neighbor, my age, my type, and at least semi-single. Though I don't stand a chance with Adrian, I'm not going.