Shooting Stars (28 page)

But I'm not worried. Sid and I both know I can outshoot him. My reputation strengthens every day, and it's clear to everyone.

That doesn't mean his cruelties don't hurt. The negative energy he hurls my way has an impact like lead balls slamming against my
stomach. They bruise and will eventually lead to permanent scars. That's my fault, though.

When I'm asked by an outsider to explain the paparazzi world, I describe it as an ungoverned street business run similar, I imagine, to that of gangs or the mafia. Like these “businesses,” papping has its rules, but as in theirs, no police or unbiased authority steps in to mediate. Thus, street politics—intimidation and power—enforce the rules of our games. Now that I understand pap rules, mostly I adhere to them, and mostly I succeed. But I still get hurt.

When Abbey sees the commotion, she runs over and jams her elbow into Sid's dinosaur ribs. “Get the fuck away from her,” commands little-bitty Abbey. She doesn't know the details of our argument, but she doesn't need to know. She doesn't care about pap-rules. She doesn't care about Sid. She's loyal, and I'm her friend.

Sid backs down—he would never hit a girl—and leaves. I get out of my car and lift the doll-size video-pap off the ground in a hug as tears leak out. Those tears arrive not because of Sid's attack, but because my new friend Abbey—this woman I've known only a couple of weeks—is the only pap, after a year in the business, to
ever
stick up for me.

“Put me down!” she directs. “We got each other's back.”

* * *

Speaking of doll-size, you know Hannah Montana, don't you? Born Destiny Hope Cyrus, her dad called her Smiley when she was a baby, which became Miley. Miley is fifteen right now, barely old enough for the tabloids to buy her. And as with Zac and Vanessa before her, no one older than a tween knew who she was last month.

Just ten minutes from my house down the 101, Miley lives at home with her parents in Studio City. I'd hate to live in the Valley—it's suburbia at its finest—but work-wise it's a pleasant break from the city. Besides, a decent group of paps work Miley regularly, and her family's not so bad either. (Interestingly, I find that “parents” rarely have a problem with
us. And why would they? For years, they've been working toward this, possibly even more than their kid.)

Last week, Miley's look-alike mom Tish got everyone out of parking tickets when a puffed-up cop spotted us waiting in an alley. “Oh, Officer,” said Tish. “They're being so respectful. I don't think they need tickets. We're leaving now anyway.”

Miley's responsible for our good behavior. She and her dad have established the rules.

One afternoon, Billy Ray came outside to have a talk with us. “What happened yesterday was unacceptable,” he said. “I can't have you using vocabulary like that around my Miley. [F-bombs being dropped by us were what he was referring to.] And this rushing up on her, getting in her face to take a picture, it has to stop.”

We all nodded in agreement. And we meant it. Rules make our job easy: they tell us how everyone else is going to operate.

A few days later, we followed Miley to the Coffee Bean where she smiled and waved to all of us on our long lenses. Once she was inside, Sam, a burly Aussie with two black holes where his two front teeth used to be, turned to a non-regular Miley pap who had decided to join us that day, and in a flat, stern voice said, “We do NOT use language like that in front of Miley.”

The guy was speechless. After all, “f—k” said in the normal course of business is standard operating procedure. (At this point, it's important to note that paps loved Miley Cyrus, and more importantly, we loved the shots she was giving us—we were all making great money on her picture sales—so the last thing we wanted to do was stop those pictures. Also, I think that a lot of us respected that Miley was young and still innocent, and it was not our place to taint her.)

Later that morning, a Sunday, Billy Ray invited us all to church. “Don't think y'all can bring the cameras inside,” he said. “But you're welcome to join us.”

No one took him up on the offer, but it went to show what a pleasant environment we were working in. Like I said, no one wanted things to change.

* * *

When we photograph Hollywood's fountain of youth—stars like Miley, Zac, and Vanessa—the mags snap up the stills and video. Sixteen is usually the bottom age limit: you can be sexy at sixteen, but much younger borders on gross, even for the tabloids. Miley Cyrus, Zac and Vanessa, Ashley Tisdale, Selena Gomez, Hilary Duff, the Jonas Brothers, and most of the teenage celebs that live with their parents in Studio City (all these peeps, at this time, live within walking distance of one another) began to see paps when they turned of age. (Notably absent from this list is Justin Bieber. He is a bit younger than this crowd and won't become “adult-famous” for a few years. Besides, at this time, he doesn't live in L.A.)

For at least the first few months, the teenagers all love it. Even I, a pap, think it would be pretty cool to be papped in high school. They are fun for us to work on too. They “perform.” They can't seem to help themselves. They pose and smile, take direction well, and they love props. Vanessa, for instance, once walked out of her house cuddling a teddy bear for no other reason than a photo-op. And for me specifically, Zac put quarters in his meter three times—three “takes”—until I assured him I got the shot. The teens are smart too, and intuitive. Maybe because they've engaged in hide-and-seek games more recently than we “grown-ups” have, these kids figure out our tricks much quicker than their adult counterparts usually do.

But always, after a few months, something happens. Like trees on their street, we become part of the neighborhood landscape. At the same time, agents and producers whisper in the up-and-coming teenager's ear: “You're so wonderful and talented. You don't need the paparazzi. Don't give them any pictures. You're a king or queen already.” Some of the teenagers will listen to their PR people. They will get coy and stupid. And, they will find
as quickly as we arrived, we will go.
The young celebrity might find his picture—and his prominence—just disappears.
Poof.

But some—the smart and the confident, I notice—will work it (at least for a bit) and we will watch them climb, climb, climb the popularity
ladder. At a young age, they will
establish
their celebrity. And for better or worse, they often need us to do that.

By giving it up, “kids” like Miley Cyrus and Zac Efron SKYROCKETED into adult money, fame, and power. In a season, they went from being famous to tweens and their parents to being famous to
everyone
. And in this business, name recognition equals more opportunities and more choices. Who doesn't want that?

* * *

And speaking of David Beckham (which we were…sorta), when people ask me my favorite paparazzi story, this is the one I tell.

Claudia and I start the day as partners. We arrive at the Beckhams' at 7:30 a.m. David has a game this weekend, and ever-prompt Claudia saw him leave early the previous morning, presumably on his way to practice. Generally paps don't follow him to soccer practice—there's rarely a shot—but Claudia and I are both having profitable months and we're up for a challenge.

At 7:55 a.m., David pulls out of his driveway in his DB-monogrammed convertible Porsche. Kitschy, but he's not to blame: he and Victoria received his-and-hers cars as a “Welcome to America” gift from TomKat Cruise; it would be rude not to drive them.

Claudia and I decided in advance that I would follow David and she would stay at the house and wait for the lovely Posh Spice to appear. I fall in behind two security cars which trail him and his nine-year-old son Brooklyn. We stop first at Brooklyn's private elementary school, the Curtis School, and David pulls down the drive to the entrance. I take my cue from security and pull over beside their two cars on the shoulder of Mulholland.

One security guard who looks a little like David and is wearing a suit and a small earpiece comes up to my car and knocks on the window. Except for limo drivers and Oscar attendees, no one wears suits in L.A.

“Hello, Miss. May I have your card, please?” His accent is formal, refined British, and he's intimidating—reminds me of airport security or the Secret Intelligence Service. I'm still amazed at the power that mere “people” can command when they just look the part (
Dukes of Hazzard
Larry). I've figured that out, though, so I just smile politely and respond, “Mmm. No, I'd rather not.”

“We just like to know who we're working with, ma'am,” he tries again.

“I'm Jennifer.” I offer up, and put out my hand to shake Security's.

“He's just going to practice.”

“I know. You think he might stop for coffee?”

“I doubt it.”

“OK. No worries.”

Security doesn't push it further and walks back to his car. About ten minutes more go by before the Porsche exits the school. David gets on the 405 South and drives at a moderate speed. He has his hand out the window and is playing with the wind. The traffic is light, it's a relaxed follow, and I'm enjoying being out this early—the Southern California spring morning is crisp and cool with plenty of sunshine.

Before today, I've only seen David once in real life, and only through the lens. I had gotten a tip and had shot the Beckhams around midnight leaving a restaurant with no fewer than ten security guards. One guard had pushed my camera into my face. It was the most violence I'd ever incurred from a celebrity or his entourage. I guess, like Aaron said, if video's not rolling, the Brits aren't afraid to scuffle. (I did manage a few decent shots that night—exclusive too—and when I was in Thailand over the holidays, I ran across a two-page spread of my photos while thumbing through
Heat,
a British magazine. That was wild.)