Shooting Stars (31 page)

About one football field away, I see the other paps bunched together unobtrusively behind the boulders near the cliff's face. From that distance, they would be shooting Matthew with 300–500mm lenses. I know Simon is with them.

I watch as a massive group of people begins to gather and head toward the huddled photographers. When they get to them, commotion begins. Later, the video will show throwing sand, rocks, and fists; and throwing equipment and paparazzi into the dangerous surfing waters. Soon, “the Mob” chases the paparazzi away and everyone disappears down the beach.

Fifteen minutes more, and a rainfall of sand pours over me. I jump up quickly, shielding my camera.

“Get out of here,” says an adult man who continues kicking sand at me.

“Please stop, please,” I beg as I move away. “You'll ruin my camera.”

He follows. “This is
our
beach. Leave.”

“Look, I'm not bothering anyone.” I speak calmly and politely, trying to diffuse the situation. He stops kicking.

“You're bothering
us
.”

“I'm not bothering Matthew, which as you know, is why I'm here. I'll be leaving soon.”

“Well, I'm the Beach Master and I want you to leave now.”

“Seriously?” I say stifling a chuckle. Later I find out his name is Skylar Peak.

“Yes, I was voted in.”

I laugh out loud. I don't want to rile him up, but honestly I can't help it.

I don't respond to anything more he says, but begin to gather my things. I have enough shots anyway.

Today, I will make several thousand dollars. That's why I am here. But, ultimately, I will not break even.

The next day, Sunday, I do not attend but hear it is equally vicious. Once the weekend's videos and pictures are released, local and national, celebrity and noncelebrity news is filled with the “Paparazzi vs. Surfer Turf War.” Photos of the fights blanket the Internet as the media devours the salacious news story. Celebrity blog sites publish record numbers of viewer comments, though they seem to come mostly from the Malibu teenagers challenging the paps to a rematch. Both
Larry King Live
and the
Los Angeles Times
interview me.

The following Saturday, the twenty-eighth, the
L.A. Times
was there:

Yep, that one woman was me. Me and my Sharpie-colored picket sign that read:
America's beaches should be free and accessible
. Don't get me wrong, I understood why many of them didn't like the paparazzi, but I couldn't stand by and watch this violence happen to the people I had come to see as my colleagues, especially when they had done nothing wrong but be there. In addition to the fact that paparazzi (and anyone for that matter) are legally allowed to take pictures of famous people in public places, it also infuriated me that the residents kept their
public
beach as inaccessible and private as possible. On top of that, most of the people on that beach were likely consumers (or had been at one point) of the very magazines and websites that bought our photos and published them. (I don't believe that not a single one of them had ever read
People
or PerezHilton.) All of it reeked of hypocrisy.

None of my peers joined me on the picket walk, but I could hardly blame them—most weren't Americans and couldn't afford to single themselves out with the law. Probably they didn't feel the personal disgust that I did with my countrymen either. Mostly, I imagine, their self-conceit was not as all-consuming as mine was.

Eventually a cop told me I had to leave. “But this is America. Aren't I allowed to protest?” I objected. He walkie-talkie'd his supervisor and then reported that he'd have to arrest me if I didn't go. “On what grounds?”

He checked again with his supervisor. “Inciting a riot.” That was a joke since there was absolutely no mutinying anywhere. But, in the end, my “sign” was clearly not going to affect anything, and I didn't really feel like spending the night in jail having enough sleep issues as it was, so I turned back.

* * *

My contempt for the Maliboobians stayed with me for days afterward. I took it with me to CNN's studios where I was planning to photograph Christina Aguilera, a guest on
Larry King Live
. Besides myself and about thirty other paps and autograph seekers waiting for Christina was paparazzo Frank Opis Epstein, or “Opis,” as he's started calling and photo-crediting himself.

Though Frank and I are both Americans—uncommon in this business—we are not friends. His tipsters come from stores like Gucci and Rolex because, as he told me the first time we met, “That's where I shop.”

CNN sections off its exit area for the paparazzi. It is not a problem if we shoot, but we must stay behind the red rope. Frank and another pap, who I didn't know but was on crutches with a broken leg, stood by the section of the rope which had the most space around it. When I asked if I could squeeze in, they laughed, and to keep me out, locked their bodies together in a barricade. Just like in Malibu, I was blocked out.

I walked to the other side of the rope but still saw no available space from
where to shoot. I returned to their side. When they saw me, they squeezed together again and planted their legs (and crutches) wide to take up more space. When I attempted to step in beside them, they moved their bodies sideways and shoved me. Wrath gaining momentum, I tried again, this time with my elbow. Then, as I remember it, Frank turned to face me, grabbed my camera, and pushed it toward me. I tripped backward but caught myself. With his hand, he continued pushing my camera into my face. Later, I won't recall whether he hit me with it or if it was just close, but either way, I felt like he was trying to make me fall or hit me with the lens. And, I panicked.

What occurred next was an instinctive reaction. I opened my mouth and bit into his hand, which was right there at my face. I didn't have to move to bite it.

And he didn't pull it away either, perhaps afraid he'd tear the skin, but I also didn't release my jaw right away. I actually was unable to. It was like I was watching the scene from above and couldn't move. Eventually, he had to jerk his hand away.

Frank never yelled. He didn't call security. He just calmly looked at me and said, “I
will
call the police.”

I didn't respond and found a new spot as far back in the crowd as I could. For the remaining fifteen minutes of the Christina wait, I stared in a fog at the scene in front of me. Everything seemed to blur. I wasn't even sure what had happened anymore. I knew I'd bitten Frank, but how had it come to that?

I watched Frank. He acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened, and even yelled, “Christina. Here!” when she came out. I didn't lift my camera. I had nothing left.

When I got home, two questions plagued me for the rest of the night:
Who am I?
and
How the hell did I become this way?
After the Frank incident, I felt as despicable as the Malibu residents whom I had judged. I knew I had reached the lowest point in my paparazzi tenure. (For f—k's sake, I bit someone!) Worse, I didn't know how I would ever find a way—much less the strength—to climb out of this situation. My career was probably ruined. But more importantly, I was ruined.

Bartlet called at daybreak. “Jennifer, why did you bite Frank Opis?” His voice actually sounded kind. Though he rarely acted with sensitivity, Bartlet knew I was losing it. He wasn't angry with me, but more alarmed.

“Because I thought he was going to break my camera, or hit me. And he pushed me. And I felted trapped,” I said. “I think. I don't know. I can't remember.” I could hear the defeat in my voice. I wished, desperately, to erase last night.

Bartlet told me that Frank went to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center—the hospital of the stars—for a tetanus shot (
Am I a dog?
), then filed a police report and got a restraining order against me.

I didn't have the energy to defend myself. “I'm taking the day off,” I said and hung up.

I got back into bed and spooned Despondency and Despair. If I had somewhere to run, I would go, away from all this. Regardless of what Frank or I had done, my body couldn't take any more hate. The celebrities hated me, the paps hated me, the cops hated me, Malibu hated me. All rightfully so! I hated myself too.

If I could only call Frank and grovel and beg for his forgiveness. I was sorry. And not just sorry that I might get into trouble. Frank may be a stooge in my opinion, but I shouldn't have bitten him—
how had it come to that
?

My cup was empty, and I had nothing but that miserable pride of mine with which to combat the all-consuming hate; hate that was closing in on me from all sides.
That's
how it had come to that.

* * *

One week later, what little there was left of my relentless hubris sent me—alone again—to Little Point Dume. It was Independence Day. Like a bird fighting its reflection, slamming itself into a sliding glass window till it dies, I couldn't stop myself.

This day, there were only a few hecklers, and some were even kind. I shot exclusive bathing suit pictures of Matthew and Camila, the last before she had the baby, and I made a lot of money. But the cost to my self-respect was exorbitant. I was wronged, and I was angry about that, of course. But I was more angry at myself. The hecklers comments stung because, deep down, I knew they were true.
Why couldn't I have just let them have their beach? Who did I think I was?

During my time on the beach, I began to wonder why I had been so hard on the residents, so full of disdain. The world often believes rich-America, like Malibu's citizens, is only concerned with greed and wealth retention. But I'm beginning to believe it's less about self-indulgence and more about fear. Sure, exclusivity is repugnant to the rest of us, but perhaps that wasn't what the beach fight was really about. These Malibu residents live in a bubble on a beautiful beach their ancestors stumbled across years ago. They love this place. It's where they socialize, exercise, network, and relieve their stress. Many of these people don't know what it's like to
not have
, and it scares the hell out of them. What would they do and where would they go without their pristine, quiet, beautiful beach? The crowded and noisy world outside is much less appealing, and although I want to tell them that on one hand, a lack of possessions actually produces a freedom like no other, on the other hand, they are right: to live without money in America is scary and, frankly, a life-threatening proposition. We have a very small social support net.

And I know all this firsthand: during my two years of travel before I moved to L.A., when all my belongings were strapped to my back, I experienced it. It was then,
out
of America,
away
from wealth, that for the first time in my life I felt real freedom—a joyous and liberating
freedom where nothing tied me down. The enjoyment of people replaced the enjoyment of stuff; the love of others replaced the love of possessions. And that intimacy with my fellow man brought me a happiness that I'd never felt before.

But when I came back from my two years abroad, I was faced with another eye-opening experience: destitution. Although I'd paid thousands into our dole, I was ineligible to collect unemployment upon my return because I had quit my job by choice and left the country. Despite having a graduate degree, I couldn't find a job. In a matter of days, I moved from the top of Maslow's hierarchy of needs—self-actualization—to its bottom—food, shelter, and clothing.

So, I could see these residents' side of the story. The United States without money is frightening. Highs will always be met by lows. And without help, most can't wait out the lows, especially if we're doing our beloved art, starting new businesses, or pursuing dreams. My heart often longs to go back to that place of freedom again: a place surrounded by nothing but love. But that's nearly impossible to do here, even for the richest of us.

So as I stood there on the beach in Malibu, my rage turned to pity, even empathy. I didn't hate them anymore—not even Skylar, the Beach Master. I understood them. And, as much as I didn't want to admit it, I was one of them. Protective and possessive, but worst of all, prideful, we were all the same.

* * *

For now, I shove my professional woes under the rug and refocus on my real priority: finding a man. And I do: BMG8865. He's cute, a little dorky (which I like), and has classic features. He wears glasses (Mom thinks I should nix him for that), his hair is longish and curls on the ends, he's twenty-one and fit.

I find him through Xytex, a sperm bank in Atlanta, which—quite brilliantly—includes adult photos of their donors. Finally, someone
figured out the one thing mamas like me really need to know when they're picking out baby daddy sperm: what does he look like? The office staff is informative as well: “8865 has the best skin…7430 is getting a little chubby.” They tell me that most of the donors are college students, and as the bank happens to be in my college town, I bet many of its boys hail from my alma mater. This makes me smile.

And so I get a doc…in L.A., not Mexico, thankfully. She's running tests on my tubes and my hormones and everything else that accepts sperm. Just to make sure that when I'm ready—if it comes to that—it'll take.

As a baby starts seeming more plausible and more near, I am again plagued by my underlying concern:
How do you tell a child that there isn't really a father. There's only
A Sperm
? And what will he tell his friends?
I know some kids have two mamas, and some have two papas. Will the next generation have sperm donors and mamas, and egg donors and papas? Shit, growing up is hard enough.