Shooting Stars (6 page)

The only thing I can say—and I can only whisper—is, “I'm sorry. Just please don't embarrass me. I'm sorry.”

He shows a tinge of sympathy and still holding me by the arm roughly escorts me outside and hands me over to his personal security guard, sort
of like he's throwing out the dog who just shat inside. I am most thankful though. Out of the studio, out of the limelight. I did not come to L.A. to be the star.

“She's taking pictures of me and Nic. Take care of her,” he orders his guard. Then returns inside.

To my surprise, Mr. Security smiles and offers me a seat in the passenger side of his black leather sedan. Kindly, he explains that “everybody has to be careful these days because, you know, there are paparazzi out there.”

Yes, I know. Visions of courts and prisons and criminal records explode in my head.

He tells me we'll work it out. “Don't worry,” he says. “We just have to delete the photos.”

As we're deleting, Keith comes out again—this time with “Nic”—and points, arm fully extended, at me. My car door is open, and I look into both their eyes: they deserve a mug.

They don't say anything, just stare at me for a few seconds, then turn and go back inside. A few minutes more and the production crew—apparently having convened and discussed my “invasion”—come to tell me that I will be immediately dismissed from set (good, it's almost midnight), and though they are sure that I'm more embarrassed than anything, they are still obligated to report the incident to the agency for which I am an extra.

Huh? That's it? You aren't gonna press charges and call the police?

Once everyone is sure the photos are deleted, I'm released from Mr. Security's car. I run to the holding area, quickly change out of my wardrobe, and haul myself off set before anyone can change their mind. The sight of the baby blue wagon in the dark parking lot is as comforting as seeing a lover at the airport after a long separation. She starts immediately, and her worn but reliable wheels lead me through the gate to safety. I audibly pray to never have to return to the scene of the crime, Warner Bros. Lot 5 in Burbank.

When I get home, I rummage through the bathroom cabinet collecting
all the Western and Eastern sleep aids I can find, climb into bed, and pray to the sleep god to whisk me away to a far-off galaxy—one with no stars! My request is ignored and replaced with torment for the next eight hours: back to Lot 5, flash going off again and again, Keith grabbing my arm over and over…

* * *

“Good morning.” J.R. calls at eight when I'm still in bed. “How'd it go last night?”

I feel groggier than he sounds, the clonazepam et al. still in my system. I fill him in, apologizing that I had to delete all my photos.

(Five seconds.) “Ahhhh,” J.R. exhales. (Five seconds.) “That's no problem.” (Five seconds.) “Ahhhh,” he says again. (J.R. is the world's longest pauser.) “Just bring your card in and we'll recover them.”

Do what? It wasn't all in vain?

When I get to the office, J.R. plugs in my memory card, pulls up a $30 Internet program, and in a few seconds images start popping up on the screen. They are dark and grainy, but undoubtedly of Keith and Nicole.

We will sell them, but not in the United States because I'm too scared I'll get sued. CXN isn't worried about this, but I'm smart enough to know they won't protect a freelancer. Besides, they didn't see how blazin' mad Keith and Nic were.

On my way back home, Ulysses Bartlet, the only one of CXN's three owners that I didn't meet at the company Christmas party, rings. (“Rings” is what my British coworkers say, instead of “calls” or “phones.” I love it, so now I say it. It seriously annoys my American friends.)

Bartlet lives in New York, sells photos from his home office—“while naked,” Simon thinks—and coordinates his undercover staff like the unseen boss on the speakerphone in
Charlie's Angels
. He introduces himself, then says, “You have more balls than any of my staff.”

“I just don't know any better,” I reply. And, we're off to a great start.

* * *

Early on, J.R.'s advice to me was, more or less, “Use your breasts to get tips.” My breasts are small, but he made his point: people who give star spotting tips are much more receptive to harmless, non-thug-looking females. When I burn out looking for celebrities on a given day, I traipse through stores and restaurants giving out my card in hopes that someone will call me about a sighting. Today, my two-month anniversary on the job, this tactic finally pays off.

(Side note: My future protocol when someone does tip me off: I usually give them $50 to $100 depending on how much I make. I could make $20 or $200 or $2,000 or more. I generally don't pay the tipper—or “tipster,” as they are more commonly called—if I don't get a shot. If Bartlet, the CXN boss who controls the money, is in a good mood, he'll pitch in for half of the tip money, which is only fair since he's taking a heavy cut.)

It's noon when J.R. calls. He's heard that Ashlee Simpson is moving into a new house. He knows the street, but not the exact house, and wants Aaron and me to go look for trucks or other signs of moving. We pick up sandwiches and head over. After a sweep with no sign of movers, we park at the bottom of the street, and I hop in Aaron's car to wait.

Aaron spends the next hour trying to teach me how to extract sunflower seeds out of their shell with just my tongue. I would never have imagined that watching Aaron's tongue maneuver in this intricate manner could be such a turn-on.

A call from Joey, a grocery stocker who works at Bristol Farms in West Hollywood, interrupts our tongue games. I met Joey one day when I was shopping and he was stocking. We started to chat, I told him what I did, and he took my card. Over the next couple of years, Joey will end up being my best, most consistent tipster. He is a good-natured American guy, not in it for the money, more for the fun, and he
gets it
—he understands what information I need to know and how to communicate it
fast—
which makes him easy to work with. When Joey calls today, he tells me that
Ashlee Simpson is there. The irony. During the twenty-minute speed-drive to Bristol Farms (I stay in Aaron's car), Joey texts the play-by-play:

With thirty seconds to spare, we get to the parking lot of Bristol Farms. Aaron spots Ashlee's car immediately (he knows most celebs' cars by sight) and rams his 4Runner into position. When he sees her exit the store, he drops his back window (the only vehicle I know of with this handy feature), circles his body around from the driver's seat, and
chuh-chuh-chuh, chuh-chuh-chuh
, Aaron nails it, fast and forcefully. I'm too slow to do anything but watch.

Ashlee never knows we're there. And now, relaxed and confident with shots in the bag, we follow her home to the street where we were parked earlier. Aaron lags so far behind I'm surprised we don't lose her, though his shrewd follow skills do get us there without being noticed. (I come to notice Aaron loses celebrities often. He doesn't seem bothered by this. “Part of the game,” he says. He also says that I'm an awful follower because I get right up on the car's ass and the celeb knows I'm there. But at least I don't lose them.)

We catch up to Ashlee's Range Rover just as she pulls into her new driveway. But Aaron continues on, not wanting to alert her of our voyeur eyes. We circle back hoping she'll unload the groceries but more intent on not blowing our cover so we can use the address later, unnoticed. The garage door is down and the gate is closed, but from the street we can see into Ashlee's second-story bedroom. The curtains are up, the bay window thrown open, and she's unpacking.

Aaron doesn't reach for his camera. He tells me that we wouldn't be able to sell the shots anyway. Supposedly one of CXN's owners has pictures of Mischa Barton buck naked, but they're unsalable because they were taken through a bedroom window. “Celebs have privacy rights in a
few places,” Aaron explains. “In their homes, in their
back
yards (not their front), and in bathrooms.”

It's worth noting here that the U.S. Constitution (and most other Western governments) give paparazzi their rights too. The Constitution allows a public person's privacy rights to be circumvented in the interest of the public's right-to-know, a sensible law with regard to political figures; an arguably unfortunate one for movie stars.

For now, we call it a day. Tomorrow, Aaron and I will start fresh on Ashlee. We assume we're the only ones with her new address, which we know will be a short-lived advantage. In the case of someone like Ashlee, who at the moment is riding the coattails of her sister's fame and is “out there” most every day, other paps are bound to spot her, follow her home as we did, and get the new address.

* * *

Paps are all over the world, but most live in Los Angeles, the city with the highest concentration of worldwide celebrities. To put that in perspective, probably three paps live in Stockholm, ten live in Sydney, one hundred live in New York, and five hundred live in L.A.

Most paparazzi are tied to an agency, either as staff or freelance. If a pap is not tied to an agency, he or she must find a way to get addresses, tips, and most critically, morale.

Each agency—and in L.A. there are five or six big ones and a handful of small ones—has its own “street culture.” ZZP and West Coast Wing, two large agencies, are similar to CXN in that they are run by Brits and hire mostly their own kind. Much of CXN's staff was recruited and brought over with visas from the United Kingdom. The snappers are ex-news photogs, which Bartlet says is good paparazzi training, though I don't see why Americans couldn't do the job just as well. Besides its British staffers, West Coast Wing scoops up most of the stand-alone freelancers as contributors, though Rodeo2, a mostly Latino agency,
beats it out in sheer street numbers. British paps seem to place blame on Rodeo2 for “ruining” the business with its copious numbers, but I view its existence as an inevitable by-product of the proliferation of the Internet (where everyone can now find lots of information on celebrities, including their whereabouts) and the emergence of digital photography (which has decreased the overall cost and skill level necessary for market entry). Anyway, the Rodeo-ers aren't so bad. They ignore me, but not with disrespect.

Where respect deteriorates is on the European side. It's too early in my career for me to understand why this is, but I will eventually figure out the problem. It's called “Tall Poppy Syndrome,” and I was first introduced to this Commonwealth ailment three years ago while in New Zealand on my backpack adventure. Tall Poppy is the idea that if you rise above the norm, i.e., if you're a “tall poppy” in the community, then you should be cut down. Community members will make every effort to nip that success of yours in the bud. This is counterintuitive to our American culture, one that worships success from anyone regardless of how they came to it. The syndrome explains why many Brits from West Coast Wing and ZZP will not acknowledge me on the street. Aaron says they're disdainful of the fact that I'm not “institutionally trained” yet seem blatantly confident. Plus, I smile too much. JoDeane says it's because they realize I'm a threat. For some reason, all the British photogs at CXN like me—perhaps because I'm quick to admit I know nothing. Or maybe just because they like having “birds” around.

The tabloid magazines—the glossy ones in the United States at the moment being
People, Us Weekly, Star Magazine, Life & Style
, and
In Touch
, and on the seedier side, the
National Enquirer
—are dominated by Brits as well. Weekly, I sift through the issues at the newsstands exclaiming, “That's Simon's picture”; “There's Aaron's”; and occasionally, “There's mine!” We've already seen the pictures on CXN's private website, and after talking to our coworkers, often know the stories behind the shots. All the paps say seeing their pictures in print is still a rush. I'm guessing many stars feel the same.

Besides checking out our artwork, paps read the tabloids to glean information. For example, a photo may reveal which gym a celebrity frequents, what car a celebrity drives, or when and where a film is being shot. Plus, the mags' choice of photos tells us who's selling, reminding us whom we should target.

As Aaron said, the mainstream media primarily wants pictures of pretty, happy stars. I know this sounds surprising, but I will soon witness firsthand many instances of tabloids and blogs (besides the
National Enquirer
and
Star Magazine
) not printing unattractive photos of stars. There are three reasons for this: One, pretty pictures are, well, prettier to look at. Nobody wants to flip through an entire magazine of photos of celebs having bad hair days. Two, the mags want you to think that we—the celebs, the paps, and the mags—are one big happy family. This is because if it looks like the stars
want
to be photographed, then consumers feel no shame in looking at their pictures. The public can have all they want while not feeling the slightest bit guilty of contributing to supposed “stalking” (which you'll come to see, usually isn't nearly as stalker-ish as people think). And the third reason the tabloids print pretty, happy pictures is because they view the celebrities as their clients, and the last thing they want to do is piss off their clients (or their clients' studios) with too many bad photos. If they do that, they may get blacklisted from exclusive stories or other information. (I see this behavior within hard news too. Many papers and networks cater to their newsmakers—politicians, for instance—in the same way the tabloids cater to the celebrities.)