Authors: Jennifer Buhl
We get out of the truck and sit on the curb. In the middle of a Los Angeles summer, it's too hot to stay in your vehicle unless the a.c. is on or the windows are down. Since Drew now knows we're here, we might not get anything, but at least we don't need to hide in the truck anymore.
Aaron beeps. “Any action? Any action?”
I tell him what's happening at Drew's. He tells me he's just shot Naomi Watts, exclusive, and is now
trawling
.
“You got Adrian out of your head yet?” he asks. After the Figaro encounter, I fessed up to Aaron about my Adrian crush. It made him angry. I don't think he was jealous, just more protective, which was pretty sweet too.
“You know, Aaron, it's not out of the question that I could date a famous person.”
“Ahhhh. Yes. It is. Your crush is juvenile and ridiculous, and more than that, dangerous.”
Whatever.
Over the next hour, three cars pass us in the direction of Drew's house. We follow them up the hill and watch as they enter her gate. She's surely devising a plan.
We're back in position when we hear a loud motor coming down her street. It's her old pickup driven by the same guy, this time disguised in a low-brimmed hat and a different T-shirt. I am standing outside my car, and again he doesn't look at me. It's suspicious.
The pickup rolls by
too
nonchalantly, and it's moving so slowly that I am able to tiptoe up and peer inside. There's a dog curled up on the passenger seat floor, but that's all I see. The truck carries on.
It takes a minute to register: no normal dog would lie on the floor curled up in a ball when he's just gotten into the car.
“Elif, get in the car! Drew's under her dog!”
We race. But it's too late, and they're gone.
It's that simple, celebs. You don't want us around, then make our job hard. If you checkmate us too often, we'll find a weaker opponent.
* * *
When you enter a hotel or any private commercial property in America, unless “No Trespass” signs are posted, you cannot be cited for trespassing. And those look unsightly: no fancy hotel or venue is gonna tack them up. Besides, hotels and restaurants want to
encourage
patronsâthey want
most
people to enter. It is not until you are at some point asked to leave the private property
and you refuse to do so
that you become an official trespasser and could be cited.
You might wonder, since it's not illegal to go “inside,” why don't paps do it more often? A few reasons: One, depending on whose interior is in the shot, the magazines are sometimes scared of lawsuits. Perhaps the pap they bought the photograph from was asked to leave but didn't. The mag is usually the one slammed with the lawsuit (in addition to the snapper who took the picture). Two, interior light is usually too dim to get a magazine-worthy image without a flash, and while we could use a flash, that would mean getting right up in the celeb's face, spraying white light all over him or her, then facing the consequences of the inevitable bust, which brings us to number three. Hands-down-no-question, the BIGGEST obstacle to interior shootingâand papping in generalâcomes down to one measly human factor: the Fear of Embarrassment. Yep, even paps have the desire to fit in, to be “cool” and “normal,” and like you, we dread public humiliation,
especially
in front of our “clients,” the celebrities.
It's worth mentioning one exception to this code: crashers. A crasher is a person (not usually a paparazzi) who lives for that intestine-knotting rush that makes most of us vomit. Crashers (think
The Wedding Crasher
but at celebrity events versus weddings) don't do it for the money (or to meet girls) but for the thrill. And for the recognition from other crashers, a small tight-knit group who lurk within Hollywood.
I am aware of only one crasher-papâa guy who was recently recruited by the iPIX agency and who would probably love for me to mention his real name, but I'm just gonna call him “Crasher Joe.” Over the last twenty years, Crasher Joe has gone ticket-less to hundreds of events including at least a dozen Super Bowls and most Oscars and Golden Globes (the events themselves and the post-parties). Per Crasher Joe, the sole objective of the crasher (at least before he started carrying a camera) is to get as close to as many celebrities as possible. The bigger the celebrity, the bigger the crash (obviously). At the Oscars, for instance, a coup would be to sit near enough to an award-winning celebrity so that when he or she gets up to accept the Oscar, the crasher would stand along his or her side and shake the celebrity's hand. Not only would the crasher have “touched” the celebrity, but he would have done it on television in front of the world. Even though it's his little secret,
everyone
has seen it. Later, the crasher may run into another crasher at a post-Oscar party and get a subtle nod, a sign of envy and approval.
Now that Crasher Joe carries a camera and is his own special kind of paparazzi, he does things like walking into fancy restaurants, going up to tables where celebrities are eating, and flashing his giant SLR in their face. He doesn't use a long lens or hide. He doesn't break any laws or trespass. He leaves when he is escorted out. And he keeps the picture.
The reason I bring up Crasher Joe is to illustrate who the paparazzi are by showing you who they
are not
. It feels to me like “crasher-style” paparazzi is how the media often portrays us. Take Courteney Cox's bomb of a TV show
Dirt,
for example, whose main character was a schizophrenic paparazzi who would do things like sneak into hospital rooms with his spy camera and take million-dollar photos. That is ludicrous. What is also unbelievable is that Courteney, who's been a Hollywood star for twenty-five years, doesn't get it. But I'm finding that's the norm. Except for the paparazzi themselves, no one gets our world.
To be clear, paparazzi
are not
Crasher Joe. There is Crasher Joe, then there is everybody else. And everybody else may have more kahunas than Average Joe, but other than that, the paparazzi are⦠Just like
You!
The Battle of Bosworth, Round 1
Kate: 0; Simon and Jen: 1
Eventually, it came time for my dear Elif to return home. She had only planned to stay for a couple months, and her family and country were calling her back. I understood. Teary-eyed, I put her on a plane to Turkey. More than a sidekick, more than good company, for three critical monthsâthose in the infancy of my pap careerâ
Elif was my inspiration. Like Donna, she believed in me when no one else did. She knew what pained me and what thrilled me, and she picked me up each time I fell down, which was often. Elif was my biggest fan and often my only one. So when I wave good-bye to her at LAX, I know I will miss her a lot.
After eight months, I am becoming somewhat self-sufficient. Still, I know I need a partner. Combatting heroes, nosy neighbors, nasty paps, and moody celebrities is not possible with a single person's energy, no matter how positive. Simon says yes to my pleas.
“If you're my new partner, luv, it's time you met Kate,” he informs me.
Kate Bosworth is a two-man job: if Kate has any inkling you're on her, you will never get a shot. It's my first time on her doorstep, so Simon fills me in with the logistics. Pap No. 1 (this time, Simon) will post up on the popular Runyon Canyon jogging path nearby her house, walking in about fifty yards from the street. From there, he can see Kate's whole property in a bird's-eye view. Ideally he will be equipped with binoculars useful in making out license plates parked in her drive and looking for signs of life.
Pap No. 2 (me, by default) will post up in my car (making it look empty by ducking when passed or by sitting in the back) near enough to Kate's drive to go whichever direction her car departs but far enough away to not alert her that someone's on her doorstep. Kate lives in the
Hollywood Hills on a remote road where it's a challenge to hide. She also has more than one car and can go
down
the canyon or
up
the canyon, and on the way can take at least twenty different routes in the maze of streets.
At around 11 a.m., Simon beeps. “She's out.”
“Copy.” I start my car.
“Going down hill. Repeat, she's going down hill.”
“Copy,” I repeat.
I lose reception just as I start the follow. We're prepared for this. There's limited cell service in the adjacent Nicholas Canyon which Kate follows toward town. I don't pick up the car right out of her drive, but when I do pick it up a few streets down, there are too many detours to follow loosely. It takes about five minutes to get down the switch-backed streets, and I have to hope they don't suspect me.
Not until we get to Hollywood and hit Franklin am I able to get a clear look into the car. Turns out, it's only Kate's current boyfriend, British model James Rousseau, inside. Simon's tipster is Kate's best (and
only
from what Simon says) friend's tennis coach. We knew from her that James was in town, which was why we decided to work Kate.
I can't imagine that James has ever been papped, so I'm a bit surprised when he clocks me. Simon figures that Kate briefed him on how loved she is in the States, so he was on the lookout. James makes his way to the Grove, and then gives me a nasty look as I pull in behind him in the valet line.
Oh park your own car, lazy teenager
, I think.
About that time, Simon makes it down the hill to cell reception. “Let's leave it, Jen. He's worthless without her.”
Though we've been gone only fifteen minutes, we decide not to go back and wait on Kate. Our gut tells us she's either not going out without him, or she's gone straight out after him (and her garage was shut so we wouldn't be able to tell). Instead, we'll spend the afternoon trolling.
When you start the day with a partner and Plan A, your doorstep, either finishes or goes to pot, you have the option of doing the day's remainder together or splitting. Simon and I, fond of camaraderie and each other (and now official “partners”!) tend to stick it out. I take one troll route to check certain restaurants. Simon scouts the opposite side of town. If I see something I may shoot it myself, but I'll put his name on it, or if there's time or it's complicated, I might call him in. And vice versa. Doing the day together cuts our
cut
in half, but it also doubles the chances that we'll get something. So if your partner has an equal skill and reliability level to your own, partnering up makes sense. As well, you may spend an hour or so in the same car: this means less of a sun-headache from not having to drive
and
spot, and with all the parking difficulties around town, it's much speedier to jump out if you see a gangbang or a lone celeb walking down the street.
After four unproductive city hoursâSimon and I seem to turn up to every star sighting just as paps are dispersingâhe suggests finishing the day at Kate's. “Maybe the car's back? Maybe they'll go out for an early dinner?”
About fifteen minutes ahead of Simon, I'm not in a rush and meander through the curves toward her street. Halfway up the canyon, a car catches up to me and a quick glance in my side-view mirror reveals James's eye-fuck. Uncanny.
I divert my stare.
Maybe he's not certain
, Simon's advice reminds me. James leans his torso out the window to make sure I see him. He seems certain. I ignore her street and continue to climb the canyon. For intimidation purposes, James follows for a few curves before turning back.
I wait only five minutes before heading to her doorstep. Then I plop my car fifty feet from her drive so I can see both directions. James has already busted me, it's late in the day, and I've got nowhere else to go. I radio Simon to tell him to stay in Hollywood, that this sit isn't promising enough for two of us to pursue.
I notice a security camera outside Kate's gate and assume I'm being watched. I take out a tabloid. Soon enough, James walks up the driveway and strolls by my car. I stare at the underwear model. He looks so young and unintimidating. His features are classically handsome, but his unblemished skin is too feminine for my taste.
“Hi,” he says and keeps walking. He's on his headset with Kate instructing his moves, I presume.
I smile, nod, and continue reading.
A couple minutes later, he wanders back and engages me. I listen half-
arsed
to his theoretical discussion on the evils of the paparazzi business. I'm not rude but don't make much effort to converse.
“You do it for the money,” James accuses in a pretty Prince William accent.
“What money? You see my truck?” I respond pertly. The red pickup's probably worth about $1,500.
“Why don't you use your photography for creative purposes?” he says.
“Why don't we get some shots of you guys together? Could be good for your career.”
His face turns scarlet.
Soon James runs out of things to say, shuffles his feet, and leaves, no doubt frustrated about not having converted me.
“Not happenin' today,” I beep Simon, then head for home.
Bartlet calls. “Why do you two waste time on Bitchworth? [That's what Simon and Bartlet call her.] She's not worth that much anyway.”
“She's a challenge. We'll get her tomorrow,” I reply.
Then, he makes some off-color comment about her uptightness, says, “I'll put you down for Kate. Gotta go,” and hangs up.
It's his “thing.” Bartlet always has to be the first person to sign off. I care little for this kind of power so let him have it.
* * *
When I get in my car at around 9 a.m. the next morning, I beep Simon. We know Kate's a late riser so don't bother to get there early.
He doesn't answer. A few minutes later, he texts:
Getting me arms waxedâplease hold.
I roll my eyes.
He beeps a few minutes after that: “Ya know, Jen, if they had a pill that would get rid of all me hair, I'd take it.” I roll my eyes again.
We come up with a plan over the Nextel. Both of us will post up on the Runyon Canyon trail. That's half because we don't want our cars to be seen and half because it's more fun to hang out together even if it cuts the follow dangerously close. Based on yesterday, we think we'll have about sixty seconds from the time we see her exit the front door to when she pulls out of her drive. If we run, we can make it back to our cars in that time, and if she goes
down
the hill, although we'll be two minutes behind, we can catch up before she hits Franklin Avenue and Hollywood, a mass of traffic. If we catch her too early, she'll bust us anyway. We don't think that's gonna happen, though. Simon is sure Kate will assume we are on her again today, so she'll take a convoluted route to wherever she's going. He thinks that even if she goes to Hollywood, she'll go left out of her drive, up to Mulholland, then back down to Hollywood on another canyon. Going that way, she'll have to pass by the joggers' parking lot where we park for Runyon, so we'll pick her up there. Kate doesn't know Simon's car, and for this tough job, I've cunningly resurrected the stealth blue station wagon, which I've yet to get rid of.
We get to the trail at the same time, hike in, and plop down on some rocks. It's a gorgeous Los Angeles morning and a haze-free view
from the hills. We can see the entire city and all the way to the sailboat-dotted ocean. I love these views. Simon grabs his powerful binoculars, which he spent $500 on.
“I don't think these have ever helped me get a shot, but they sure are entertaining. You know, the other day, I saw through Eva Longoria's white shirt with these lookers. That right there was my money's worth.” Once more, I roll my eyes. But Simon makes me laugh, and I'm happy he's my new partner.
Our Peeping-Tom binocs scope out Kate's house, check the cars in the drive, and look for movement through the windows and on the back deck. We relish knowing how infuriated Kate would be, if she only knew.
“She'd have the cops all over us,” Simon says.
He's worked Kate enough times to “know” her, and he can't stand her. He spends a lot of time dissecting her motives. “Her life's purpose is to be Audrey Hepburn,” he notes. “That's gotta be a lot of pressure.” He also thinks she wears her hair pulled back from her face so that it's fully visible to all, at all times. “I hate having to look at that whole face every time I shoot her,” he says with disgust.
Kate's not Simon's type. Simon likes double-D fake boobs and bleached-blond Playboy bunnies.
In my opinion, Simon's taste is off. Truly, Kate is exquisite. Her skin was churned for eons until God poured her, and He no doubt had a goddess in mind when He sculpted her perfectly symmetrical features. Kate's body is waif-like but still sexy with long, feminine limbs. The only physical flaw I can find is her unfortunately thin hair. (“Which is why,” I tell Simon, “she wears her hair pulled back.”)
But there are lots of ethereal stars in Hollywood. Why Kate? Why does she sell? What makes her so
interesting
?
Though she'd like it to be, her acting is not why we photograph her. Kate's breakout role in the surfer movie Blue Crush established her in Hollywood, but since then she's never commanded leading-lady
roles. And it's not her beauty alone; we know that's nothing special in Hollywood. Her boyfriend was once Orlando Bloom, but that's not it either. Kate sells for something else, something quite specific, and something that she is
fully
in control of: clothes. That's right, Kate's a fashion diva, a first-row guest at every “Fashion Week” around the world. And the mags pay to see what she's wearing. The way they hang on her petite body and frame her baby-doll face is just what the designers intended. If Kate didn't dress so well, we wouldn't be nearly as interested. In fact, we might not be interested at all.
“Smug Bitchworth,” Simon continues. “All she'd have to do to put James on the map is be photographed with him a few times. But nooooo.”
“Just wait till she dumps him.”
“He's gonna be bangin' his head.”
At about 10:30 the back door opens, and James comes out for a fag and tea. “Good British boy,” says Simon. I smile.
James is in his boxers, a great confirmation they've just arisen and are still at home.
“They've had their lie-in and shag. Probably head out in about an hour.” Simon, like Bartlet, always presumes morning sex is the norm with women who sleep in.
Throughout the morning, we watch the FedEx man deliver a package, the flower man deliver a several-hundred-dollar bouquet, and Kate's one friend stop by. Simon says she's too paranoid to have more friends. (She should be more paranoid about her best friend. That's where the leak is.)
By noon, the sun is scorching and we send me on a Gatorade/food run. It will take at least thirty minutes, leaving Simon alone for the two-man job.
Right when I get to the bottom of the hill, he beeps. “She's on the move.”
His Nextel goes blank, and I know he's running for his car. I can't do anything to help, so I post up on Franklin at the bottom of Nicholas Canyon Road to see if her car comes down, and wait for Simon's call.
He beeps about five minutes later. “Go to Laurel.”
“Copy.”
Laurel is the street one over from Nicholas.
“She's in her black Ford Escape. She's alone,” Simon says.
“Copy.”
“We're halfway down Laurel. I'm two cars behind.”
“Copy.”
My adrenaline rushes my senses. I'm on.
Turns out, as expected, Kate tried to avoid us. She took a left out of her drive, up the winding road leading to nowhere. Simon lost her almost immediatelyâshe took an even more circuitous path than he anticipatedâbut his pap instincts told him that she'd cross over to Laurel Canyon and head back down to Hollywood that way. Simon navigates L.A. streets as well as he does porn sites, and he cut her off midway down the canyon. The constant flood of cars on Laurel kept him obscure; meanwhile, I was shrouded in the crowd of cars in Hollywood so could take over the follow when they got to the bottom.
Well played, Simon
.