Authors: Jennifer Buhl
I spot them easily and roll in a few cars behind. It will be a tough followâlots of cars to hide behind but lots of lights to get stuck at. We are discreet and stealth for a few blocks; then suddenly Kate pulls a slick right-hand turn from the left-hand lane, forcing Simon to blow his cover. He has no choice and screeches across three lanes of traffic.
“Oh, that little bitch!” he says over the Nextel. “Did you see that move?”
“Did. I'm three cars behind. Drop back.”
“Look at her now,” he snarls. “Panicking. Weaving all in and out. Checking in her mirrors. Poor little girl probably peed her pants.”
Kate speeds up erratically. Simon drops back like he's lost it, and I move in to pick up the follow. She's got no idea about the station wagon and doesn't realize I'm on her as she pulls into the Chevron at the corner of La Cienega and Holloway. She stays in her car, so I post up where I can see her but far enough away she won't notice me. I wait for her next move.
A motorcycle cop drives up to her window. I beep Simon. “She's called the cops. Lay low.”
From a crack in the top of my window, I take shots of Kate talking to the cop. After a few minutes, we leave the gas station. It's Kate, me, and our police escort, and thanks to the latter, we have no problem hopping through traffic. They have no idea I'm attached to the train.
Kate waves as the cop drops her at Planet Nails. I salute too: Thank you,
LAPD
. Then,
chuh-chuh-chuh, chuh-chuh-chuh
, several lovely shots of Kate feeding the meter and sauntering up the sidewalk in a picture-perfect green and blue horizontal-striped dress. She never knows to look for me.
“Done. Nailed,” I beep Simon.
“Excellent, luv. Nice work.”
Our adrenaline's our crack. We've beaten Bosworth and made a thousand each, we reckon. Simon picks up the food that I never did and meets me at the manicurist.
If Kate sees us when she exits, it's not a big deal since it's already nailed. But, for story purposes (e.g., Kate's “Just like
Us
Ӊshe gets her nails done by the Vietnamese), we want the salon in the background. Simon posts up out of the car where he knows she'll bust him but hopes to get off one shot first.
After an hour, Kate exits. One frame, head down. Already in my car, I pick up the follow. She smokes me out with a few darts in and out of side streets, but I stay on her snug. We've got plenty of salable frames; we're just making a point now.
Simon chimes in on the Nextel. “You know why we are still following you, little one,” he says in a laughable stalker voice. “You know you need to give it up. Your head down, that was no good, luv.”
Eventually, Kate pulls into a tight alley in Beverly Hills and parks. I stay in my car and lean out my driver's side window with my long lens. She makes a fifty-foot runway walk toward my car, not smiling but not looking belligerent either. Her head's held up the whole time. When she gets to my car, she leans down and with unconcealed disdain says, “Will you leave me alone now?”
Simon said it:
Kate's smart. She knows what we need
.
“Of course,” I say. “Thank you very much. Oh, and
hasta la vista
. Have fun in Mexico.”
Kidding, I don't really say the last bit. We know from the tipster that she and James are going to Mexico tomorrow. Kate would surely change her plans if I had said that. We wouldn't want her to have to do that; we're not
mean
, after all. (We're just really fâking annoying.) And she did give it up in the end and didn't
have
to. She could have played it like Demi Moore and never,
ever
give it up.
At this point, I publish a lot. Each week, I have at least one and often three or four pictures in
People, Us Weekly
, or other U.S. mags. In addition, many more print online on sites like PerezHilton, E! Online, and the Daily Mail (in Britain). I've stopped saving hard copies unless I'm particularly fond of the photo, or it's a cover, but I still crack a smile when I'm queued up (another British term I've adopted) in the checkout at Safeway or Rite Aid and see my name, and handiwork, staring back at me.
As long as the paychecks keep coming, I personally don't care if the average Joe knows what I've shot; however “getting known” is a critical part of earning respect from my fellow paps. CXNâand not all agencies do thisâcredits the photographer as well as the agent when a photo is published. On blog sites, you find the credit directly under the image. It might say
Jennifer Buhl/Celebrity X News
, or if I shot it with Simon for instance, it will say
Buhl/Landingham/Celebrity X News
. Most rags credit at the bottom or side of the page in itsy-bitsy font you'd never notice if you weren't looking. Because of these credits (and the fact that a female name stands out), other paps are constantly reminded that I am getting published. My online credits are especially important since blogs are the paparazzi's main source of daily information. Paps are now seeing
Jennifer Buhl
at least twice a week. They figure if I am getting pictures then I probably know what I am doing, and they respect that. Since the Jennifer Aniston shot, no pap has trash-talked me, and I've even started to notice that some guys look to see what I'm doingâwhere
I'm
standing, what
lens
I
have on. It seems, now that everyone realizes I'm not going away, we're finding a way to live together.
* * *
The first thing most people want to know when they find out that I am a paparazzi is how I get paid, and how much. I've already told you “how much”âI never gross less than ten thousand a month, and sometimes I make closer to fifteen. Based on what I know about other CXN salaries, and what Bartlet tells me, that's in the top 10 to 20 percent of pap paychecks. In terms of “how” I get paid: generally a freelancer makes 60 percent of his or her photo sales and a staffer makes roughly 20. (Staffers also get paid a base salary and have their equipment and vehicle provided.) If you shoot with a partner, your percentage is cut in half. The agentsâwho do the obvious, sellingâget the rest. For that giant percentage, which has made many of them very, very rich, they also line-itemize each photographer's paycheck by sale: picture, price, media outlet, and country. Sales outside the United States, United Kingdom, and Australia are often outsourced to international agents so a pap is getting a percentage of a percentage, but those little bits add up. I probably make half my money in U.S. sales, the other half internationally; and although the pictures somewhat sell themselves, relationships are important, especially with exclusives, which Bartlet individually negotiates with each publication. Non-exclusives are usually priced using standard page, half-page, and quarter-page rates, which change all the time but at the time of this writing are around $500 per quarter page but can go up if the non-exclusive is
the shot
âa truly exceptional one, for example, Paris's Holy Bible shot.
Making a larger percentage as well as having the final say in my daily destiny keeps me freelance. But there is another huge advantage: residuals. As a freelancer, I own all my photos, which means that I get residuals forever. Today, “forever” is really only important for a year; regardless, when a staffer leaves his or her agency, he or she is lucky to get paid
out for three months. To a person like meâwho has historically taken long sabbaticals to pursue her “dreams”âresiduals are a big perk. As well, owning my own photos means that I can use them wherever and whenever I want without giving my agency a cut and, more importantly, without getting its permission.
Because I am prolific and one of a half dozen girl shooters, I know if I desire, I could work with anyone in town. Female shooters are always needed as we blend in better on “CIA-type” stories, for example if we must follow a celebrity into an interior location, or if “a couple” looks more natural doing a job and checking into a hotel in Maui. (Sometimes female tabloid reporters will be used for these kinds of stories.) And sometimes it's tempting to jump ship. I do get bored of the office staff's Tall Poppy issues, and whenever Bartlet calls, he always manages to insert the P-word (the same one Dylan used in reference to Britney's) in the conversation.
I don't remember Charlie ever talking to his Angels like that.
But it's the snappers who keep me from leaving. One thing I love about our staff (and our staff-like freelancers, like me) is around three or four in the afternoon, when all the paps are “scouring the tank for final bits and bobs,” as Simon says, we'll meet up for coffee and cupcakes. And, as it happens when you're doing life in Beverly Hills, you might just roll across a late-day jackpot sippin' his or her joe alongside you.
I know Simon says I have no friends in this business, but I think he might be wrong. I'm starting to really care about these guys.
* * *
Subconsciously I've been nurturing my crushes. When boys occupy my mind, it takes the focus off the black hole in my gut: the dark, empty space that only a baby can fill. I just can't imagine ever being happy without one.
Claudia is CXN's new female pap. She came over from the United Kingdom for a “trial run” last year before I started working, then moved here with a proper work visa last month. She told me, “Jen, everything
in my nature goes against this job.” Claudia wears dresses to work. If someone takes her spot, she finds another. When a celeb asks her to leave, she does. Claudia is a lady. Bartlet says she makes half the money I do. But then, the boys like her. Particularly, Aaron seems to. I think that's why she took the job.
Claudia knows I have a crush on Adrian. I think she wonders about Aaron too. Thankfully, she doesn't ask. Honestly, I'm finding it impossible not to like her. Claudia's a gentle, empathetic person, and how can I blame her for being ladylike at work, or if Aaron
fancies
her? She must long for the same things I do.
“Why don't you just work on him?” she suggests (about Adrian, not Aaron, of course).
“He doesn't sell. Least not well enough to warrant a doorstep.”
“Hmmm, right. Well, maybe you could work on him, then not shoot him. Just make it an accidental bump-into.”
I give the idea brief consideration, but what if Adrian actually sees me on the follow, I don't realize it, then I feign happenstance. I mean, it's not like I'm trying to have Adrian's baby, I just want to date him. But stillâ¦
I explain this to Claudia.
“You're right! That could be seen as bunny boiler behavior!
12
Can't do that.”
It's kind of odd for me to hear that even I have limits. So much seems doable now that I'm paparazzi.
Nonetheless, I opt for a note instead of a follow. I have confirmation from the tabloids: Adrian is, in fact, doing a documentary on the paparazzi, so I decide to work on that angle instead.
Dear Adrian
,
If you just wanted to hang out with me, you didn't have to go so far as doing a documentary on the paparazziâ¦
That ride-along offer is still open. See you around, neighbor.
xx Jennifer
My roommate checked it over and OK'd it. I also included my card (making it professional and at the same time giving him my email and phone number)! Then I got up all my nerve, ran up Adrian's driveway, taped the note to the front door (which creaked open!), ran back to my car, and drove away.
It's three days later and I haven't heard from him.
Nice one, Jen. Now he just thinks you're crazy.
“What did you expect? A celebrity's not gonna call you,” scolds Aaron when I tell him what I did. “Forget about him. And don't do it again. You'll get arrested.”
“I won't get arrested.”
“You might.”
“I wrote âneighbor.' That makes it a friendly thing, not a psycho thing.” I try to sound self-assured but don't feel that way.
“Are you listening to me? A celeb does not think
you
are normal. To them, a pap is not normal. Full stop.”
“Maybe I shouldn't have put the x's?”
“Maybe you shouldn't have.”
I wish I could chalk it up to jealousy, but I don't think that's it. Aaron's clearly thinking about Claudia these days, not me. The two work together frequently, and when she's around he pays more attention to her than me. All signs of a new romance are there.
“Well, we're just two hippie artists living in Los Feliz. Why shouldn't we hang out?”
“To be clear, Miss Buhl: Adrian. Will. Never. Be. Your. Friend. And more importantly, he will never,
ever
be your boyfriend.”
“I bet he doesn't think I'm an artist. With my photography.”
“Probably not.”
Adrian's a catch, I know. And, of course he could have any artsy, gorgeous girl he wants. Admittedly it's a stretch, but
why not me
?
“It is art, you know,” I say.
“I know it is. Leave it now. Don't make him call the police, Jen. Because he will.”
* * *
I call Claudia. She'll be more understanding; she's a girl.
“I know he's a celebrity, but that's no excuse for being impolite and not calling when a girl has put herself on the line and given out her number,” I complain.
“You left a note on his door?”
“Yes. Now I'm humiliated. But I'm pissed too. He looked me up and down
three times
if you remember. How could he not call?”
“
You left a note on his door?”
“I'd wager that I'm at least part of the reason he decided to do his documentary. Maybe he was thinking about it before, but I bet I was the impetus to get it rolling. He's probably too self-absorbed to realize it came from me⦔ I can hear my ego-protecting bumptiousness as I speak the words.