Authors: Jennifer Buhl
In that five, my nerves react, my throat constricts, and I can barely breathe. I know I should consider his offerâit could help me in the futureâbut I suffer from severe stage fright. I consciously hurl all my Adrian fantasies under the red truck. (It wasn't that hard. He killed me at “What's your name again?” and stomped on me at “That was trespassing.”) I try to pull myself back into paparazzi mode:
Get what you can out of them. Don't care if they like you. Don't need them to think you're normal.
My phone rings. “Hey, it's Adrian.”
I smile. I can't help it. I've never been called by a celebrity.
“So you'll do it?”
“I don't know, Adrian. I really don't wanna be in a film.”
“Ah come on. It'll be good for you.”
“Why? What's in it for me?”
“Well, what do you want?”
I want a lot of things, but I don't think that's what you mean
. So I say, “I suppose if you interview me, then I should be able to interview you. You know, perhaps I could make some money⦔
“Deal.”
“A ride-along interview,” I add.
“Deal,” he says again. “Wait there.”
Thirty minutes later, he comes out, says, “Can't do your ride-along today, but we'll do it soon. Promise,” and before I can respond begins instructing his four-man crew with setting up cameras, lights, and mics. The crew obviously thinks I
want
to do the interview. I suppose since they are making such an effort, I should give it up.
* * *
Two exhausting hours later, we wrap. I guided the majority of the interview, and the crew couldn't get enough of me. Adrian's questions made no senseâhe's obviously better at actingâso the co-director took over. He sparred with me, equating papping to pornography (but worse, because according to him, porn has merit while the paparazzi don't).
Everyone was, in general, clueless about the way paparazzi work, and nobody wanted to hear that many pap/celebrity relationships are symbiotic. (None of them had ever heard of doorstepping either.
Did any research go into this?
)
When it was over, the crew was extremely impressed (of course, I'd redirected their whole documentary project with my one interview)
13
and told me that they thought there was hope for me of one day escaping the dark and evil world of paparazzi.
“Very nice,” said Adrian as I was leaving. “I'll call you.”
As much as I told myself,
Stop it!
I was giddy again.
The “Loo”
Home renovation crews abound in L.A.'s rich neighborhoods, so much of the time paps can take advantage of the Port-O-Lets that crop up conveniently. But since we can't always count on one being nearby, male paps pee easily in a cup or bottle they keep in their cars expressly for this purpose. Simon has had the same plastic Baja Fresh cup since I first met him, and he empties it strategically: “Always pour me piss out on Montana. Love it, dirty Brits soiling the Westside.” I witnessed Aaron swigging out of his once (his own that is, not Simon's), which was quite funny.
I did experiment briefly with “the cup” technique, but as a girl I've come to discover a much more agreeable modus operandiâ
en plain aire
, a hassle-free and sanitary system so enjoyable that, lately, I've taken to using it even on my days off. It works as follows: First, I find a tall fence, a row of thick bushes, or a steep slope of land next to the road. These block the view of my “bathroom” from homes
(which in L.A. are generally near to the curb). Next, I employ my truck as a blockade, angling it such that the front of my truck is jutted out about three feet while the tail is snug to the curb. I put the vehicle in park and walk to the curbside, opening the passenger door to serve as a shield for the “jutted out” angle. Then I eye-sweep the view, giving special attention to strolling pedestrians, and do my business. It's much cleaner than a public restroom, and it feels like I'm out camping.
Like a man's best friend, I do have my favorite spots at different celebrity doorsteps that do not necessitate concealment-by-truck. Britney's street, Mulholland, is steep enough to pee off the cliff, providing a scenic and breezy loo. Kirstie Alley's neighbor has a giant oak with low-hanging branches that is situated on a hill by the curb. And at Adrian's, well, you know about the small field at the neighbor's house.
13
. A few years after this, Adrian invited me to the screening of the documentary, titled
Teenage Paparazzo
. I chatted with the film's editor for a half hour and he confirmed: “Your interview changed the whole film. We all owe you.” That was nice to hear!
Heigl is a chain-smoker. When I arrive at her doorstep the following Saturday morning and do my requisite drive-by, she is sitting on her front stoop, five feet from the street, having her morning fag. I roll down the window and wave. “Don't worry, I won't photograph you,” I call out. (Mags don't like smoking shots anyway. Remember, celebs are beautiful people doing beautiful things.)
“Thanks. I don't expect you guys here this early,” Heigl says cheerfully. It's nine forty-five. Not early. That she thinks it's early makes me love her more.
To take advantage of my window, I've been working Katie to death. Only she's not dying, but blowing up. My sets publish in several mags every week. I've been trying to get her alone so I can ask her a question. The opportunity presents itself nowâno paps and no people, other than Heigl.
“Would you mind if I talked to you for a sec?” I ask.
“Sure. Of course.”
I pull to the curb and park, walk to her steps, extend my hand, and remind her of my name. Unlike Adrian, she acts like she remembers.
“So, this is kind of a strange question.” My breath retracts and she looks at me expectantly. I begin to ramble. “The thing is, you and Josh are getting married over Christmas, and I was thinking about coming to shoot your wedding, but that would mean missing Christmas with my family and, well, I was just wondering if you could reschedule it.” Heehee. Of course I don't say that last part. I mostly just want to know if she wants her wedding featured in magazines or totally private.
You probably can imagine that this is not something a pap typically asks a star. But Bartlet has offered to fly me to Utah over the holidays where it's well publicized that Heigl's wedding to musician Josh Kelley will take place.
Katie smiles kindly. “I'm so sorry. I would have you there in a second. But I can't. We've signed an exclusive.”
What she means is that one mag has bought the wedding story and photo rights from her in exchange for lots-o-cash. With most celebrities (not Heigl), I find the signing of exclusives quite hypocritical. You'll often see celebs who claim to dislike us (Drew Barrymore, Halle Berry, even Brangelina) making deals with the tabloidsâwhich are, effectively, our employersâfor photos of their weddings or new babies.
She continues, “If we give any shots to other photographers, the magazine will pull the deal.”
I get it. I also know that when mags spend that kind of money on exclusives, they spare no expense on SWAT teams to quarantine the area. Unless CXN wants to hire a helicopter, getting a shot of Katie's wedding without her permission will likely be impossible. Plus, I couldn't do that to her. It's likeâ¦we're friends. (Aaron's Cardinal Rule buzzes in my ear: “Do not need or desire to be liked by these people.”
Shut up, Aaron.
)
As Katie and I talk, others come byâher brother finishes his run, her dad walks out of the house, and Martin the neighbor stops by. She introduces me as “Jennifer, a photographer.” I love that she calls me that. It humanizes me.
I don't seem to be bothering anyone but don't want to push it. One more question, then I'll go. “So, the honeymoon,” I say. “Is that part of it too?”
“No. We don't have a deal for the honeymoon. But you probably don't want to come to Cabo.”
“Wellâ¦actuallyâ¦I probably wouldn't
mind
coming to Cabo.” I try to sound like what she's told me is No Big Deal. But it is. It's a HUGE deal. Her honeymoon plans are unpublished.
I continue, “I could pap-scout for you. Make sure there are no other
paparazzi that get photographs. You'd, of course, have full edit power on my photos.”
“That might be nice. Make sure no bad bathing suit shots get out.”
“We'd only use perfect shots.”
She laughs. “I'm not sure how many of those you'd get with my bikini-body!”
She plugs my number into her phone and promises her publicist will call me next week. Then, later that morning, she leaves with a girlfriend and gives me an exclusive mani-pedi set inside a Los Feliz nail salon.
'Appy days!
* * *
While I've been chasing down my new friend Katie, I've also been chasing Aaron. I can't help it. I'm desperate and he knows it fully well. We've still only had the one kiss, but the sexual tension is mounting again and the flirting is out of control. He called last night to tell me that he and Claudia were over. Then he said he wanted to give me a massage.
“I don't like it when you do that, Aaron.”
“Do what?”
“You know what I mean. You can't play with me.”
“Ah, come on. Don't be mad.”
Amy, my roommate, tells me moving to a different city is the best way to handle a guy you can't say no to. But it's too cold to pap in New York. Anyway, the truth is, I'm into him. I want Aaron. He wants me. Though not enough for a husband or babies, which is still what I want more. Why can't it be, when you find a guy you actually like, reciprocal? 'Cause I do
like
Aaron. I fancy him. There, I said it. And while I know he jerks me around (and can't speak properly), he does have many redeeming qualities. For example, he's hot. And he has a great body. And he's clever, intelligent, and very, very funny. Mostly though, I like Aaron because, Claudia or no Claudia, we have chemistry. That's what always gets me. I never end relationshipsâor stop them before they should beginâif
there's chemistry. I'm addicted to pheromones. No matter what the guy looks like or how he treats me, if I feel
him
in the pit of my stomach, my senses go out the window and I turn into a “sixteen-year-old boy.” So, while my head knows this will probably never go anywhere with Aaron, my heartâor maybe just my libidoâwill not listen.
* * *
In the morning, however, my head is in control. Before heading to my doorstep, I stop by Rachel Bilson's, Aaron's sit in Los Feliz, to have the talk.
He walks over as I pull up.
“I know we're not going out, but this has got to end.”
He has a goofy smirk on his face.
I continue: “You disappoint meâ¦I drive you crazyâ¦you infuriate meâ¦we fight. Worst of all, you hit on meâand never finish.”
He's attentive as I speak, half amused, half sheepish. When I'm done, he smiles, says “you're right,” leans in my car, grabs the back of my neck, and pulls me to him. I can feel his breath mix with mine and we almost kiss. And even though I don't want to, I melt. Then he says, “I'll come over and say good-bye after work.”
“Fine.”
I drive off.
Weak, weak woman,
I chastise myself.
At four-thirty, he calls. “Gotta check out the Will Ferrell set. I'm not sure if I can make it.”
He's just not that intoâ
“Of course you do.”
“Stop having a goâ”
“Never mind, Aaron. We're done. Good-bye.”
But then, as it happens when you're a pap in Hollywood, another celebrity intervenes. I'm driving toward home an hour later when Katherine Heigl's bright red Range Rover passes me. I U-turn and follow her to the Grove, next door to Aaron's apartment.
After the shoot, I call him. “I'm at the Grove. Should I come over?”
“Yes,” he answers immediately. “I'll call you when I get home.”
I wait at Starbucks. Thirty minutes later, he calls.
Ten minutes later, I'm outside his door.
Aaron comes down when I buzz, grabs my wrist, and yanks me inside. He pins me to the lobby wall and we kiss. His hands grope my body and I pull at his hair. After a minute, he leads me to the stairwell. We run upstairs and stop at the top and kiss more. Still attached, we move toward his door. He fiddles with the knob till it opens, then pushes me inside. My back to him for the first time, he scoops me up, takes me into his bedroom, and lays me on the bed. He pulls his shirt over his head and lies on me. My nails dig into his back, I wrap my legs around his waist, and pull my body into his. He lifts my shirt and his lips move to where his hands have been.
Then, the buzzer rings. Aaron looks up, petrified. “Who the hellâ¦?”
He gets up and goes to the living room. “Hello?” he says through the intercom.
“Hey, it's me.”
Claudia
.
Then there is a blood-curdling “FUUUUUUUUUUCK!” He presses the intercom again and says, “Be right down.”
And, that is
truly
the end of that.
The Battle of Bosworth, Round 3
Cumulative score: Kate: 2; Simon and Jen: 1
In retrospect, perhaps the note we left in Bosworth's mailbox was a bit psycho. Maybe it would have been better if we didn't effectively write, “If you cooperate with us, we will not tell anyone else where you live.”
I guess
that could be construed as “burglar talk” or “stalking.” But we still like to think that's a stretch.
Clearly, Kate is not scared of us. And she's not scared of the camera either. She poses at every red-carpet event and every “Fashion Week” around the world. Honestly, Kate doesn't know what being bothered by paps means. I wish I could tell her how bad it could be.
Today, Simon clocks the porcelain goddess (as he calls both Kate and his toilet) pulling out of Nicholas Canyon onto Hollywood. He wasn't even actively working her. He just happened to spot the car. He gets on the follow and beeps me immediately. “Got Bitchworth.”
She runs her first light at Hollywood and Fairfax, pops two more, then speeds down a quiet side street and pulls into a random driveway.
“Well, no question here. She's onto me,” he says.
“Stay with her. I'll be there in five.”
“Jen, if she drives like this, it's gonna end bad, and they're gonna blame me.”
He manages to stay on her, and I catch up at the same time they arrive safely to a photo-free office building off Doheney and Sunset. We know there isn't a shot possible in the garageâtoo dark, too ugly, and too short of a walk to the elevatorâand we know security will be stationed on the first floor and up. There is a possible shot in the outdoor lunch garden, if she chooses to lunch there, but we aren't going inside to see. Today, “the paranoid girl will be checking for us in every crack, including her rank arse,” says Simon. “You may be beautiful, Kate, but your arse still smells like the rest of ours.” Oh, he can't stand her.
Simon and I park on the street next to the garage and discuss waiting or not waiting. She could be here all day. We decide to give it an hour.
A few minutes later, a car pulls up and parallel parks next to us. A man gets out and approaches Simon's car. I immediately drive off. I don't know who he is, but I know I don't want to talk to him.
I beep Simonâ“Don't talk!”âbut it's too late. He doesn't respond.
Ten minutes later, Simon calls. “What happened?” I ask anxiously.
“It's over, Jen. It's over.” Simon's always-chipper voice is fully deflated.
“Oh no. Tell me.”
Simon begins the play-by-play. “Well, he saunters up in super-snug, tapered jeans. Not Pete Wentzâtapered, mind you. More like The Gap 1988âtapered. Larryâthe Toolâcircles my car. He taps on my windshield, asks for ID. What was I thinking, Jen? I handed it over.”
“You weren't thinking. You're a great pap, but sometimes I wonder about your brains.”
“He was wearing a gold police badge on his belt. He looked serious,” Simon says defensively.
“Right, the kind the sheriff wore in
The Dukes of Hazzard
.”
“Yeah, the kind the kids wear in cops and robbers. But I'm an ex-pat. You know I can't mess with the law.”
“Larry wasn't the law.”
“But I didn't know that. You got the smarts, luv. Not me.”
“What happened next?”
“Well, Larry's copyin' me license⦔
“Ugh.”
“â¦and I ask him what this is all about. He says, real official and all, âI will respond to your questions after I write down all your information.' That shut me up.”
In the end, Simon acceded to all of Larry's demands, including staying five hundred feet away from Kate and not photographing her
“ever again.” He eventually figured out that Larry was Kate's hired security guard and not any sort of law enforcement official, but he didn't care. Larry's scare tactic had worked. Simon was done.
* * *
But I hadn't agreed to any of that. And I was mad.
How dare he threaten my Simon! Imposter
!
I drive back to the office building and the Tool is standing outside. Good, that means Kate's still inside. Larry immediately approaches my car. I refuse eye contact. He bangs on my window and tries to open the door, which I lockedâI had a feeling he was going to do that.
“Give me your details right now. I'm gonna call the cops.”
“I thought you were a cop,” I mouth and point to his badge.
He makes a lot of noise, a lot of demands, while furtively trying to block my view. But I know what he's doing. I see her. The doe is exiting the parking garage. I try to pull away, but Larry pushes his tapered-jeaned legs to my car and won't let me pass.
Somehow I manage to maneuver my car around him. This is quite unfortunate. It would have been better had the day ended here.
I cut off Kate at a side street and end up in front of her. I pull to the shoulder and wait for her to pass. But, like me, Kate's a fighter. She pulls up behind me and lays on the horn. She honksâcontinuallyâfor at least a minute. Like a baby's incessant crying, it starts to get to me. Rage circles my head like ravens their prey, and I exit my car and walk toward her knowing I can't hit anything but wondering if I can stop myself.
“
What the fuck
!” I respond like any normal adult would.
She and her (one) friend call me names: “loser, bitch, whore,” etc.
Then I have a thought. I go back to my car and grab my camera.
Bitchworth (I've started calling her this now) moves quick. She
pulls her car out in front of mine, and then I follow her to where I know she is going: the Beverly Hills Police Station.
Like blood from a freshly cut wrist, indignation is gushing out of my being. I should stopâI knowâbut I cannot. I am out of control. Kate pulls into the emergency parking space at the station, and I pull up next to her. Then Larry swoops in behind me, blocking me in.
“
Move, asshole
!” I yell. At this point, I've gained enough sense to know I don't want to be here.
But it's too late. Larry gets out of his car and is not going to move. He removes his
Dukes
of
Hazzard
badge.
Then come the cops. One after the other, like clowns out of a Volkswagen, at least a half dozen Los Angeles police officers exit the station.
“This guy's blocking me in. Is that legal?” I say to one.
“Lots of things are legal in my book
little girl
,” the cop spits out.
Oh, great, so that's how this is gonna go
.
The cops get busy and take statements from Larry, Kate, and Kate's friend. No one talks to me, the criminal.
After about five minutes of doing nothing, I take out my short lens (the flash seems a bit over-the-top, so I turn it off), walk up to Kate who is tattling to an officer, and start taking pictures. It's so obnoxious, but I'm past any measure of dignity.
Kate shields her face, but neither she nor the cop say anything.
When the “little girl” cop who is now talking to Larry sees me, he belts out, “I will not allow you to make a spectacle out of me! Go sit there,” and he points to the curb like I'm in time-out. “My time is being wasted on nonsense,” he continues.
Yeah, mine too
.
When I look around, I see clearly excessive coppageâat least ten now. More have come out to see what's going on. I recall a recent ballot measure to add more police to the L.A. streets. Just what we need, more police who have nothing to do.
While sitting on the curb, I pop out my memory card (I'd like to keep those shots of Kate talking to the copânever mind that they probably won't sell due to my “involvement”) and then detach my Canon lens and replace it with my less expensive Tamron one. The “little girl” cop told me that he was going to take my camera as “evidence,” though of what crime, I am not sure.
I sit for ten minutes. Everyone is hard at work. Slowly some of the cops begin to leave. I stay seated on the curb watching the violation of my rights by the lead “little girl” cop. He is transcribing my driver's license into his notebook, and Larry is looking over his shoulder like a parrot, transcribing the same.
Eventually, Kate drives off. She looks smug but wrecked. At least I ruined her day too.
“Where's your gold badge?” I say to Larry as he walks toward his car. He ignores me.
Now it is just me and “little girl” cop. He hands me back my ID and asks for my phone number.
“Why'd you need that?” I say, too late. I should know by now: Always question cops.
“Oh, it's for my little black book,” he smiles. “You can go.”
I get back in my carâno ticket, no citation, and all “evidence” still in my possession. As I pull out of the emergency space, another cop falls in behind me.
You've got to be kidding! They're gonna get me on a traffic violation
, I realize, sick to my stomach.
But he doesn't turn on his lights. Instead, he pulls up beside me and rolls down his window.
“Are you OK?” he asks.
His face is kind, and that breaks me. Tears pour out. “I was just doing my job.”
“I know. Hang in there. It'll be OK.”
I'm grateful for this gesture. I keep crying, but some measure of respect returns. Maybe I just haven't met the good guys yet.
On my drive home, the words merry-go-round in my headâ“extortion,” “letter in the mailbox,” “we have her on security tape”âall words I heard Larry whispering to the cop. At home, I look up “extortion” on Wikipedia. It mentions a maximum of twenty years in prison.
I can't afford to fight Bitchworth, and money always wins. Will Gloria Allred, the high-profile attorney, take my case?
What
if I go to jail for five years? All for what? This job that makes me money but is slowly taking my life?