Shooting Stars

by Jennifer Buhl

  1. Tint

  For the obvious reason, tinting car windows is favored by paparazzi: it provides you with cover.

  Every car window can be individually tinted, and no surprise, there are pros and cons to each shade. Thus, how dark to go? On first thought, as dark as possible—“limo tint” it’s called—’cause if you’re completely blacked-out, then no one can see in. The celeb won’t see you. If you’re hiding as an “empty, parked car,” security won’t see you. If you’re on a movie set where you aren’t supposed to be, all-round limo tint is fabulous.

  But stealth isn’t the only factor when deciding the degree of tint. Equally important is the shot. Since you often shoot through your windows, you must consider whether you can “nail it” through a heavy tint. Every camera has a different ability to shoot in low light, so those of us with better quality cameras can go with more tint. Even with the best of cameras, though, a perfect frame is often elusive with limo tint—it’s just too dark. Limo tint requires sunshine, so on a dreary day or in shadows, you won’t get a clean frame.

  Finally, while limo tint might make you completely invisible, everybody knows that what you can’t see is often suspicious. I’ve watched plenty of stare-downs into heavily tinted windows by distrustful security guards and paranoid celebrities.

  2. Windows

  An ideal pap-mobile has a completely vertical back window that can be rolled down via front controls. Sadly, the 4Runner is the only vehicle that I am aware of with this feature. The second best option is just a vertical back window (that doesn’t roll down)—my red pickup, vans, and the Mini Cooper, for example. At least this way, you can press your camera directly onto the glass and shoot a clean photo.

  The reason this is so critical is that any slant in a window produces distortion in the frame, so if you’re going to shoot through a window, it needs to be vertical, or almost so.

  3. SUV (or Not)

  SUVs have advantages and disadvantages. They are more expensive, but they have extra space. But the car’s size also makes them more conspicuous and harder to park. And a “blacked-out SUV,” especially one without plates, is the stereotypical pap car so a dead giveaway.

  4. Hybrid (or Not)

  Hybrid vehicles are also more expensive vehicles, so like any driver, a pap must weigh the gas savings with the higher price tag. And in city traffic, which constitutes most pap driving, a hybrid can be very cost-effective. With a Prius, a pap might spend $150/month on fuel. In comparison, a non-hybrid sedan might guzzle up $500/month at the same pump, and a large SUV could cost $1,000/month.

  Hybrids also have direct physical benefits to the driver. Sitting in your car all day long waiting, day in and day out, is worlds more comfortable in a hybrid. The car can stay “on”—including the air conditioner—without the motor running. This is a BIG deal. There is no gasoline smell or that headache-inducing car vibration you get with a non-hybrid car.

  The Prius is a popular pap car, and bonus: with its immense popularity in L.A., we almost always blend in.

  5. To Plate (or Not to Plate)

  Another way to be stealth is through your license plate, or lack thereof. As I’ve mentioned, in L.A., plates aren’t completely “necessary” on new-looking cars; temporary dealer plates are just fine. (You are legally allowed to drive “plate-less” for about two months after purchasing a new vehicle; after that, if pulled over, you could be fined.) But to a cop and to a celebrity, a “no-plate” car—just like a heavily tinted car—is a major red flag for “paparazzi.” So even though the cop or celeb or a competing pap can identify you through your license plate number, it may still be better to drive with your plates on, so that your vehicle is not immediately suspect.

  Should a pap decide to go plate-less, he or she must decide which dealer plates to use. The in-town dealership where Simon bought his 4Runner has colorful, memorable rainbow plates. Simon is a believer that everything pap must be subtle, so he drove to Glendale, thirty miles from his home in Venice, to pick up less flashy plates from a dealer there. The problem: when you’re driving around Beverly Hills with Glendale plates, you also look suspect. Why are you in Beverly Hills if you are from Glendale? Are you a pap?

  Some paps keep multiple plates on hand—a couple of dealer plates plus a real one. Then, after a questionable follow, they might switch around their plates and become a “new car.” (Not that I would ever do anything like that, mind you!) Adding a hat or a change of sunnys may be in order too.

  * * *

  I spent the evening, November 21, at Aaron’s thirtieth birthday party. Out of obligation. I haven’t gotten over that day at Britney’s and how he essentially fed me to the wolves all over again, but I have gotten over Aaron (at least 90 percent). It’s much better this way.

  I knew John would be there since Aaron had told me last time we spoke, “You and John are equally my friends.” I almost gagged when he said that.

  And sure enough, he was. And Adnan came as well. He was on crutches since John had run over his foot. Now, if a female paparazzi had run over someone’s foot, she’d be forced out of the business, hazed mercilessly for incompetence. But since it was John who did it, and Adnan who had jumped out of a moving vehicle, everyone thought it was funny.

  What I thought was funny was that Adnan would be out of work for weeks, and there’s no workers’ comp in the paparazzi world.

  The night crawled by and the Brits drank like Brits.

  John approached me after midnight. “No hard feelings. Work is work, right?” he said, giving me a slap on the back.

  “Sure,” I responded curtly.

  Later, Adnan slipped on his own vomit.

  And I was reminded that sometimes paybacks are best left to karma.

  * * *

  “Hey, sexy. How have you been?” I ask my new favorite celebrity. I haven’t worked Zac in a week. I’m trying to make sure he doesn’t get sick of me.

  He pulls over to say hello, then tells me, “I’m just going to play basketball.”

  The other paps tell me that when I’m not there he drives like a maniac and tries to lose them.

  “Basketball again,” I Nextel Simon as we fall into line behind the Audi—me at the helm, next Simon, then two Rodeo2 shooters who we’re friendly with.

  “Copy.”

  Simon and I are partnering today in case Zac and Vanessa need separate follows. Lately, I’ve been shooting alone; I make more money. But I’m coming to realize that if I don’t partner up at least twice a week, my morale plummets. There are just too many negative forces that bombard me in this industry. I gotta have somebody to pick me up and make me laugh.

  Vanessa often shacks up at Zac’s overnight, then is either dropped home by him or picked up by her parents in the morning. This morning there was no sign of her, so when Zac left, we all followed. We don’t expect to make much money (the basketball ritual has been photographed several times and is unlikely to sell again), but guaranteed shots are hard to pass up. It’s like Dule, an Armenian pap who works for iPIX, always tells me: “They could come out with balloons, Jen. Balloons. Ya never know.” His point: don’t ever leave a boring story ’cause they could come out with balloons. And by golly, that would be interesting!

  Everyone chats up the cheery, fit movie star as we shoot him long-lensed walking to the indoor courts. We wait behind the gates lest we trespass (or make him mad), but each time he makes a trip to the water fountain, he kindly lets us know how much longer is left in the game.

  The Rodeo2 duo is Margot, a reputable French pap and one of the few other women in the business, and Moss, a native Caribbean guy. I don’t trust Margot for une seconde—she’s sneaky and driven by money—but I respect her. True to her French roots, Margot always dresses well. Whenever she sees me in sweats, she says, “You need to look nicer. What if you have to follow someone into the Beverly Hills Hotel in that?” She has a point, but when I’m mostly crumpled up in a hot car all day, I opt for the more comfortable look.

  Moss is a
quiet, big-hearted guy who struggles with his English. He’s owed Simon money for two years—money Simon will probably never see again. I made a similar mistake loaning $500 to Toby, whom I call each week only to get his voicemail. I had never thought twice about lending money to friends before, but this too reminds me: we paps aren’t friends.

  “I have an idea,” I offer. “There’s no way Zac’s gonna sell another basketball set. Let’s mix it up.”

  The boys can’t be bothered, but Margot, all about the money, is game. We spot a giant rose bush in the parking lot and make a plan to hand Zac flowers on his way out. Flowers in one hand, basketball in the other—sure sales.

  It goes as splendidly as planned: Zac accepts the flowers, and laughs. Simon and Moss take stills. And after we give him the roses, Margot and I shoot video.

  Back to our cars, everyone is upbeat, and we lazily follow Zac home.

  As I resituate myself into an available parking spot outside Zac’s apartment, I hear, “Hey. Hey.”

  I look up and the smokin’ hot movie star is beckoning me to his door. I hurry over without my camera, but titillation passes immediately—his face is full of angst. Zac is not calling to invite Mrs. Robinson up.

  “Were you trying to set me up back there?” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Everyone in Hollywood is calling me gay at the moment. And you go and give me flowers.”

  “Oh no, Zac. That was really, really not the intention. You’re obviously not gay. You’re so straight. And so hot,” I add.

  He nods. Waits for me to go on.

  “You shouldn’t read PerezHilton. He’s an ass.”

  About every other day on Perez’s blog, Zac gets called gay because he’s so pretty. That’s gotta be hard on any twenty-year-old, famous or not, gay or not.

  “Well, Perez is gonna have his story of the month,” Zac says.

  I tell him, at least five more times, that everyone knows he’s not gay, and equally as many times, he’s hot.

  He eventually goes back inside, believing that we meant no malice, but not looking happy. Margot and I feel especially awful: Perez can be spiteful; Zac is as virile and hetero as they come. With ten years of weathering, he’s the next Brad Pitt.

  The next day, Perez doesn’t use the photos, although they do run most everywhere else (sans gay comments). It’s the Zac set of the week.

  Simon says celebrities have short memories—“Zac’ll be over it in a week, Jen”—although a few days later I hear that he ran out of basketball practice with the ball in front of his face.

  And, I’m betting The End is near.

  * * *

  The end of the year is near too, which means Katherine Heigl is about to get married and go on her honeymoon. In all likelihood, Cabo a la Jennifer is not gonna happen. Katherine’s publicist hasn’t called, but my old days of corporate due-diligence compel me to follow up.

  For weeks, I’ve been working Heigl every Saturday or Sunday or both. Her honeymoon is only one month away now; did she forget she told me I could come? Every time I see her hasn’t been the right time to bring it up—either there are other paps or the mood’s just dark. To me, it feels like a giant white elephant is always with us, but I’m not sure celebs think enough about their promises to paparazzi to notice the beast.

  It’s past four and I’ve wasted an entire sunny Saturday sitting in my car waiting on Katherine. I’m at the bottom of her hill where we always sit when we wait on her, near Adrian’s house, but I think she might be taking my advice about sneaking out the back of her subdivision. Next time I’ll have to sit right on her house—intrusive, but no other choice.

  At dusk, I’m about to leave when Adrian comes out. He wasn’t my target, but I figure I’ll follow him anyway. Besides, this may be the last time I’m on his doorstep: Heigl is moving after she gets married.

  He goes to Silver Lake, not far, and parks on Sunset outside my favorite vegan restaurant, Flore. This happens to be where my friends and I are meeting in an hour, which is very inconvenient because I’ll have to delay our dinner plans or he’ll think I’m stalking him. I lean out my car window to shoot, not even bothering to get out. I hope he notices how little effort I’m putting forth. Maybe if he thinks I’m not impressed he’ll be more likely to want me—even celebs gotta want what they can’t have, right?

  Adrian stops before he enters and stares at me for a long time, like he did the first time we met outside Tropicalia. Finally, I put my camera down. “Too much of the same pose doesn’t sell,” I say. Damn, can’t we just forget about this movie star business and spend the rest of the evening together?

  He keeps staring at me.

  “What?” I say.

  He’s still staring at me. His eyes flirt and his expression teases. They say he wants me. (Seriously!)

  Leaving my camera inside, I slowly get out of my car and walk over. “I have a bone to pick with you.”

  He raises his brows. He’s enjoying the attention. “You haven’t called,” I say.

  He’s confused. Yes, how quickly promises to paps are forgotten.

  “The ride-along? I have no desire to be in your documentary. I did it for your interview.”

  It finally registers. “Oh, yes. Yes. I’m gonna call you. I will.”

  I keep his eyes for several more seconds, neither of us speaking, then turn and leave while he watches me go.

  I smile at my nice touch: I left first. That’s not how paparazzi do it.

  * * *

  The next Saturday, I get Aaron to work Heigl with me. I need the power transfer that comes when we outnumber the celeb.

  At around noon, she comes out, and we’re on her exclusive. She parks on Hillhurst and walks toward the Mustard Seed, another fabulous restaurant I frequent. The time is now.

  I am shooting video—it gives me an excuse to talk—and Aaron is on stills. Just before Katherine turns into the restaurant, I put down the video and say, “Just wondering, Katie, is it still possible for me to photograph your honeymoon?”

  “Oh,” she responds cheerily, “you should just call my publicist.” It’s like she just plumb forgot.

  The next day, I call her publicist.

  “Hi. I’m a celebrity photographer friend of Katherine’s,” I begin. “Katie wanted me to call you about her honeymoon. She was thinking it might be nice to have someone she knows photograph it.”

  “Oh, right. Of course,” says the publicist. “Hang on a second.”

  I am on hold for no more than a minute. Then the publicist returns and tells me that the agency has decided that Josh and Katie deserve some privacy on their honeymoon. “She’s just been so bombarded of late. So many photographers.”

  “Well, Katherine Heigl’s the hottest new star. I’m not surprised.”

  “You know, one paparazzi even had the nerve to follow her into a salon while she was having her nails done.”

  “Oh, really? That’s awful.”

  Ouch. I feel the punch to my stomach. I thought Katie had enjoyed my company at the nail salon. I thought we were, at least, “work friends.” Aaron’s words…

  With that, I hang up the phone, go immediately to the Internet, and book a flight to Bangkok for five days later. My bank account has spare cash for the first time in years, and instead of going home for Christmas, I’ve decided to fly to Thailand with my backpack. It’s the end of year-one as a pap—a year of fifty-to seventy-hour work weeks; a year of mental exhaustion but overall true professional accomplishment (I’m a damn good pap); a divine year, but all in all, a year I’m happy as heck is over!

  Happy Holidays, Hollywood!

  Year 2

  Chapter 17

  I still aspire to meet someone, and fall in love, and get married, but that is a very high risk scenario, and I want a baby now. I’m thirty-seven.

  —Tina Fey in Baby Mama

  Coconut, pineapple, and mango helped re-juice my half-empty self as I took reprieve in Southeast Asia. Throughout the beauty of it
all, however, there was but one thought that repeatedly consumed my mind’s every idle moment and burned like a red-hot branding iron in my gut: ROTTING EGGS.

  OK that might be a little vulgar, but it’s not preposterous. At thirty-six, I still hoped for a husband, I still hoped to fall in love, I still hoped for a child one day. But it was far from a sure thing, and that constant ticking of my biological clock was reminding me: time was running out. How was it that despite my relentless pursuit of happiness, I was left with no one? I was wanting to love so badly, my heart hurt physically.

  But instead of facing the music, I extended my trip twice. I found it took six weeks before I could again face life—and celebrities. Upon returning to the States, I discovered what was new this year:

  • There is a recession. Bartlet says mags have slashed rates and lower paychecks are on the way. My thought is, that’s a plus: any guys grossing less than thirty grand will be forced out of the business, and even if my paycheck is cut in half, I’ll still make more this year than I have in the last ten. I won’t like it, but I can survive a drop.

  • Adnan is officially dating Britney. Despite most paps being foreigners, the beat on the street about the new couple is very American: Adnan’s a prick but an opportunist, and “good on him” for playing to his advantage.

  • There is a pap-festation. I didn’t think we could be more, but the sky’s grown darker. I’m told that Heigl has moved to daily gangbang status, and we’ve savaged Zac and Hayden to the limit.

  • I am rusty. Simon says this happens with even two weeks off. I was lucky to get a set of Hayden on my first day back—spotted her outside of Whole Foods (since she doesn’t tolerate doorstepping anymore). It sold, but my pictures were less than professional. I blanked on my settings and was shaking like an old lady. The worst part was my lack of style. The only thing I could think to say was, “Hi Hayden, I’ve been on vacation for two months,” to which she did not respond, “Oh, I’ve missed you. Tell me about your trip.”