Shooting Stars

by Jennifer Buhl

  About once a quarter, Simon and I split our favorite greasy brekky—a sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit from McDonald’s. Simon is borderline manorexic, thus we always split any meal we eat together. Today, I’m in charge of coffee since my hour-plus commute has made me the later arrival. I buy us two cups from Micky-D’s and a biscuit to share. At around nine, we eat on the dirt shoulder of McC’s dead-end street and outline the day’s plan.

  Within a mile from Julia and Matthew’s is an elite school where young kids with famous parents go, and a Vons grocery store where they—and others—shop. It’s a sticky square mile, and like wildebeest crossing the African plain, a few celebs who make the journey will inevitably fall prey to the paparazzi.

  Today we decide that Simon will sit on Matthew since he already has a cordial relationship with the handful of loyal McC photogs, and I will troll around looking for anyone else who can be picked off.

  After parting, my first stop is around the corner at another dead-end, Julia’s. Next to Julia’s driveway is a small path, a three-minute hike leading down to the ocean at Point Dume, one of the best surfing spots in SoCal. Even though Little Point Dume beach, a.k.a. Hut Beach, is public, all direct paths to it are gated and bolted with prison-style locks, and the neighborhood pays a security guard to monitor her (Julia’s) path, specifically. After a few drive-bys, I strike up conversation with a guy trimming the bushes around Julia’s mailbox. “I hear Julia Roberts lives here,” I say in my best tourist voice.

  “Yep.” He nods. “She’s around.”

  I didn’t ask if “she were around,” but he seems proud to be in the loop as he shares this piece of first-rate information. No one knows she’s back. The last photographs of Julia were from Rome where she filmed the starring role in the movie Eat, Pray, Love.

  I dig more. The yardman, Gino, a jovial Mexican with an Italian nickname and at least 350 pounds on him, tells me that Julia’s husband Danny surfs almost daily. Danny’s not especially famous, but surfing shots are rare, and they would be hard for the mags to pass up.

  Gino’s full of life and light, evidently not having worked long enough in the Bubble to be asphyxiated yet by its poisonous interior. I’m drawn to him and decide to be up front: “Gino, I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you call me the next time you see Danny walking down that path.” This is slightly risky—I don’t know if Gino is loyal to Julia, and I could get myself and my car blacklisted—but I go with my gut.

  Gino’s eyes light up and his smile extends. “I had a feeling you were one of them.” Gino’s from South Central L.A.—no dummy. “OK, sure, I’ll call you.”

  Verbally, it seems I’ve found a tipster, but that means nothing. Everybody takes your number (it’s easier than saying no) but only a small percentage of them ever actually tip. They either forget—find the process non-stimulating—or upon reflection find they ethically disagree with the cause. Out of at least a hundred I’ve propositioned, I can count on only about five calling. Tip money alone isn’t enough to make someone tip; they have to want to do it for other reasons.

  Lucky for me, Gino has an impetus: clipping bushes, all alone, all day long, mind and body sizzling in the sun, Gino’s clearly bored. And, for a people-person like him, that’s an unbearable physical state. (Believe me, I know.)

  An hour after we meet, Gino calls: “I’m friends with the gate guard. I’ll make this happen.”

  Sweet. Gino’s in.

  Nothing happens that first day, but with a Julia tipster in the bag, Simon and I commit the week. Each day I make the trek down to Malibu, and Gino stays in constant contact regarding the comings and goings of the Roberts-Moders. He tells me their cars, their future in-and-out of town schedule (which he finds out from the housekeeper), their beach walks, and so on. He gets it. He knows what information I need to know. Suddenly Gino’s mind-destroying job of clipping bushes eight hours a day in Julia’s front yard becomes bearable. Suddenly he’s Sam Spade.

  Over the week, Simon and I skirt between following and photographing Julia, unbeknownst to her hawk eyes and thanks to Gino whom we throw four hundred bucks at; Matthew and his pregnant girlfriend Camila Alves; and Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson, who appear to be back in love once again. Pink drives by us for a nice photo-op on her motorcycle, and at the grocery store we stumble across the Red Hot Chili Peppers’s Anthony Kiedis in his golf cart. (Per Gino, Anthony apparently lost his key privileges when he let a friend borrow the unlocking jewel. No doubt, Malibu is serious about protecting her Point Dume.)

  Simon and I work a tag team formation as tight as the Blue Angels—it’s undercover papping at its finest. One of us Nextels the other immediately upon a celeb-sighting, and the other leaves his or her station to get in second position within minutes. If I spot someone at the Mayfair Market, for instance, as often I do when grabbing lunch, I know to take the risk of trying to get valuable in-store shots because Simon is hidden outside backing me up. “Minnie [Driver] is on her way out. Left-hand door,” I radio. I trust Simon. I know he’s blacked-out behind his car tint and windshield visor, and he’ll hose it. Simon and I make a seamless pair.

  Compared to Hollywood, relatively few paps work in Malibu, and if you know what you’re doing, there’s the potential to make lots of money. Upon first glance, it’s an ideal locale: Malibu rarely gets too hot—the breeze from the beach and the heat from the sun combine ideally; vegetation is green and luscious (thanks to sprinkler systems) and smattered with yellow and orange fruit; the ocean air, moist and salty to the skin, smells of fried fish and shrimp available from seafood shacks along the PCH; girls cross the road wearing short-shorts showing off toned beach legs, ponytails high on their heads, and fashionable flip-flops; and guys walk around shirtless with chests as hard as the surfboards they carry on their heads.

  But this splendor comes with a weighty price tag. It’s a far drive and a long day, especially when you spend it trolling down the beach lugging fifteen pounds of gear through thick sand. Malibu will exhaust your body. But, it’s not the outside that will kill you in this beautiful little beach town, a lovely place with a lovely face. Rather, there’s a beast inside, one that will slowly, but inevitably, break down your soul.

  The Bubble: A rich, white (I’m not saying Malibu is prejudiced; I’m just saying that Matthew’s Brazilian girlfriend Camila Alves is the darkest person on the beach), militarized zone (so it appears, with so many cops and all), which must at all costs be preserved. “A bubble so pure that the slightest drop of dust causes pandemonium,” says Simon. Sound pleasant? Trust me, it’s not.

  The Malibu city cops give you your first indication that you are in danger if you spend too much time here. These protecting officers, given power by the residents, blanket the area in a far more oppressive fashion than even the LAPD do in Beverly Hills. For kicks, most days Simon and I play our unscientific “Count-the-Cops” game, and with one every few miles, we generally score over a dozen each day. “Code Blue in Malibu.”

  At the two grocery stores in town, three or four security guards are perma-stationed, and the City of Malibu is trying to contract the venerable Kenneth Starr (remember him from the Monica Lewinski days?) to work on the ironically titled “Britney Law” and come up with more laws for the city, specifically aimed at keeping paparazzi out (and fighting the First Amendment, which besides the freedom of speech also ensures the freedom of the press, which, yes, includes photographing public figures in public places). Starr has expressed interest in working on it “at no charge to the city.” Thanks, man.

  That, friends, is the Bu. Now meet the Malibu mafia.

  * * *

  It takes me an hour to get down to Little Point Dume/Hut Beach, where Matthew is. The route: park on the street, walk a half mile to the cliff top, amble the thorny path to the stairs, climb down hundreds of steps, traipse through soggy muck to sand, walk a half mile to where the ocean swells produce one of the best surf spots in southern California, wade through the rough waters of the treacherous “point of d
ume”…finally, arrive at the idyllic Hut Beach.

  It is Saturday and Simon and I have been in the Bubble for a week now. Two hours ago, he and the other paps saw McC head down to the beach with his surfboard. Matthew took the gated path, which would have taken him about three minutes. Simon and the rest of the guys went in from the east, a slightly quicker route (forty-five minutes) than the one I took, but a $20 parking charge.

  I sit on my beach blanket taking pictures of Matthew while he surfs. I also occasionally shoot Melissa Joan Hart, who happens to be nearby and is also watching Matthew so she doesn’t notice me. (Melissa’s pictures end up on the cover of People magazine.)

  At first I am noticed by no one. I am unassuming, sitting with my camera tucked between my legs, which I pull up every once in a while to take a photograph. But eventually people react. Beachgoers, always female, walk by and comment: “You are the most disgusting form of a human I’ve ever seen”; “We hate you—leave our private beach”; “Get away from my umbrella—don’t sit near me.” I can see the confusion in their faces, though. I am tan and fit. I look good in my bikini—just like them, or their daughters. So why am I taking pictures like a paparazzi?

  About one football field away, I see the other paps bunched together unobtrusively behind the boulders near the cliff’s face. From that distance, they would be shooting Matthew with 300–500mm lenses. I know Simon is with them.

  I watch as a massive group of people begins to gather and head toward the huddled photographers. When they get to them, commotion begins. Later, the video will show throwing sand, rocks, and fists; and throwing equipment and paparazzi into the dangerous surfing waters. Soon, “the Mob” chases the paparazzi away and everyone disappears down the beach.

  Fifteen minutes more, and a rainfall of sand pours over me. I jump up quickly, shielding my camera.

  “Get out of here,” says an adult man who continues kicking sand at me.

  “Please stop, please,” I beg as I move away. “You’ll ruin my camera.”

  He follows. “This is our beach. Leave.”

  “Look, I’m not bothering anyone.” I speak calmly and politely, trying to diffuse the situation. He stops kicking.

  “You’re bothering us.”

  “I’m not bothering Matthew, which as you know, is why I’m here. I’ll be leaving soon.”

  “Well, I’m the Beach Master and I want you to leave now.”

  “Seriously?” I say stifling a chuckle. Later I find out his name is Skylar Peak.

  “Yes, I was voted in.”

  I laugh out loud. I don’t want to rile him up, but honestly I can’t help it.

  I don’t respond to anything more he says, but begin to gather my things. I have enough shots anyway.

  Today, I will make several thousand dollars. That’s why I am here. But, ultimately, I will not break even.

  The next day, Sunday, I do not attend but hear it is equally vicious. Once the weekend’s videos and pictures are released, local and national, celebrity and noncelebrity news is filled with the “Paparazzi vs. Surfer Turf War.” Photos of the fights blanket the Internet as the media devours the salacious news story. Celebrity blog sites publish record numbers of viewer comments, though they seem to come mostly from the Malibu teenagers challenging the paps to a rematch. Both Larry King Live and the Los Angeles Times interview me.

  The following Saturday, the twenty-eighth, the L.A. Times was there:

  After hundreds of Internet threats and the mobilization of sheriff ’s deputies by air, land and sea, Saturday’s much-anticipated revival of the paparazzi-surfer war in Malibu came down to this: One woman with a handwritten sign and an unflinching desire to make a point.

  Yep, that one woman was me. Me and my Sharpie-colored picket sign that read: America’s beaches should be free and accessible. Don’t get me wrong, I understood why many of them didn’t like the paparazzi, but I couldn’t stand by and watch this violence happen to the people I had come to see as my colleagues, especially when they had done nothing wrong but be there. In addition to the fact that paparazzi (and anyone for that matter) are legally allowed to take pictures of famous people in public places, it also infuriated me that the residents kept their public beach as inaccessible and private as possible. On top of that, most of the people on that beach were likely consumers (or had been at one point) of the very magazines and websites that bought our photos and published them. (I don’t believe that not a single one of them had ever read People or PerezHilton.) All of it reeked of hypocrisy.

  None of my peers joined me on the picket walk, but I could hardly blame them—most weren’t Americans and couldn’t afford to single themselves out with the law. Probably they didn’t feel the personal disgust that I did with my countrymen either. Mostly, I imagine, their self-conceit was not as all-consuming as mine was.

  Eventually a cop told me I had to leave. “But this is America. Aren’t I allowed to protest?” I objected. He walkie-talkie’d his supervisor and then reported that he’d have to arrest me if I didn’t go. “On what grounds?”

  He checked again with his supervisor. “Inciting a riot.” That was a joke since there was absolutely no mutinying anywhere. But, in the end, my “sign” was clearly not going to affect anything, and I didn’t really feel like spending the night in jail having enough sleep issues as it was, so I turned back.

  * * *

  My contempt for the Maliboobians stayed with me for days afterward. I took it with me to CNN’s studios where I was planning to photograph Christina Aguilera, a guest on Larry King Live. Besides myself and about thirty other paps and autograph seekers waiting for Christina was paparazzo Frank Opis Epstein, or “Opis,” as he’s started calling and photo-crediting himself.

  Though Frank and I are both Americans—uncommon in this business—we are not friends. His tipsters come from stores like Gucci and Rolex because, as he told me the first time we met, “That’s where I shop.”

  CNN sections off its exit area for the paparazzi. It is not a problem if we shoot, but we must stay behind the red rope. Frank and another pap, who I didn’t know but was on crutches with a broken leg, stood by the section of the rope which had the most space around it. When I asked if I could squeeze in, they laughed, and to keep me out, locked their bodies together in a barricade. Just like in Malibu, I was blocked out.

  I walked to the other side of the rope but still saw no available space from where to shoot. I returned to their side. When they saw me, they squeezed together again and planted their legs (and crutches) wide to take up more space. When I attempted to step in beside them, they moved their bodies sideways and shoved me. Wrath gaining momentum, I tried again, this time with my elbow. Then, as I remember it, Frank turned to face me, grabbed my camera, and pushed it toward me. I tripped backward but caught myself. With his hand, he continued pushing my camera into my face. Later, I won’t recall whether he hit me with it or if it was just close, but either way, I felt like he was trying to make me fall or hit me with the lens. And, I panicked.

  What occurred next was an instinctive reaction. I opened my mouth and bit into his hand, which was right there at my face. I didn’t have to move to bite it.

  And he didn’t pull it away either, perhaps afraid he’d tear the skin, but I also didn’t release my jaw right away. I actually was unable to. It was like I was watching the scene from above and couldn’t move. Eventually, he had to jerk his hand away.

  Frank never yelled. He didn’t call security. He just calmly looked at me and said, “I will call the police.”

  I didn’t respond and found a new spot as far back in the crowd as I could. For the remaining fifteen minutes of the Christina wait, I stared in a fog at the scene in front of me. Everything seemed to blur. I wasn’t even sure what had happened anymore. I knew I’d bitten Frank, but how had it come to that?

  I watched Frank. He acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened, and even yelled, “Christina. Here!” when she came out. I didn’t lift my camera. I
had nothing left.

  When I got home, two questions plagued me for the rest of the night: Who am I? and How the hell did I become this way? After the Frank incident, I felt as despicable as the Malibu residents whom I had judged. I knew I had reached the lowest point in my paparazzi tenure. (For f—k’s sake, I bit someone!) Worse, I didn’t know how I would ever find a way—much less the strength—to climb out of this situation. My career was probably ruined. But more importantly, I was ruined.

  Chapter 19

  Bartlet called at daybreak. “Jennifer, why did you bite Frank Opis?” His voice actually sounded kind. Though he rarely acted with sensitivity, Bartlet knew I was losing it. He wasn’t angry with me, but more alarmed.

  “Because I thought he was going to break my camera, or hit me. And he pushed me. And I felted trapped,” I said. “I think. I don’t know. I can’t remember.” I could hear the defeat in my voice. I wished, desperately, to erase last night.

  Bartlet told me that Frank went to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center—the hospital of the stars—for a tetanus shot (Am I a dog?), then filed a police report and got a restraining order against me.

  I didn’t have the energy to defend myself. “I’m taking the day off,” I said and hung up.

  I got back into bed and spooned Despondency and Despair. If I had somewhere to run, I would go, away from all this. Regardless of what Frank or I had done, my body couldn’t take any more hate. The celebrities hated me, the paps hated me, the cops hated me, Malibu hated me. All rightfully so! I hated myself too.

  If I could only call Frank and grovel and beg for his forgiveness. I was sorry. And not just sorry that I might get into trouble. Frank may be a stooge in my opinion, but I shouldn’t have bitten him—how had it come to that?

  My cup was empty, and I had nothing but that miserable pride of mine with which to combat the all-consuming hate; hate that was closing in on me from all sides. That’s how it had come to that.