Shooting Stars

by Jennifer Buhl

  Chapter 25

  My hormones command: You gotta get ready for baby. Like many nesting moms-to-be, I obsessively clean my house and my car, for which Simon, the ultimate clean freak, has bought me a paintbrush so I can dust!

  Sleep comes easily whenever I have time for it. I still desire ten to eleven hours a night, and upon waking it takes me several minutes to get out of bed as an invisible, twenty-pound, lead blanket seems to cover me.

  The need to make as much money as I can before my child arrives haunts me, though I now loathe every split second of being a pap. When Claudia told me long ago that everything in her nature went against this job, I didn’t get it until now. “Pregnant pap” is an oxymoron. The constant adrenaline—the “why” Aaron gave as the reason, two and a half years ago, we do the job—simply doesn’t work for me anymore. My baby hates it. So now, as I drive, I divert my eyes in an attempt not to spot celebrities on the road. I’m thankful when my doorsteps don’t leave, and if they do, I hope to lose them. If I don’t, I pray they hurry home without getting out of their car. Rarely do I exit my car: besides being sloth-slow, a pregnant paparazza is most unattractive. No matter how beautiful the mommy-to-be, she exudes pure ugliness when walking backward with squatted knees, her eight-month swollen bump bulging in front of a random celeb.

  For these reasons, at least three times a week, I spend my day—which now goes from about one to five—at the West Hollywood Whole Foods. I feel fortunate to have found this comfortable sit in the heart of celebrity neighborhoods. I secure one of two tables where I can see all the checkout lanes. Then I write or work on the Internet, eat salad, and drink smoothies. Pap “friends” pop in and out all day to say hi. Sometimes one of the security guards will come over to tell me if a celeb has walked in. Even if they don’t, I’ll always catch the star checking out. If I don’t think they’ll cover, I’ll go for interior cash-register shots (rare, good money), then head outside and shoot them carrying their groceries to the car. If I think they may not oblige, I’ll leave the store, go hide in my Prius, and nail the exit shots.

  Already, I’ve shot Leonardo DiCaprio with his current girlfriend Bar Refaeli (his hat was pulled low but you could see his eyes—score!), Grey’s Anatomy’s Ellen Pompeo (reliably, she comes every Friday), Christina Ricci (the Addams Family’s Wednesday), T.R. Knight (George O’Malley on Grey’s and Heigl’s real life BFF), and Dita Von Teese (the burlesque dancer and Marilyn Manson’s ex-wife). Not always huge celebs, but grocery-store shots, so full of colorful bananas and broccoli peeking from the bags, always sell. (They’re much more interesting than just a celebrity walking down the street. They show the stars actually shop for their own groceries—“Just like Us!”) And the start to finish—spotting to shooting—is so swift that only moderate amounts of adrenaline toxins seep into my pregnant body. All in all, it’s not a bad way to wind down my career shooting stars.

  * * *

  My weekends, at this point, are pretty stress-free too. Mostly I spend them in front of the TV. As previously mentioned, I’ve never watched Entourage. Intentionally. Besides the show offering me no escape from my reality—they write it right I’m told, and much as it happens in Hollywood—I never wanted to elevate Adrian to any sort of exalted celebrity status in my head. Moreover, if the possibility existed for us to “get together” (a faint fantasy of mine still), wouldn’t it be better if we just merged as a guy and a girl?

  Plus, I don’t have HBO.

  Three days after our car talk, I’d explored every foreseeable Adrian Grenier sex scene in my head. I had exhausted all of the possibilities, and then I let them go. But I started to miss them. Without an active crush—and being that House wasn’t on over the weekend—life felt listless again until the arrival of el bebe. I caved and rented the first season of Entourage.

  Snap! Adrian plays himself on TV. I’d suspected this all along but never imagined the degree to which similarities exist. Like Adrian, Vincent Chase in Entourage is a pretty face with an easygoing personality. Vincent is also an actor whose goal in life is just like Adrian’s: to enjoy himself. Vincent, like Adrian, has loads of roommates “just for fun,” and the girls, in both lives, are endless.

  I could not believe it. It was Adrian. They just call him “Vince” on the show, and Vince somehow seems weirdly taller, but Adrian and Vince are exactly the same guy.

  Watching Vince gave me insight into my real-life movie star. Adrian/Vince doesn’t hit on girls; they hit on him. Adrian/Vince effortlessly connects with any beautiful woman he wants, but without any work. Maybe Adrian and I have never kissed because I’ve never made the first move, and he doesn’t know how to make the first move because he’s never had to. Unfortunately for Adrian/Vince, this inexperience with “the chase” has produced a sort of natural apathy toward pursuing women, which is not so attractive on-or off-screen. At least not to me.

  Even so, Adrian’s a successful, attractive guy in his early thirties with a good head on his shoulders, and that’s about as hard to find here as snow. So as I watch, I find it hard to shake my longtime crush on him.

  “No wonder you like him,” my roommate says when she sees the wanton look on my face. “How many guys are there like that in L.A.?”

  “I’ve never met one,” I concede.

  And therein lies the problem. The issue, as Amy and I discuss, is that other than paparazzi, Adrian is pretty much the only single guy over the age of thirty that I’ve spoken to, much less flirted with, since Bo. Eight long months have been filled with paps, nosy neighbors, and West Hollywood metrosexuals. No wonder I’m still pining for Adrian. Simply put: thirty-something, healthy, manly-men are so precious and lauded because they do not grow on trees. Added to the L.A. conundrum is, of course, the massive quantity of crazy but hot women who move to this city to act, realize that they cannot act, and in an out-of-character moment of clarity, recognize that their only hope for survival is to harvest themselves one of the few eligible and solvent heterosexual man-fruits.

  That doesn’t leave much Adrian to go around.

  But that’s kind of OK. I’m ready for a change anyway. More than the obvious new baby change, I mean. Soon, I’ll be finished with papping; I have no reason I must stay in L.A. Three of the girls—Georgia, Alex, and JoDeane—are transitioning back to their homes in Michigan; and while I don’t see myself in the South, where my family is, maybe a new city’s in order for me too.

  Not that I wouldn’t miss it here. L.A. is so much that I would miss. L.A. is energy, culture, passion, influence, sunshine…like I’ve never seen it anywhere else in the world. I adore this city full of beautiful, talented young people all with a drive to make their dreams come true. But I’m getting older, and the only dream I want to come true is the dream of a family. And while I’ve had the experience of my life here, I’m just not sure L.A.’s the place to make that happen.

  * * *

  Jimmy calls on Sunday while I’m watching Entourage. “I don’t want you to go into labor,” he says, “but if you’re interested, I got Katy Perry’s address for you. She’ll probably be exclusive too.”

  For a while now, Katy’s been a big star in the music world, but she’s up-and-coming to the pap scene and few have her address. iPIX is usually the first to get new celebrity addresses. Most of our info comes from limo companies—who iPIX pays well—and celebrities love limos.

  I’m thrilled for a “new address” and arrive at Katy’s bright and early at 9 a.m. Monday morning. There are no other paps, so I park, exit my car, and stroll up and down the street. Walking makes baby happy. I alternate between sitting and pacing for the next three hours, careful not to venture too far from my car. At around noon, I see Katy pull out of her garage in the standard silver Prius. She’s driving slowly and her car has no tint. My assumption is that Katy’s been followed only a couple of times in her life, if that, so she doesn’t check for me as I leisurely file in behind. (No doubt, in a few months when she starts dating and eventually marries Russell Brand—then div
orces Russell Brand—things will be different.) Katy picks up a girlfriend and the two drive to a small outdoor shopping mall off Sunset, one where outside shots are feasible and paps don’t usually loiter. Katy’s wearing a typical fantastic outfit; everything’s clicking along splendidly.

  She parks her Prius in the underground deck. I park mine nearby and watch. The two girls head to the elevator. I should too—they’ll never suspect that I’m a pap—but I hate riding elevators with celebs. Since that shameful day with Cameron, I’ve come to realize what appropriate elevator-pap protocol is; and while it’s not completely against the rules to get in the elevator with them, it is the last option you want to take. If there’s another way—up or down stairs, for instance—the pap should definitely go that route. If there isn’t, however, and you, the pap, do end up in the elevator with the celeb (assuming the celeb knows you’re a pap, which in this case, Katy wouldn’t), this is what you do: First and foremost, Do Not Shoot. No mag will buy a shot if it looks as if you’ve cornered the celeb. (Which in fact you have.) Rather, put down your camera, stare at the ceiling or the floor, and wait until the door reopens. Once it does, and importantly, once you, the pap, are off the elevator (even if the celeb is not—she can be “getting off the elevator,” and that will make a fine shot), then and only then may you turn around and shoot. I once rode the elevator at LAX with five paps and Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner, and that’s exactly what happened. Riding up, everyone was silent; cameras and pap heads were down. Jen didn’t cover (she didn’t need to), and when the elevator reopened, Jen ducked behind Ben and the action restarted.

  Today, I take the stairs. I know the elevator exits on one of three levels so feel fairly confident letting Katy ride alone. Each level is a circular ring, and when I climb to the first, I stop and wait. I watch the three elevator openings…and wait…and wait…and wait. Where did she go? Either Katy didn’t get off, or she was exceptionally quick and had already gotten off before I got to the first floor. I assume that’s what it was, and begin searching. I walk in every store and restaurant on all three levels. I even buy a ticket to check the movie theater.

  After twenty minutes, I’ve hit every location in the mall and haven’t found Katy and her friend. I decide to go back to the car and wait—I’ve missed the shot here, but maybe they’ll go somewhere else. When I get to the garage, Katy’s car is gone. Arg! I hate screwing up easy jobs. Easy job, easy money: a year’s supply of Pampers up in flames.

  That night on the blogs, there’s a shot of Katy and her friend eating ice cream at the Grove. They must have turned around immediately and decided to go there instead, something I would have known had I been in that damn elevator. Man, I can’t believe I still wimp out.

  * * *

  But when I get someone in my head, I’m stubborn. I really want her picture. According to Katy’s tour schedule, she’s out of town for the next six weeks. I’ll have the baby in four, so today is my last shot at Katy Perry.

  I’m at her house by nine. Her New York–style apartment, a historic high-rise with oversized windows and city character, is where I’d love to live. Few apartments like this exist in L.A.

  At around ten, Katy comes home. That’s OK. I bet she leaves again.

  And at around noon, she does. I follow her to Chateau Marmont. Merde. This is not a good place to pap. I’m extremely familiar with the little hotel—celebs always meet here—but everyone knows you can’t shoot inside.

  Though I’ve never actually tried. I park on the street, set my camera for inside shooting, and slide it into an obscure bag, a long H&M purse with lots of handy pockets. Then I walk in.

  It’s not hard to locate someone inside the Chateau (assuming they’re not in a guest room, of course). When you enter the hotel through the garage, you climb one flight of stairs and basically you’re there. A small lobby and check-in area is connected to a cozy den filled with antique furniture and oversized sofas, a room like you might find in a Cotswold inn or un château en France. The den area is where many celebrities have drinks and meetings, and from there, you can look through an old square-paned window-wall onto an outside patio, another spot where dining and deals are done.

  Immediately, the hostess greets me: “You’re here for the baby shower?”

  “Ah…no, I’m meeting a friend. I’m a little early, though.” But thanks for the info.

  “No problem. Would you like a drink while you wait?”

  I order a coffee, which gives me something to do versus just lurk, and sit down on one of the sofas. When the coffee comes, I pay immediately; I’ll likely drink and run.

  Katy’s easy to spot through the window-wall. She’s outside on the patio and is wearing a marvelous blue hat with a white bow on it. She’s put a “Katy” name tag on too, and altogether looks like she should be at an English baby shower versus an American one.

  As many times as I’ve been to the Chateau—checking for people inside, then waiting outside to pick up the follow—I’m at a loss of how to shoot inside. I ponder options. What if I go to the patio to shoot? The patio is small, and I’m not sure I’d even manage a full-length with my 70–200mm. Besides, there’s nothing to hide behind. I’d be as obvious as a hunter in a burned down forest staring at Katy, hand-cocked, waiting for the right moment. Even if I could pull off a shot before I was escorted out, an unintentional body might easily ruin it. No, shooting on the patio doesn’t seem like the way to go.

  I’ll just wait, I tell myself, for opportunity to cross my path. I stand up, sit down, pace, pee, fidget, try to figure out a plan, sit back down, and just watch.

  Directly outside the multi-paned windows, the staff sets a long wooden table and eventually the women sit down. Katy sits near the center, looking into the Chateau. I wonder if there is a glare, or if she can see me as clearly as I can see her.

  I drink my coffee while keeping an eye on her hat. I determine that I must shoot from the inside out, so I discretely reach into my purse and adjust my settings. I pull down the ISO to 800—although the picnic table is under an awning, there’s a healthy amount of light outside and with a wide open aperture at f2.8, I think I can get a clean shot at the corresponding shutter speed.

  Aaron gave me advice the first week on the job: “Be an actor,” he said. “Pretend you’re someone else. That’s the only way to do what we do.” And it comes to me: Angelina Jolie in any one of her movies: badass, sexy bank robber/CIA operative-type. Perfect! I’m well trained and stocked with the tools to pull off a multimillion-dollar diamond heist. My cover—eight months preggo—couldn’t be more brilliant. The audience is on my side.

  Besides the staff circling about, my current audience at the Chateau includes two groups of people. There is one table of four. I’ll be shooting directly over their heads if I photograph Katy through the window. The other is a group of six who are standing in the back of the den. Two of the women from that company keep looking at me. See, they’re rootin’ for ya, Jen.

  For about twenty minutes more, I pace, change seats, pee again, and envision myself as Angelina. I play out the scene in my head, dressed in a skin-tight black leather outfit and tall boots. (I’m really wearing maternity jeans and a tank top. At least I’m not wearing sweats.) Mostly, I’m worried about the staff; the guests can’t really do anything. I figure I’ll burn it in one chance, so I must take the picture at exactly the right moment. I watch the way the staff moves in and out. I notice that about once every three or four minutes, there is a ten-second break when no staff is in the den.

  Katy is facing the window, but as she talks she looks from side to side. Though it’s not a full-length, with the beau chapeau, the “Katy” name tag, and the setting, it will make an admirable shot—if I can get Katy face-on, or nearly. But to avoid the heads at the table of four and the panes around the glass window-wall, there is only one square foot from where I can get a face shot. I’ll need to shoot from a random spot in the room—just kind of “out there” in the middle.

  I have my p
lan. I know how I am going to execute. So now I wait. I sit and sip my lukewarm coffee. I breathe. I relax. Je suis Angelina. Je suis jolie. There will be a lull in the staff, I know. If Katy is looking up at that time, I will stand and shoot. If not, I will wait for the lull to happen again.

  My camera is in my bag and both my hands are on it. My right hand is on the shutter button, and my left is wrapped around the lens in the shooting position. I am a crouched tigress waiting to pounce. I am strong and warm and powerful and beautiful, like Angelina. No one around me knows what’s about to happen.

  It is five minutes before no staff is in the den again. When I look outside, Katy is gazing up not talking to anyone. It’s now. I stand, move to my mark, let the bag fall to the ground, bring my camera to my face, and with my arms pulled tightly to my chest for steadiness, take one precise shot. I can hear how slowly my shutter moves—the “open” and “close” both audible. I hold my breath to become even more still, refocus, and take two more shots. My adrenaline makes that easy; my control is complete.

  After the three shots, Katy looks away. Just as calmly as I began, I finish. I pick up my bag and reinsert my camera. When I look around to see who’s seen me, to see if I’m about to be escorted out, the maître d’ is suddenly there, facing me.

  “Would you like more coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I’m good.”

  I notice one of the well-dressed women from the far side of the den is staring at me. She looks to be about fifty. I raise my eyebrows slightly in acknowledgment, and at that, her awed expression breaks and the words “Oh my God” form on her lips. I nod, crisply and confidently.

  Katy stares at me through the window, and I see her motion to a waiter. I should hurry. I gulp down the rest of my coffee and walk out before anyone has a chance to close in.

  As I make my way to my Prius, I can’t stop smiling. I rocked it. Nobody shoots in the Chateau.