Authors: Todd Strasser
Famous (11 page)
College? Hello? Is anyone even freaking listening? Hey, Mom, Dad, how many times have I told you I don't give a crap about college? Do you have any idea how few famous actors went to college? Or went for a year or two and dropped out?
And then one day it hit me. I had a choice. I could either go through life blaming my parents or I could decide the hell with them and move on. It didn't matter what they thought or wanted. They were worried about me not going to a
good
college? How about me not going to any college at all?
That was the moment everything changed. It was almost like I wasn't their son anymore. Like I'd stepped through a portal into a different dimension. I was on my own, and it was up to me to decide what was best for my career.
Thanks to the commercials I'd done, I already had some money in the bank . . . and God bless eBay. In one week I almost doubled my money by selling practically everything I owned. Guitars, Xbox, camera, sneakers, Grampa's wristwatchâyou name it, I sold it. Then I went on Craigslist and found a room to rent in a house in North Hollywood.
I bought one-way tickets on the Lake Shore Limited to Chicago and the Southwest Chief from Chicago to LA, left a note on the dining room table, and was out of there for good.
N,
I wish you'd write. I said I was sorry. I promise I'll make it up to you when I get back to New York. I want you to tell me everything there is to know about you. Seriously. Please?
Anyway, here's the latest: Willow's raven-haired friend is Ann-Marie. She's the daughter of some big cable TV mogul and incredibly rich and thin. So is Willow. (You forget that the camera adds ten pounds).
As soon as Ann-Marie arrived, Willow came downstairs and we went out to the pool. A-M and Willow wore bikinis and have amazing bodies (Just between you and me, N, I think they must have had matching boob jobs. Maybe they got a 4 for 2 deal!!!).
I was incredibly self-conscious in my one-piece suit, and A-M wasn't exactly friendly. The first words out of her mouth to me were, “So where's your camera?”
Nice, huh?
At the pool, Willow was constantly on the phone. She had two kinds of conversations:
1. “Yes” conversations (mostly with friends): “Oh, hi . . . Chillaxing by the pool. Oh, yeah? That might be cool. Okay, let me know. Ciao!”
2. “No” conversations (mostly about business): “No, I never said I'd do that. No way! In his dreams! That's why they invented (fill in the blank: stunt people, body doubles, personal assistants, limo drivers, publicists, etc., etc.).”
Is this the secret of Willow's success? Saying no makes people want you more?
BTW--have you heard from Avy? The phone number I have for him doesn't work, and he hasn't answered any of my e-mails. I hope it's because he's really busy. If I don't hear from him soon I'm going to have to go track him down at Starwood, the showbiz-kids condo development where he's staying.
Back to Willow. We hung by the pool for a while, then she decided to try on some of the things she bought that day. She asked me to get my camera and did a little fashion show in her bedroom with Ann-Marie approving or disapproving. Nothing to get excited about. (I'll show you the shots when I get home.)
After the fashion show we went to dinner. There were six of us at a round table in the back of the restaurant. Sam had us sit in a semicircle with Willow in the middle and her back against the wall. The others were Ann-Marie, the two girls from the shopping trip--Kristen and Lanie--and Sam and me.
Willow and her friends picked at their food and gossiped. Now and then someone approached the table for an autograph.
They passed a napkin, autograph book, menu (bet the restaurant really appreciated that), to one of us and we passed it to Willow. She smiled and signed everything.
(Rule #1 for the care and nurturing of stars: Once a day take them somewhere they can sign autographs. It makes them feel good.)
Spent the rest of the day shooting Willow at the beach, at the gym, riding a bike, eating a salad for lunch. See Willow play! See Willow eat! See how healthy and well-adjusted Willow is!
Last night after dinner we piled into a big white SUV and Sam drove us to Glare, the hottest club in LA. The sidewalk was roped off; the line of clubbers stretched down the block. Paparazzi hovered. As soon as we arrived the flashes began. (Once again it's weird to be on the other side of the camera!) Paps shouting, “How do you feel about Rex seeing Dominika Bartoli?”
“How was rehab?”
“Think you can stay drug free?”
Willow was cool under fire. She
smiled for the cameras and ignored the questions. Sam stayed close and hustled us past the line and into the club. (No one checks IDs in LA?)
Thunderous music inside. Willow and her friends joined the dancing crowd. Guys began circling. You could see the word spreading that Willow Twine was there. People leaning to one another and yelling in ears. Heads turning, necks craning for a look.
Willow asked Sam to get her a bottle of water. Get this--she isn't allowed to have anything from an open glass unless Sam pours it himself. I took a bunch of pictures and was headed back toward Sam when someone grabbed my hand. It was Willow; she wanted me to dance.
So, why not? I danced with her and her friends and lost myself in the music and movement. (Don't worry, N, no one hit on me). At one point I was face-to-face with Willow and she kissed me on the cheek! (No, that doesn't count as hitting on me ;-)
Suddenly something in the air changed. All around us lips were pressed to ears,
and murmurs rippled through the crowd. A group of lanky guys had come in. Spiked hair, tattoos, and piercings. At the center was Rex Dobro!
N, it was electric! Like an old western movie where the gunfighters face off. Everyone stopped dancing. A camera (not mine) flashed. Sam launched himself through the crowd toward Willow. Suddenly they were gone.
The music was still playing. At first I didn't know what to do, but when Willow's friends started dancing and flirting with guys again, I figured I'd just wait. That's when I noticed that Rex's friends were still there, but not Rex.
After a while Sam came back alone and said he'd drive me home. The other girls all stayed.
On the way back, I asked where Willow was. Sam's answer: “Nowhere good.”
Wonder what he meant.
Really miss you. Would love a hit back. xoxoxox?
I work for the Threat Management Unit of the Los Angeles Police Department. Some people call it the Celebrity Antistalking Unit. We handle about 250 cases a year.
In my experience, most stalkers are annoying but basically harmless. The problem is, you never know for sure, so you have to approach each one the same wayâas if they have the potential to do serious harm.
By the way, I know this has nothing to do with what we're talking about, but you want to know what one of our most annoying problems is? Imaginary stalkers. The ones that don't existâexcept in a celebrity's mind.
We've got a couple of those right now. Some celebrity starts thinking, “Hey, I'm famous, and famous people have stalkers, therefore, I must have a stalker.” Next thing you know, they start seeing stalkers everywhere.
I'm telling you, live and learn. Work this unit long enough and you'll see everything.
Richard Hildebrandt was what we call a “love obsessional” stalker. At least, that's how he started out. He decided he was in love with Willow Twine. He became obsessed with her. He decided that if he could somehow meet her, she'd recognize his true love and love him back. Only with Hildebrandt, there were bigger issues. Definitely an element of schizophrenia. He believed that there were people who wanted to harm her and that he had to protect her from them.
Only, he was also the one who wanted to harm her. I'm no shrink, but obviously this was one very messed up character.
AS FALL FADED INTO WINTER, THE EXCITEMENT OF ALL MY PUBLICITY ABOUT
being the youngest paparazzo seemed to fade with it. My appearance on
The Tonight Show
was forgotten. The issue of
People
with my cover was recycled and mulched with all the other magazines. Naomi Fine grew more pregnant and announced plans to marry Marco. Just as Davy's niece had predicted, Alicia Howard burst onto the scene as the star of the new Nickelodeon series
Garage Girls
(about an all-girl garage band) and released her first CD, which debuted at number seventeen on the charts and quickly shot to number one.
By the time winter blossomed into spring, my career
momentum had wound down to something slower than a crawl, as if, at the age of fifteen, I was already a has-been.
“Wouldn't you rather be a has-been than a never was?” Davy asked one afternoon after I confided to him that whatever social currency I'd earned the previous fall must have fallen through a hole in my pocket.
“I'm fifteen, Davy,” I answered indignantly. “Isn't that a little young?”
He shrugged and didn't verbalize what we both knew: Fifteen was plenty old enough to be a has-been. Just ask Macaulay Culkin, the former child superstar of the
Home Alone
movies, or Molly Ringwald, who starred in all those John Hughes movies, like
The Breakfast Club,
Pretty in Pink,
and
Sixteen Candles
. My fifteen minutes were over, and it left me feeling slightly empty, as if I'd lost something and didn't know how to get it back. No one whispered or stared at me in school anymore.
Things had pretty much gone back to normal at home, too.
“It would be nice if you spent more time with your brother,” Mom said one morning before school while I dumped my camera bag onto the kitchen table and poured myself a cup of coffee.
“I will,” I said, taking a sip.
“You always say that,” Mom replied.
“Between school and work and Nasim, I'm busy,” I said. But the truth was, I wasn't feeling busy because I had
too much
to do, I felt busy because I didn't have
enough
. Months had passed since I'd sold a photo. Carla kept telling me to be patient, but it wasn't easy. I felt like everyone was expecting something from the paparazzo prodigy. In addition to “has-been,” phrases like “flash in the pan” and “one-hit wonder” buzzed around my thoughts like annoying gnats. Were all the naysayers right? Was I only a kid with a camera who'd gotten really lucky twice?
By April, yellow and purple crocuses had begun to spring up in Washington Square. There were green buds on the trees, and on warm afternoons people threw Frisbees and hung out around the fountain. I was sitting in Nasim's living room while he sat at the baby grand playing Bartók's
Allegro Barbaro.
Nasim didn't particularly
like
piano, but he played it for the same reason that he worked so hard to have a stellar GPA and flawless mannersâbecause he was supposed to.
With a recital only a week away, he was practicing full run-throughs of the entire fifteen-minute piece. I sat on the broad windowsill, knees tucked under my chin, gazing down at the park, wondering what famous person might be pushing a baby stroller while getting some fresh spring air. I felt antsy; I could have been down there, shooting.
