Shooting Stars (23 page)

* * *

People have always told me that I look like Kirsten Dunst, so how could I not like her? Plus, she just seems
cool
. Somebody I'd want to be friends with.

But I don't think she likes me.

I'm waiting for her at the bottom of Nicholas Canyon Road, same place Kate Bosworth (if she's not being paranoid) comes out. Kirsten lives a bit higher up the canyon from Kate. Simon and I can't figure out why so many twenty-something actors choose to live there. It's stunning real estate, no question, but it's not hip in any way. The neighbors are sixty-something, and you can't walk to anything. I'd hate it.

Kirsten's an easy spot in a black Prius with a dented fender and TOY on her plates. It's actually TQY but it looks like TOY, so that's what we all say. Every pap knows the car. She comes down around twelve-thirty and smokes me out immediately. Kirsten's tactic is to weave in and out of side streets, then abruptly stop in the middle of the road and wait to see if anyone's following. She sticks her hand out the window and motions for me to pull up. I've heard she does this—always wants “to talk.”

“Hey, Kirsten,” I say, window to window.

She blurts out the automatic question all celebrities ask, though of course they know the answer. “Why are you following me?”

“Don't you think we look alike?”

Just kidding, I don't say that. Her skin is
so
much better. It's like creamy mayonnaise. Mine's more like tartar sauce.

I actually say, “You must be so over us right now—I get it—but you've been gone all summer and now that you're home, people wanna see you. It'll only last a week or two, then we'll be gone.”

Kirsten has been in the United Kingdom following around a new boyfriend and being photographed mostly in little villages outside quintessential British pubs with five-hundred-year-old brick facades.

She doesn't have to give me
anything
—she can cover—but I honestly don't think she cares enough to bother. She never covered in England.

“Well, I'm not gonna pose for you.”

“Of course. Don't pose. Just go wherever you're going. I'll take some shots, then leave.”

“I feel sorry for you guys,” she says and seems to mean it.

We continue. She drives slowly now, not trying to lose me.

Had the stars been aligned, I do think Kirsten would have given me a few shots today, but as it happens, around the next corner sits a cop. Kirsten pulls up beside his car, chats for a second, and then drives on. The cop falls in behind her Prius and then stops in the middle of the road, blocking it both ways. Trapped, I watch Kirsten escape.

After a minute, the cop moves out of my way and lets me pass.

I yell out my window, “What's your problem? How'd you like it if we messed with your job?”

Lucky for me, he doesn't respond.

Regardless, I hope the cops aren't stupid enough to think the celebrities like them. Nobody in L.A. likes the cops. They're as reviled as the paparazzi. They gotta know that.

* * *

After Kirsten goes bust, trolling is my option. I circle the city and then stop by a boutique gym, a small house in Hollywood where celebs like Jessica Simpson and Eva Mendez get personally trained. John Mayer's distinct New York-plated Porsche Cayenne is parked outside.

Three hours later, J.R. calls. “Mayer's in New York,” he says. “Musta left his car there while he's traveling.”

Awesome. My frustration as a pap no longer comes mainly from nasty paps, tainted cops, and nosy neighbors. It now lies in the repetitiveness of my daily routine and the boredom of waiting for, but not necessarily getting, the frame. Today, as on many others, I've spent hours squeezed in a hot front seat watching the California sun move from one side of the sky to the other.

The only thing that seems to stimulate me these days is the thought of having a baby. It's honestly like there is an unborn child inside of me
who's been there since I was a child. I crave its life as much as I crave the preservation of my own. He, or she, or both is not just something
I want
; it's a true
need
of mine. In Maslow's hierarchy, it comes at the bottom as the biggest priority: there is
baby
, then there is
food, shelter,
and
clothing
. And I know celebrities have babies well into their forties, but I can't guarantee my eggs are golden, and I definitely don't have thousands to spend on IVF. I gotta get going. Now, I'm starting to not even care so much about the guy; with my biological clock clamoring, I just want the kid.

* * *

Late in the day, I follow Ellen Pompeo to Griffith Park. I catch “Meredith Grey” by doorstepping the
Grey's Anatomy
set, which I've found highly profitable: there's never competition, everyone from
Grey's
sells, and the actors don't always go home after work. Besides, it's convenient, only two blocks from my house.

The light is extremely low—it's cloudy and almost 6 p.m.—and I'd like Ellen to
not
know I'm here. I'm unsure what her reaction would be should she see me, and I want her looking natural. Right now she is: she's playing fetch with her dog. And I know that animal shots
always
sell.

A flash is ideal, but impossible. Short-and-flash requires getting in my subject's face, not practical in a game of fetch. Without a flash, I will take a hit on the number of usable frames (many will have action blur) and the quality of frames (they will be “softer” and “noisier” than they would with a flash or in strong light).

I select my six hundred, a fixed 600mm lens, a beast of a thing that Aaron has loaned me. He doesn't like it because it's too heavy. I would like to shoot through the tint on my car window—this would allow stealth—but that's impossible in the existing light. I crack my window and at times hop out and hide behind my car, which besides Ellen's is the only one in the vicinity.

After fetch, Ellen gets in her car and pulls up beside me. I hang my
head low—I've been a bad dog. I knew she'd seen me halfway through the shoot when she put her sunglasses on.

“I understand you have a job to do,” she says. “I don't like it, but I know you're gonna do it anyway. Next time, I just want to know you're here.”

This is the first time a celebrity has said this to me, and it makes perfect sense. It's how I would feel. Of course, what Ellen doesn't factor in is that when a celebrity knows we are there, she doesn't always cooperate or she becomes self-conscious and does something like put her
sunnys
on, as Ellen did, making herself less identifiable and thus less valuable. There are good reasons why we hide.

But I'll respect Ellen's request. “Sure. OK. I won't try to hide next time.”

She adds, “I'm not the kind of girl who's gonna get all dressed up for you. I just like to know when someone's taking my picture.”

“I understand.”

Then I can't help myself. Ellen, this itsy-bitsy woman, has a
giant
Northeastern accent, something you never hear on
Grey's.

“Your accent,” I say. “I never knew.”

She smiles, blushes, and says, “See you around.”

“Make 'em smile” was Aaron's advice to me in the beginning; and from here on out, I will always announce myself to Ellen and she will always smile for me.

* * *

It's been three months since I followed Katherine Heigl home from the same
Grey's Anatomy
studios. I barely knew who she was then. Now she's won an Emmy and the tabloids pick up every set of her I take.

When someone starts to get hot, they get hot
fast
. There's a window, and by catering to the public's interest during that window, a celeb can make a significant impact on her future star power.

With Katherine's convenient Los Feliz home, close to my apartment, I am working her at least once a week. Other paps haven't caught on yet,
so I usually have her to myself. My secret won't last long, though, and I know it's wise to take immediate, unrelenting advantage when it exists.

After getting seen by her a few times—as you inevitably do when you overwork a celebrity—I realize that when my friend Katherine Heigl knows I'm there, she looks down the barrel, smiles, and waves. She actually gives me
better
shots when she sees me. (Aaron constantly reminds me: “She's not your friend.”)

Whether she is my friend or work acquaintance, Katherine Heigl is my new favorite celebrity. One day as she orders a soda at an outdoor kiosk in the Grove, I put down my camera and approach her. I want to say thanks. Plus I see her all the time, and it's starting to feel awkward that I haven't introduced myself yet. Often it's just the two of us, walking around, running her errands.

“Hey, Katherine.”

“Katie,” she corrects.

“Right, Katie.” I suddenly have shaky-voice-syndrome; talking to a celebrity still makes me nervous. “I just wanted to introduce myself—I'm Jennifer—and also say how nice it is that you're always so agreeable and generous with pictures. It's really pleasant to work on you.”

I say “work on you” and know that sounds strange. I don't know how else to put it.

“No problem,” she says. “Some people just take it so seriously.”

“Well, thank you, Kath—I mean Katie.”

“Sure,” she says smiling. Then she says, “And, thank…
you
.”

“Huh?”

“I would have killed to have my picture taken by you guys for the last fifteen years. So yeah, thanks.”

Ssssssnap!
It sure is nice when someone finally admits it:
I need you, darling paparazzi, as much as you need me.
'Cause even us paps like to be appreciated!

* * *

“Katie” lives about a half mile up Griffith Park from Adrian. When I work her, instead of sitting right on the house (which in pap/celeb etiquette isn't very polite), I usually hang near Adrian's house in a shaded area where I can keep tabs on his doings as well. There's one problem with Adrian's doorstep: the bathroom.

By now, it's probably obvious that if I were to leave my doorstep to go pee at Starbucks, the celeb could come out during that time, and I'd return to an empty house and never know it. Depending on the doorstep, there are a few peeing options. At this particular location, besides peeing in a cup, which the guys do and which, as I've mentioned, I've tried and
hate
, the only option is the front lawn across from Adrian's house.

Horrible!
Believe me, I know. Claudia refuses to use it. But this morning after a Starbucks Venti Misto, I'm desperate.

His neighbor's lawn is sort of a small field, about thirty-by-thirty feet, and full of tall, willowy grass. I make my move and race to the field. A cursory scan of the area reveals no one and I quickly kneel. I am squatted when—you know it—Adrian pulls up. Shit, I will never get a date with Adrian if he catches me publicly urinating in his neighbor's yard. Half done, I pull up my drawers, fall flat to the ground, and do not move a muscle until I hear his front door open, then close, then count to twenty. Then I scramble back to the blacked-out safety of my truck.
Phew.

Twenty minutes later, Adrian leaves and I make a quick decision to ditch Heigl and file behind. On the way to wherever we're going, I pin my hair back in a decent ponytail and apply some makeup. Adrian hasn't seen me since “the note,” and although my crush has waned, I still feel gauche. I even consider hiding—he'd never notice me—but then, I want to discuss his documentary project and push, again, the ride-along idea. I opt for being seen.

At this point in his career, Adrian is rarely followed so he has no idea I'm on him. I trail his steady-paced Prius until we end up downtown, where he pulls into an exterior parking space, gets out, and feeds the meter. I hop out next to him and take pictures. He looks at me. To eschew awkwardness, I attempt conversation. “Is it true? Are you dating Paris?”

We both know the latest tabloid rumors are absurd. Paris and Adrian have nothing in common. Besides, paps are on her 24/7 these post-jail days. There's no way he could sneak in or out unnoticed.

He doesn't answer. When his friend walks up, Adrian turns to me. “What's your name again?”

“Jennifer,” I say incredulously. He must know it.

He introduces me to his friend, they chat for a while, then he turns back to me. I'm standing ill at ease, camera down, having already
nailed
what little there was
to nail.
By now, I should be back in my truck moving on.

“Was that you who left the note on my door?”

I feel my face flush. “Yeah.”

“Well, you know that was trespassing.”

“You're my neighbor. I jog by your house every day,” I manage to stammer out this non-response but am
mortified
. The note was supposed to be “cute.”

At this moment, I dream of crawling down a manhole, slogging under the streets of the city, and re-emerging in the grassy field facing Adrian's house.

“Do you want to do an interview?” he asks.

“Huh,” I say, a little confused. “Of course.” I may not be able to sell his photos, but I bet I can sell a video. And I'm very excited to change the subject.

After more discussion, however, it becomes clear that Adrian is not offering himself for an interview. Rather, he wants to interview
me
. For his documentary.

Now, here's the thing about paps: with few exceptions, we do
not
want to be famous and we do
not
like to get photographed. That's not why we're in the business. I back off a little.

“Maybe. I'll think about it.”

“Think here. Give me your number. I'll call you in five.”

I jot it on a scrap of paper. He leaves and goes into a building with his friend.