Free Shooting Stars by Jennifer Buhl

also shooting her. Another female pap, Carol, said she had Marcia Cross get in her face—right up to her nose, so as not tobe recorded on the nearby video—and whisper, “Fucking trashy bitch.” The worst I ever heard about came out of Nicole Richie’s mouth. She reportedly told a girl pap, “Your pussy stinks,” when the pap came within earshot. Ouch !
    But in this case, Seal, fully male, was the one to berate me.
    In the end, I got the shot and the video, but nobody bought them. The tabloids didn’t like the look in Seal’s eyes, Bartlet told me, and they weren’t interested in what he “may have” said to me.
    But I know what he said, and I have made a point to never see Seal again. Paps are people too, and now I know one way that celebrities can get us to leave them alone: be really, really mean.
    * * *
    Speaking of mean, let me introduce you to the heroes .
    â€œHeroes. Miserable rats,” mutters Simon.
    Heroes are what paps call people who should be minding their own business but mind yours instead. They are the people who believe they’ve made the world a better place because of their heroic acts. Heroes are the guys (and girls) who call us “bottom feeders,” tell us to “get a real job” and to “leave the stars alone.” They block for the celebrity even when the celebrity doesn’t want to be blocked. Sometimes heroes are the valet guy and sometimes they are the security guard. Often, though, they’re just a bystander.
    Simon was on a Starbucks’s patio getting heckled by a hero while he waited for Tori Spelling to exit. When she came out, she looked straight at the hero and said, “Shut up.” Then she looked at Simon and said, “Thanks.”
    Everybody loves Tori.
    Paris is the ultimate hero-buster. She flat-out tells security guards to get out of the way when they’re blocking our shots. Whenever I need a confidence boost (often), I work Paris. She walks unhurriedly, doesn’t have an unattractive angle, and drives an easy-to-spot, babyblue Bentley with no tint. The only problem with working Paris is that normally it turns into a gangbang. She really does consistently drive down Robertson slowly in her Bentley picking up paparazzi until she has a line of twenty cars following her. But Paris is a self-made star; she knows what she’s doing. She leveraged her looks, money, her “Hilton” name, and us to get there. Frankly I’m in awe of her. She can do little wrong in my book.
    * * *
    To be clear, Hilary Duff is no Paris Hilton or Tori Spelling.
    Actually, none of the paps are too sure what Hilary is doing these days, post– Lizzie McGuire , or why she still sells. Aaron says she might sing now. “She needs us and she knows it,” he comments. He also tells me that she used to call the paps when she was going out, so not to feel sorry for her when she gets moody.
    Her doorstep (i.e., “she”) leaves early, and I am there. Hilary is being driven in her Range Rover by a security guard. In no way can my twenty-year-old station wagon keep up with the V-trillion engines most celebrities have; the guy blows me again and again.
    I circle the neighborhood looking for the car, and by happenstance, not skill, continue running back into it. Hilary is apparently going somewhere nearby. After I re-find the Range for a third time, security gets frustrated, pulls over, picks up his phone, and calls the police. It’s funny, I’ve never had anyone call the police on me, but I have no doubt that’s what he’s doing.
    Instants later, one of L.A.’s finest shows up. This is my first of what will be way too many interactions with the Los Angeles police force. The officer blocks my car—“They love doing that,” Aaron says—and starts in with the hassle: “Your registration is invalid.” ( No, it isn’t, or you would give me a ticket. ) “You