Page 3 of Paparazzi

Is her real name Iris? Does she live nearby? And most importantly, why the hell did she fall from the fire escape? For the first time, I’ve met a woman I would like to talk to for hours, and I can’t come up with a convincing excuse to persuade her to stay. I hate feeling so unprepared, so inept at reading someone who intrigues me. I’d like to get lost again in her teasing smile and her curious, questioning eyes. I’d like to know everything about the only woman in years who has attracted my curiosity so much I’d give anything to talk to her—not just sleep with her.

Twelve blocks on foot, and I still can’t stop shaking. I’m shocked that I slipped down that ladder—I thought I was going to break my neck. And I’m shaken that I literally ended up in the arms of Thomas Simons, drummer of the Jailbirds. That boy has blue eyes that leave you completely naked. I can’t calm the agitated trembling in my stomach and hands.

I’ve been sitting at my usual table in my favorite coffee shop for at least ten minutes, holding my hot cappuccino with the peppermint stick the barista slipped into it. I can’t afford one of those expensive sweetened seasonal drinks they make at Christmas time, so he made me a plain cappuccino and added a twist. The familiar red brick walls, covered in chalkboards with pastel-colored writing, twinkle with Christmas lights strung up everywhere, from shelves to walls, that lead to a fake Christmas tree they have yet to finish decorating. This place always relaxes me, with its warm colors, rustic tables, baskets filled with fresh-baked sweets, and the aroma of coffee that penetrates your nostrils. It feels like home and warms my heart. At Christmas time, the magic practically envelops me like a warm blanket in winter.

My encounter with Thomas seems surreal. From afar, he comes across as a classic famous, out-of-reach type you’d never even get close to. But face to face, he’s just a normal man, even a little shy. He maintains that rock-star façade imposed on him by the media, but his eyes betray him. I enjoyed listening to his voice; it’s rare to hear it even in official interviews. Everyone focuses on Damian because he’s the leader of the band, charismatic and sometimes a boaster, or Michael because he always manages to attract attention.

Thomas, however, is the beating heart of the band. They would not have the same success without his passion for the drums. I consider myself lucky to have met him and spent some time alone with him. Even if he did try and feed me the pre-approved PR version of the pants story. I don’t care, because I know all too well how to get through life by telling lies so often that reality and fiction get confused. The nuances of embarrassment in his attitude intrigued me—it made him seem more human and less celebrity. For a moment, I felt so comfortable that I almost forgot the guilt I felt when I realized who he was.

“Why the hell are you shaking so much?”

Ron’s annoying voice brings me back to reality. I look up from my cappuccino and meet the slimy gaze of the man standing in front of me—forty years old, blonde hair, gray eyes, athletic physique, successful. On paper, an ideal man if it weren’t for the fact that he makes his living speculating on people’s misfortunes, stopping at nothing. If you asked me to describe someone who’s lacking a moral compass, slimy, unreliable, and a double-agent, I would show you Ron’s picture without hesitation.

“It’s nothing. I had a little accident on the way here.”

I learned early on that lies don’t work with Ron. He sees right through them, as if he has a radar tuned to my heartbeat. Half-truths are more acceptable. I really did slip and fall from the second floor of a building. He doesn’t need to know I landed on someone he would kill to have pictures of. Ron is the worst editor of the worst gossip magazine on the planet. No one digs into people’s pasts like he does, and above all, no one is as unscrupulous in selling others’ suffering to make money.

Unfortunately, I work for him too.

“I hope at least you got some good shots out of it.” The mischievous smile he gives me as he sits down gives me the shivers.

The thing is, I called him here because I was hoping to get some pictures of Lilly and Damian—that’s why I was hanging out around their house. Nothing outrageous, I was just hoping to see their faces outside the bubble they live in. But when I saw Thomas enter the building, I realized they had no public appearance planned, and I was disappointed. I waited for hours, hoping he had come to pick them up and they’d all go out together, but it was just wishful thinking on my part.

The irony is, if any of my colleagues had been lurking around, a picture of Thomas and me talking in the alley would have made them a lot of money. Unfortunately for me, my day was fruitless, and now I have to hustle up the money to pay my bills, or this time they’re really going to cut my electricity off.

“I’m fine, Ron. Thank you for asking,” I reply sarcastically. Waiting for a shot didn’t seem like such a bad idea—I even went so far as to climb the fire escape next to Damian and Lilly’s apartment to see if I could get something that could tide me over for a while. I felt disgusted with myself for trying to capture something salacious, but I had to decide whether I wanted to eat or have a clear conscience.

“Don’t waste my time. You know I don’t like people playing around. If you have decent shots, I pay you more than generously. If you don’t, go back to the shabby apartment you crawled out of.” His tone is annoyed, and he’s irritating me too.

I tighten my fingers around the cup to avoid punching him right in his perfect teeth. If he dragged me into court, I couldn’t pay for it. Unfortunately, the golden years ended a while ago. Back then, paparazzi earned five thousand to fifteen thousand dollars for a photo of, say, Britney Spears fleeing a photographer in her car, her children on her lap. Or Lindsay Lohan collapsed on a garden wall after a wild night. Now, the tabloids rely on the agencies that collect these shots and, with the growth of gossip sites, they sell through a subscription: you pay a monthly fee and download as many photos as you want. Paparazzi are paid based on the number of downloads of a picture, so we take and upload as many shots as possible, focusing on quantity more than quality.

Although newspapers have taken a step back in an attempt to follow a moral publishing ethic, Ron continues under the table, demanding shots that cause an uproar. The more outrageous, the better. He doesn’t care if you’ve done something illegal to get them. He just wants a front-page story that will sell hundreds of thousands of copies, which has become more difficult for the print edition. While many paparazzi have to settle for a second job, keeping their distance from publishers like him, some, like myself, can’t afford to give up a well-paid photo, even if it harms the person who makes the front page. Ron exploits the desperate, both paparazzi and celebrities. He doesn’t care what you have to do to please him. His only aim is profit.

“I have shots of Logan Preston lying on the ground drunk and covered in pigeons, if you want.”

I feel guilty about proposing something like this, but to silence my conscience I tell myself that Logan Preston is asking for it. He’s an old Hollywood star who won a couple of Oscars back in the day who’s since ruined his life with alcohol and drugs, and now he’s no longer in his right mind. He drags himself, drunk and high, through the streets of New York like a zombie, fainting in ridiculous places like the middle of Union Square, covered by pigeons, holding a bag of popcorn. It happens so often these days it no longer makes the news. Not that this justifies my shots, but it is an excuse I use to live with my dirty conscience.

“If I want Logan photos, I can go to the Instagram profile of any loser tourist here in Manhattan. That man has become a tourist attraction.”His words are harsh, sharp. If we weren’t in a public place, I’d feel a little threatened by his attitude.

“I have nothing for you, okay?” The anger begins to rise, and I can’t keep it at bay.

“Damian and Lilly have been a couple for months, and you haven’t brought me a single decent shot yet. What the hell are you doing instead of working?”

I have several shots of them in intimate poses while they walk down the street or go shopping. The problem is they’re too personal, and I hoped to shoot something that could feed me, but not put them in hot water. I don’t want to throw them at Ron because I know he’d make a crappy case with them.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s taken something extraordinary and turned it into an infamous scoop. I’ve seen this for myself in the past, unfortunately, with a couple of very young actors. In the end, given the pressure, they broke up. He went so far as to imply that the guy was a rapist because the girl was only fifteen and he was seventeen, the legal age for consenting to sexual intercourse in New York State. The photo I gave him captured the two eating ice cream in Central Park, holding hands. I delivered two teenagers in their first crush, and he turned them into the sex scandal of the year. Ron can turn everything rotten in order to enrich himself at the expense of others. Handing over a picture of Damian and Lilly kissing in the supermarket—including tongues and hands tucked under the other’s waistband—could quickly turn into sex in a public place. Which would then need clarifying by their press offices.

“They are cautious and reserved. They’re always on high guard and aren’t easily tricked in public. Do you think they don’t know how we work?” The words coming from my lips are poisonous, and I hope my contempt reaches him.

“Bullshit! They don’t live like hermits in that house, and you know it. Your colleagues discovered the new address two days after they moved in, and you didn’t bring those shots to me.”

It’s true, I didn’t take them to him, but not because I don’t know where they live. I found out right away because I’ve been following the Jailbirds and Damian for years, since the beginning of their careers. I know I’m stuck in this crappy job, but being a music journalist is what I wanted to do when I grew up. I just don’t know yet when I can afford to make the leap to grown-up, considering I can barely survive, and this is the only job that brings me decent earnings. I have other income, like everyone else who does this work, but it’s not enough for my situation.

“I haven’t figured out if you’ve lost your knack or if you’re fucking with me. Either way, I don’t need you if you keep this up. I have a line of people who can sell me what you can’t give me,” he spits out more and more angrily.

“So why are you wasting your time here with me, on a Sunday night, if you have all these people giving you wonderful shots?” I openly challenge him, even though he has all the power—in this conversation and my whole life. If he decides I can no longer work as a paparazzo, he just has to make a couple of phone calls and I’ll never sell a photo in this city again.

Ron’s nostrils almost seem to vibrate; his jaw tightens into a look that could kill. “Do you really think there’s no one who brings me pictures this time of year? Your colleagues understand this is the time when you sell the most. Sure, everyone loves Christmas, but do you know how much better you’d feel if your favorite Hollywood star made the covers of the gossip magazines by sticking his fingers up his nose or, better yet, arguing with his sweetheart? We’re all kind and loving as long as we feel superior to others. Why not give people something to talk about during the holidays while they eat their turkey, or talk with the sister-in-law they only see once a year? Don’t make me lose my patience, kid. You know I can crush you whenever I want.”

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