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Stalking John & Jessica
IN REPORTER SELLS HER SOUL TO STALK CELEBS
Hi, my name is Mari, and I'm one of the paparazzi.
Some might call me a stalker. I don't know which one is worse. But I had a shot at tailing pop singer John Mayer for some extra cash, and I took it. I'm not proud of myself. But for a couple days, I became a paparazzo for Life & Style Magazine.
I never followed boys I liked or anything. I rarely even Google people I know. But this week, I found myself insatiable, searching the Internet and magazines for stories about Mayer and singer/actress Jessica Simpson.
I have a hunch about where the couple is staying, so I drive by and I'm delighted to find five matching tour busses. Jackpot!
I hardly look old enough to drive, so I adopt my clueless persona and wander back into the depths of the "employees only" tunnels of the Crowne Plaza hotel, until I find a waiter and a housekeeper on break.
"Hi! I'm sooo sorry to bother you, but do you know if THEY are gonna sign autographs?" I ask, looking innocent and hopeful. "Before the concert tomorrow or anything? I mean, John Mayer IS here, right?"
"Oh, we don't know anything about the VIPS that are staying here," she responds. Too savvy for me.
"John Mayer? Is he playing in town?" asks the waiter.
His co-worker turns to address him: "Jessica Simpson and John Mayer. They're here in the hotel!" she tells him.
I hadn't even mentioned Simpson. Confirmation!
Next stop: the hotel bar.
I order a Corona for me and a Budweiser for my husband, who now thinks I'm ridiculous but is playing along.
Everyone at the bar is talking about the stars, and I don't mean astronomy. We watch the band members walk through the lobby, but give them their space. None of the patrons even bother the crew who come in for a drink. They don't sit with us at the bar, but their connections already sort of set them apart from us.
My husband finishes his beer and goes to wait in the car. He feels sorry for two people our own age having to run from the celebrity hunters. I know what he means, but I'm in too deep. My Corona now tastes like success. It's like when you can smell blood during a tough tennis match, you're playing your best and you know you're going to win.
It bothers me—even scares me a little—how easily I can objectify a couple, who happen to be celebrities, in order to hunt them like game and exploit them for my own gain. Oh well, I'm already here.
The band gathers in the lobby. I want to talk to them, but they're aloof and not so friendly. When I mention my husband, they act even more unfriendly and I am ignored. Sad.
Then the happy couple arrives—John & Jessica—displaying all the affection I've tracked them down to observe. It's everything I could have wanted! I'm looking for indications of their relationship and they make it so easy.
I'm hiding behind a brick pillar in the lobby. They're just on the other side. I'm being suave and taking blurry digital pictures with the flash off to keep from alerting them to the presence of the press. I eavesdrop on Mayer talking about the movies, and store that away just in case I need to follow them later.
I ask for an autograph to play into my adoring fan act. Well, that and I've never actually seen a celebrity before, and now here are two, co-signing my napkin.
I'm memorizing everything they say. I always ask too many questions of people I don't know, but I have to hold back so they don't suspect anything, especially since their suspicions would be completely accurate.
"When are you coming out with another song like 'Comfortable?'" I ask casually.
Mayer is watching Simpson sign a slew of autographs, but glances down at me for half a second. He shrugs.
"I write them as they come," he says.
"What are you guys doing tomorrow?" I ask (awkward pause). "Are you going out to the beach?"
"No, I have to work."
Is that what they call a concert?
"Are you jealous that everyone wants her autograph?" I grin and giggle, and he overreacts.
"No!" he says loudly above all the buzz in the lobby. "What kind of question is that?!"
Oops, overstepped on that one. Bounce back, bounce back.
"Can I get a picture of you two together?"
He doesn't even look at me.
"She's the nice one. I'm not nice," Mayer says.
Then he calls her back over, away from her adoring fans.
I was right there, so I snap a picture.
"Hey!" Mayer says. "You have to ask her!"
"I'm sorry," I say, smiling and laughing and hoping to come off as star struck, but really just high on the rush of a story with photos. I ask Simpson: "Do you mind, if I get y'all's picture?"
She scoots over to him and smiles, and he hides behind her. She is, in fact, the nice one.
As soon as they get into their hotel shuttle bus for dinner, I run outside and jump into my car. My driver, I mean, husband and I screech off after them!
We arrive at Applebee's as they walk inside. We park and decide to go around the back, so they won't see us and think we are crazy stalkers (which I kind of am by now). Except they slide in through the back, too, so we end up walking through the well-lit parking lot right outside their table. Uh, not so smooth.
Inside, I grill our waiter: What's she having? What's he having? What are they doing later?
He humors me to a point, but won't ask their plans for me. Rats!
After dinner we have a brief interlude, so I drop off my husband, who has a real job, at home. I then race back to the restaurant and see a bunch of people boarding the hotel shuttle.
Returning to the hotel for a nightcap at the bar, perhaps? I floor it to catch up to the van, but get separated by a fire engine (What are the odds?). Everyone was off the van by the time I sprint into the hotel. No one is at the bar.
Stakeout? Then it strikes me. The movie theater! Applebee's was within walking distance of the Rave Motion Pictures movie theater, and I had overheard Mayer mention movies!
So, I zoom back and run up to the ticket counter (I'd changed jackets at home to look different) and ask which movie Jessica Simpson went into. The ticket guy stares at me blankly.
I sigh. Time to fake like friends.
"It was a group of like five people (guessing here), they got here around 10 o'clock (An educated guess. It is now 10:30), she's wearing a green sweater, brown boots, looks like a pop star." I turn on the charm, looking right at the ticket guy. "I mean, she's with John Mayer."
"Oh, they went to see 'Smokin' Aces.'"
"At 10:15? You're guessing, or you know?"
"No, I remember them buying tickets."
"Oh, has that movie already started?"
"Yeah."
I try to act disappointed. But really, this is my way out of buying a ticket for a movie I don't want to see anyway. I'm ready to be done for the night.
"Oh, OK. Well, thanks." Laden with fake disappointment, I shuffle back to my car, go home and crawl into bed.
After all, I can only hunt for so long.
Like lots of things, the thrill is in the chase, and chasing any more would start to border on obsession. I already feel like I'm losing a little piece of my soul. Maybe if I cut my losses, it'll grow back.
In the meantime, I'm reeling with the excitement of the chase. Just call me Mariazzi.
