|
Chapter 2: The Velvet Rope Brigade
 By Jim Caple |
Previously at 24 College Avenue: Steve Hamilton is a photographer for the State College student paper. He and its sports editor, Woodward P. Redmond IV, spent a week in jail when they refused to give police a memory card of photos for an investigation into a riot on campus that caused more than $10 million in damage. . . . The Asterisk is the nickname of a slugger closing in on the home run record. . . . Former housemate Kenan Hill is an All-America linebacker for the Red Devils. He was briefly suspended for taking a performance enhancer as a sophomore until it was learned that he had only taken a placebo for a State College medical study, He overcame the notoriety of the suspension with a junior season tha t earned him All-America honors. . . .
When Woody promised Steve a job anywhere in the vast Redmond family’s Journal-American newspaper chain as his reward for standing up for journalists’ First Amendment rights by going to jail over the memory card, he imagined a summer on a spectacular expense account raiding the liquor bar at five-star hotels while shooting sports around the globe – Wimbledon, the Tour de France, the NBA Finals, the All-Star Game, the pennant chase. When he learned that he instead was being assigned to the Page 2 beat for the chain’s flagship paper, he pictured a summer hanging out at New York’s most exclusive clubs, sipping $20 martinis while taking pictures of super models, movie stars and A-list celebrities.
As is usually the case, reality was a little disappointing.
The New York Journal-American was the most conservative and blatantly self-promoting newspaper in the country – just as USA Today insisted on referring to the United States as the USA, the Journal-American referred to citizens as Journal-Americans. The secret of its three-million daily circulation, however, had nothing to do with its conservative stance, its aggressive investigation journalism or its legendary headlines. No, people picked up the tabloid for Page 2, an intoxicating mix of celebrity “news,’’ gossip and soft-core porn. The daily pinup of the “Page 2 Bombshell’’ had been a Journal-American staple since the First World War when the feature started as part of a war bond and the revealing pictures revealed only a bare ankle or glimpse of stocking. They now revealed quite a bit more. Groups were const antly boycotting the paper over the bikini- or underwear-clad (and occasionally topless) women. The Redmond family only laughed and counted its profits.
Steve would have been delighted taking photos of the “Page 2 Bombshell’’ (he joked that what the police really wanted the memory card for was his up-skirt photo collection of the State College Red Hotties cheerleaders) but that assignment always went to the veteran photographers. So, too, did the “candid’’ photo shoots of movie stars arranged by their publicists. Instead, Steve was assigned to the paper’s Velvet Rope Brigade, a motley core of hungry paparazzi assigned to come up with compromising photos of notoriously difficult celebs. The Velvet Rope Brigade was so named because these photographers never got into the exclusive clubs. They spent long nights outside the velvet ropes on the sidewalks and in grubby alleys waiting for celebs to walk by with their entourage.
“The goal is get the most unflattering photos possible,’’ his editor said. “People love seeing the rich and famous looking fat or ugly. Makes them feel better about their own lives. Whoever said the camera never lies obviously hadn’t heard of a wide-angle lens.’’
The Velvet Rope Brigade was less an assignment than a sentence, usually handed out to shooters and reporters who pissed off their editors for some transgression such as getting scooped or missing deadline. Steve’s crime was being young. He couldn’t imagine why “The New York 24/7 News’’ photographer Dayton Shelton was on the brigade as well. Shelton was a legend in photo-journalism. His graphic images from the war of wounded soldiers fighting an angry mob of insurgents had won him the profession’s top awards while his willingness to go anywhere for the best photo and brave any danger had earned him universal respect and admiration from both his peers and soldiers .
“Pardon me for asking but how did you get assigned to this beat?’’ Steve asked nervously as the two stood in the parking lot. “I mean, ummmm, I don’t mean like you shouldn’t be here but I was just wondering, why, well . . . you know.’’
“Why am I here instead of shooting something important? Is that what you mean?’’ Shelton replied. Steve nodded. “I made a mistake on my expensive account.’’
“What kind of mistake?’’
“My mistake was not realizing the new guy in accounting could read Arabic so he saw that the receipt I submitted for the $4,000 service fee of my translator/driver was actually a takeout menu signed by the guy behind the counter at Schwarma World. It sounds bad, I know, but in my defense, I paid for a new car before they finally caught on to that scam.’’
“You must hate this.’’
“I do. But it beats jail,’’ Shelton said, absent-mindedly clicking through his digital images. “Besides, I’m just doing it until something else comes along. What about you? Is photo-journalism everything you thought it would be?’’ He pointed to the other photographers leaning against the wire fence or sitting on a group of garbage dumpsters.
“Yeah, right. I can’t believe they have us waste our time waiting in places like this every night. It’s demeaning. They should have me on the missing State College cheerleader story. For God sakes, I know her.’’
“Get in line. A beautiful blonde cheerleader goes missing at a haunted lake? You won’t get within 500 miles of that story. It’s all you see on the TV news shows.’’ Shelton said “TV news shows’’ as if he was saying “dog @&$#.’’
“Here he comes!’’ one of the paparazzi shouted.
The paparazzi immediately lit up the night with their flash bulbs. Steve reacted slowly and quickly found himself elbowed out of position with no clear camera angle. He lifted the camera above the crowd and held his finger down on the shutter, hoping he was getting something. The paparazzi suddenly pushed back as an SUV with smoked windows pulled out of the parking lot. Whoever was inside unrolled the window just enough to stick a hand out and give the paparazzi the finger as the vehicle sped away. The cameras flashed again and the paparazzi rushed to their nearby motorcycles.
“Don’t just stand there, kid,’’ Shelton yelled as he grabbed Steve by his jacket. “Time for the hunters to go after the prey.’’
Steve and Shelton shoved their cameras into their backpacks, hopped on their motorbikes and joined their fellow photographers in hot pursuit of The Asterisk.
# # #
Kenan winced in pain as he edged himself into the dark wood booth in the back room of the Blue Moon Pub. He had injured his back carrying a roll of sod at his summer landscaping job three days earlier and it was healing slowly. He hadn’t even been able to lift weights after work – not that he would have felt like it anyway.
“Does your back still hurt?’’ asked his friend from society and justice class, Morton Yelm, who sat on the other side of the booth. “You should have that looked at.’’
“Already did,’’ Kenan said. “It’s just a strain. It will get better.’’ He signaled a waitress and ordered two beers.
“I don’t know why you take the risk,’’ Yelm said. “If I was a possible first-round draft pick, I wouldn’t get off the couch except for practice and games. Well, and sex. Though I would try to do that right there on the couch, too.’’
“Yeah, well,’’ Kenan said. “I need the money. Scholarship only covers the basics. If I want to buy anything -- a car, video games, a pair of pants, beer – I have to pay for it myself.’’
Kenan arched his back and craned his neck, hoping to relieve the pain and strain. It didn’t help. He hoped he would be able to sleep more than he had the previous nights.
“Man, it pisses me off the way they take advantage of you guys,’’ Yelm said. “The coaches get million-dollar contracts and you guys don’t get squat. You even have to risk your health working literally back-breaking jobs in the summer.’’
Kenan shrugged. “What are you gonna do? It’s the way it is. And next year at this time, I’ll be rich.’’
“IF the season goes well. IF you don’t get hurt. But what if it doesn’t? Then what?’’
“Then at least I’ll have a college degree, same as you.’’
The waitress arrived with the two beers. Kenan took one and drank it in one gulp.
“It ain’t right, though,’’ Yelm said. “At the very least, you should have someone looking after your finances right now.’’
“Finances? What finances? All I’ve got is what’s in my wallet and maybe a thousand dollars in my checking account. Don’t need much looking after for that.’’ He lifted the other beer mug to his lips.
“I know a guy who could help change that,’’ Yelm said,
Kenan quickly set the beer down.
# # #
Steve cut the engine of his motor bike and looked at the marquee of the club The Asterisk had ducked into minutes earlier. “THE LUSTY LADY’’ it proclaimed in big, red letters. “We Proudly Guarantee Our Girls Take Performance Enhancers. Check Their Rears For Needle Marks.’’
This, he thought, is journalism? What the hell was he doing hiding in an alley and trailing a baseball player to a strip joint? Why didn’t the newspaper take advantage of his personal background with the news story that had captivated the nation -- the State College cheerleader who had disappeared from Devil Lake?
“Is this great of what?’’ Dayton Shelton said, grabbing his camera gear. “I can’t believe the guy came here, knowing that we were on his tail. He probably figured he lost us during the race away from the stadium. But it takes more than a single photographer crashing into a taxi cab to shake this group. We’re the opposite of the Mariners. We always leave our wounded. I remember one time -- ’’
“Should we really be doing this?’’ Steve interrupted. “I mean, doesn’t the guy have a right to a personal life?’’
“What, are you going to hold his hand next?’’ Shelton replied. “These guys don’t have personal lives. They made a deal with the devil. They get millions of dollars and constant praise. In return, we own them as permanent, fulltime public figures. Until we lose interest, in which case we dump them as literally yesterday’s news.’’
“But do we really need to photograph them at strip bars? I mean, it’s hardly news when a ballplayer goes somewhere to check out naked girls.’’
“You’ll never make it in this business if you don’t get rid of that conscience,’’ Shelton said. “Hell, if you think this is an invasion of privacy, you should have met Gracie the Ghoul. She used to listen to the police scanner for fatal car accidents. Then she would race to the victim’s house so she could tell the spouse and get the anguished face on film. That woman taught me everything I know in the business.
“Besides, isn’t it better we pick up the rock and show fans the disgusting worms and insects squirming underneath? That way they can see these guys for what they really are instead of inflating them as heroes.’’
“I guess so,’’ Steve said, though what he wanted to say was, “What’s wrong with having heroes?’’
As the paparazzi set p for their vigil, Steve passed the time by checking his test messages. He cursed when he read that there was some big news conference scheduled in the morning in the cheerleader case. An hour passed and then another. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was nearly 2, which only made him more tired. At least he probably would be able to sleep tonight despite the lack of air-conditioning in the shabby fourth-floor walkup apartment the Journal-American had him sharing with three others interns.
“There he is,’’ someone shouted and Steve sprang to attention.
The Asterisk was walking out of the Lusty Lady and he wasn’t alone. His massive right arm was wrapped around a beautiful young blonde in a tight black skirt and a thin white tanktop that did little to hide her nipples. The Asterisk was whispering into her ear when he looked up and realized that the paparazzi had been waiting for him. He tried shielding the girl’s face but it was too late. Flash bulbs lit up the night like Fourth of July fireworks.
The Asterisk grabbed the blonde by the hand and dashed to his SUV. She opened the passenger side door and he jumped into the drivers seat. He roared out of the club’s parking lot, followed by the paparazzi on their motor bikes.
“How about this?’’ Shelton said, looking back at Steve with a huge grin. “FYI, that was NOT his wife.’’
Steve didn’t think so. He checked his digital display and saw that he had gotten a perfect picture of The Asterisk with his arm around the girl. Her breasts were so prominent they seemed larger than the Asterisk’s biceps. Any misgivings Steve held about invading the Asterisk’s privacy disappeared immediately and were quickly replaced by the tantalizing possibility of a Page 1 photo that could secure him a better assignment or a fulltime job. and
With adrenaline pumping through his body, Steve hopped on his motorbike and raced up to catch up with the rest of the pack. He was doing close to 50 when the night was filled with the horrible sound of tires squealing and metal crashing.
Next: Endangered Species List
|
|
|
