The Assault

“Grab the camera and do as I do.”

As usual, George was leading his troops with a comforting confidence. It was always odd for him to speak with a level of command similar to a sergeant. I liked it though. After all, he is in charge of a profitable paparazzi company. It is something to admire. Well, I’m sure he’d hate that I called his company a paparazzi company, even though I’ve been his third in command for at least 5 years. George calls himself a photographer of human existence. I’ve known George long enough to realize that he doesn’t actually mean it. It’s just for his public image.

Everyone stepped out of the SUV and began following George down the sidewalk. I was beside him, but close enough to whisper in his ear. The other three were behind me. George stopped right at a palm tree on the corner. He stood as though he were hiding, even though it was 1 in the afternoon.

“Our target is in there. The Palorina Restaurant.” George pointed to the fancy Italian restaurant across the street. It was where Natalie Aruvka was having lunch. The actress who is notoriously difficult to photograph, even if you know where she is. “All you new guys, remember what I said back at the studio. We’re getting a picture of a specimen, not a person. I don’t care what you feel, just do it. This is how you get a paycheck for a year. It’s not about exploitation. It’s not about respect. It’s not about art. It’s not about emotion. It’s about the shot. The shot. I don’t care how much our specimen squirms, bends or screams. Get the shot! Do you want to be rich at any cost or not?” George loved to deceive the public, but I knew in moments like this he meant everything that he said. What you see is what you get, hedonism and all. That’s why we all love him.

“Shock and awe.” With that, George began walking across the street to the side entrance of the restaurant, near the garbage dumpsters. I guess this was one of his frequent moments of intuition. The only time he ever dared to move was when he was ready to go in for the attack. Not even I saw anything. All I knew was that something as little as a curtain moving could set off his intuition.

George yelled out to one of the new photographers without turning his head. “Walter, wait at that tree right next to the entrance. Smoke a cigarette or something. Take any pictures you want to." As Walter casually walked to the front, the rest of us walked into the back entrance. We didn’t ask permission, we just walked in.

There were a few chefs in our way, but like George, we simply shoved them out of the way. The floor quickly became a mess of three hundred dollar meals. It didn’t matter though; it is the only way to get to the perfect shot. Damage can be fixed with money. A lost shot can never be found. When we reached the dining area, we walked in the same manner, directly towards Natalie Aruvka’s table. The table was in a secluded and private part of the restaurant, so it was easy to avoid her bodyguards who were more than likely by the entrance to observe who entered.

We all stepped right next to her table, grabbed our cameras, and shot. I’m sure I heard her ask “What are you doing?” Maybe she yelled it, I don’t know. It wasn’t worth being distracted in either case. I got some decent shots, but I could see that George got some incredible close-ups. I don’t know if it was right or wrong. We feed a demand for fame, we get money, we are satisfied. As George always said, morals don’t matter, what matters is if you get what you want. Just like all the famous individuals he photographed. When Natalie’s bodyguards neared us, we ran out the way we came. George dropped a wad of cash onto the floor, which more than compensated for the damage caused by the wake of our invasion. On the way out, I managed to catch a glimpse of Natalie being escorted out of the restaurant. Exactly as planned so Walter could land the killing shot.