Post by kadenkeene on Jun 26, 2006 7:27:33 GMT -5
The Tappan Zee bridge finished construction on December 15th, 1955. Named for the local Native American tribe, the Tappan, and for the dutch name for a large expanse of water, a "zee", the bridge was designed to carry 100,000 vehicles on a peak day across the Hudson River. Its design was a modern innovation that saved millions of dollars in construction costs.
It was a feat, while inconvenient to more than 200,000 homeowners, that could be appreciated by anyone who has ever seen it. And as Kaden Keene stood in the westbound lane, on the main cantilever span, the steel work gripped loosely in his hands, he could, as well.
The traffic had stopped. An endless row of vehicles sat impatiently behind the dozen or so police cars from both Westchester and Rockland Counties that had splayed across the entire expanse of the bridge. A man with a megaphone spoke calmly into it, telling Kaden that everything was OK, and that there was no reason to jump. But was that true? No.
There was plenty of reason; He had made the tragic mistake of dating a porn starlet, and had made the even more monumental mistake of marrying her. Together, they attacked their Hollywood dreams, and they both came up empty. Well, that's a lie; Cindy spent most of her days getting stuffed.
A bit of success came when Hollywood finally called in the form of what is known nation-wide as the B-Movies. Kaden usually starred as the lead in movies consisting of white women with fake tits running screaming from poorly-conceived psychopathic, homicidal monsters bent on fucking up perfectly good sorority beach parties. No matter, Kaden was making money, and that was something he had never done before.
At the behest of his wife (who was, herself, gaining some popularity in the Gonzo niche of the porn industry..."Nobody can take a triple-team like Cindy Sinn" AVN once said) Kaden hired an agent.
"How else are you going to market yourself?" Cindy told him before he was convinced paying someone to do something he could do for himself was a good idea.
This from the girl who's had enough dark meat in her to feed Somalia at Thanksgiving.
Eventually, Kaden caved in and hired Elmo P. Jonas, an agent from a small firm just outside LA. A shady character at best, he was the best Kaden could afford. He proved some worth anyway, getting Kaden a few high-paying gigs. He even helped Cindy make the transition from porn to mainstream film, in the straight-to-the-garbage-can horror flick Camp Killington.
Her latest role landed her in New York City for pre-production. At first, Cindy wouldn't talk much about it, which was strange, but Kaden attributed it to nerves. This was a bigger film than she had done (and maybe that Kaden had, as well) and she had plenty on the line. She hated porn, and this could really be her way out.
She called him two days ago. "Come up on Saturday," She said. "We need to talk."
Now, on their own, those four words are just fine. We, Talk, Need, and To are necessary parts in plenty of good sentences. But put them together...in a certain order, of course...and they strike more fear into the hearts of men than "Hey, what's that spot on your dick?"
He spent the next day eating his fingernails and pacing his apartment. Was she cheating? Had she met someone else?
Long story short, old Elmo P Jonas had worked his way into more than just the sticky underbelly of Hollywood's less-than-elite. Cindy told him (Elmo wasn't there, of course) after a drink in her hotel room. He nodded, slammed another Budweiser, and left without a word.
Well, that was easy. And the answer was, too.
The cab dropped him off on the bridge, and the cabbie gave him a "She ain't worth it, buddy." before Kaden dropped a c-note in his calloused hand to make him go away. He crossed into the westbound lane, not caring a single bit for the blaring horns and vulgar screams of the commuters who nearly flattened him. He came to the edge, looked down. Cement. Water.
The jump wasn't as easy as he'd hoped. He stood for a good forty minutes before the cops showed, and there he stood until the scene we see now: The Tappan Zee bridge at a complete standstill on a cool but sunny April afternoon, a man who has barely lived yet standing and ready to make this the last fact of his life.
Time hasn't helped. He peered over his shoulder with only minor curiosity at the ridiculous amount of public servants whom had gathered because of him. Fuck that. Because of her.
"We can talk about it, friend." The man with the megaphone soothingly said.
"Stop calling me 'friend', pal." Kaden shouted.
The man on the horn almost giggled. "Well, you ain't told me your name, chief!"
Nice. Kaden liked that. A touch of real personality peeking out from behind the mask of professionalism. That had made him considering coming back from the edge more than any soft-spoken cliche the old bastard had dropped on him. If he walked away from this, he'd remember that.
More To Come...
It was a feat, while inconvenient to more than 200,000 homeowners, that could be appreciated by anyone who has ever seen it. And as Kaden Keene stood in the westbound lane, on the main cantilever span, the steel work gripped loosely in his hands, he could, as well.
The traffic had stopped. An endless row of vehicles sat impatiently behind the dozen or so police cars from both Westchester and Rockland Counties that had splayed across the entire expanse of the bridge. A man with a megaphone spoke calmly into it, telling Kaden that everything was OK, and that there was no reason to jump. But was that true? No.
There was plenty of reason; He had made the tragic mistake of dating a porn starlet, and had made the even more monumental mistake of marrying her. Together, they attacked their Hollywood dreams, and they both came up empty. Well, that's a lie; Cindy spent most of her days getting stuffed.
A bit of success came when Hollywood finally called in the form of what is known nation-wide as the B-Movies. Kaden usually starred as the lead in movies consisting of white women with fake tits running screaming from poorly-conceived psychopathic, homicidal monsters bent on fucking up perfectly good sorority beach parties. No matter, Kaden was making money, and that was something he had never done before.
At the behest of his wife (who was, herself, gaining some popularity in the Gonzo niche of the porn industry..."Nobody can take a triple-team like Cindy Sinn" AVN once said) Kaden hired an agent.
"How else are you going to market yourself?" Cindy told him before he was convinced paying someone to do something he could do for himself was a good idea.
This from the girl who's had enough dark meat in her to feed Somalia at Thanksgiving.
Eventually, Kaden caved in and hired Elmo P. Jonas, an agent from a small firm just outside LA. A shady character at best, he was the best Kaden could afford. He proved some worth anyway, getting Kaden a few high-paying gigs. He even helped Cindy make the transition from porn to mainstream film, in the straight-to-the-garbage-can horror flick Camp Killing
Her latest role landed her in New York City for pre-production. At first, Cindy wouldn't talk much about it, which was strange, but Kaden attributed it to nerves. This was a bigger film than she had done (and maybe that Kaden had, as well) and she had plenty on the line. She hated porn, and this could really be her way out.
She called him two days ago. "Come up on Saturday," She said. "We need to talk."
Now, on their own, those four words are just fine. We, Talk, Need, and To are necessary parts in plenty of good sentences. But put them together...in a certain order, of course...and they strike more fear into the hearts of men than "Hey, what's that spot on your dick?"
He spent the next day eating his fingernails and pacing his apartment. Was she cheating? Had she met someone else?
Long story short, old Elmo P Jonas had worked his way into more than just the sticky underbelly of Hollywood's less-than-elite. Cindy told him (Elmo wasn't there, of course) after a drink in her hotel room. He nodded, slammed another Budweiser, and left without a word.
Well, that was easy. And the answer was, too.
The cab dropped him off on the bridge, and the cabbie gave him a "She ain't worth it, buddy." before Kaden dropped a c-note in his calloused hand to make him go away. He crossed into the westbound lane, not caring a single bit for the blaring horns and vulgar screams of the commuters who nearly flattened him. He came to the edge, looked down. Cement. Water.
The jump wasn't as easy as he'd hoped. He stood for a good forty minutes before the cops showed, and there he stood until the scene we see now: The Tappan Zee bridge at a complete standstill on a cool but sunny April afternoon, a man who has barely lived yet standing and ready to make this the last fact of his life.
Time hasn't helped. He peered over his shoulder with only minor curiosity at the ridiculous amount of public servants whom had gathered because of him. Fuck that. Because of her.
"We can talk about it, friend." The man with the megaphone soothingly said.
"Stop calling me 'friend', pal." Kaden shouted.
The man on the horn almost giggled. "Well, you ain't told me your name, chief!"
Nice. Kaden liked that. A touch of real personality peeking out from behind the mask of professionalism. That had made him considering coming back from the edge more than any soft-spoken cliche the old bastard had dropped on him. If he walked away from this, he'd remember that.
More To Come...