Maxwell Rhodes

Male

Sixteen

Tenth

Confused As Fuck

Single

"My gran always told me, 'Kid, you got a handsome face. If you ever need to run away, that face gets you places - 'member that.'"

Growing into it. Or maybe already fully grown - biology 101 busts that lie right out of the gate. At least, it's quite obvious 5'11" is probably the highest he'll ever get. If he's lucky, he's got an inch or two more, but maybe Max will always be 'almost six-oh.' Maybe that's all he was meant to be. Everything else, however, seems set and ready to grow into. The staple 'Good Genes' and at least half of that's owed to a father he'll never meet. The one thing he's for sure he can thank him for.

Having busted his ass over a summer filled with a bid to get tougher, bigger, better out of some sense of justice he tells himself, Max fills out the regular mold for a high school baseball player. Lithe, skinny, but with enough meat on his bones to knock a baseball over of the fences. It's just the odd fact that he always looks a bit awkward. Akin to a duck, but also attributed to someone in a bundle of clothing, not used to the surrounding body weight. Outside of a diamond field, Max still feels like he's a lot smaller than he is and a lot more gangly.

Of anything, his hands never changed: spindly things, long and delicate. Immaculate, with callouses as evident to his diligence over the summer, but still shapely and thin. They slot in, at home on his mother's camera - a second eye to film moments exactly as he sees them - and flitting over the keys of a piano. They're likely the only thing not awkward about Max, which is oddly fitting to what he sees in a mirror. His hands, his eyes, and his mind are the few things he wholeheartedly believes in.

✧ Straightforward
✧ Flighty
✧ Stubborn
✧ Isolated
✧ Immersive, but Oblivious

"Everyone either gives themselves too much credit, or not enough."

Obviously, first thing's first: Max believes that if you're gonna say something, you gotta say the full thing. Otherwise, why say it in the first place? He's not the typical person anyone would find beating around the bush. Something's on his mind, he'll say it. Well, it's not always a guarantee. That's usually the thing about Max. He has a policy where he won't say a damn thing unless he needs to. An opportunist, but with words and whether or not they're on his mind.

Coupled with the fact that he's also driven and determined, his bluntness often comes off as reliability, in a sense. Being deliberate in his intentions is usually something you can hold Max accountable to. But, reliable or not, Max often finds himself too focused on any one thing to pay attention to the world around him. Get him involved on a project he feels passionate about and he'll end up drowning in it. At least, it'll get done and Max doesn't skip on the effort, even deprived of sleep or food. One-hundred percent, even if it means barreling down the wrong direction. Stubbornness? Yes. Conviction? Even more so.

That's not a good measure on how he interacts with people, though. Perhaps it's a precursor. If anyone's talked to Max, they'll often notice how chatty he is; he'll talk until he runs out of breath, or interest, and both he has a high supply of. Max talks to anyone. Max talks about anyone. Max talks with, to, for anyone. But, Max just talks and he can talk, and talk without meaning anything by it. Not unless there's something specific on his mind; not unless he's biding his time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to speak up. Despite Max's ideas and ideals, especially when it's concerning opinions it all comes down to one thing. Max is a hypocrite. He may be deliberate and opportunistic, but he also doesn't like silence and so he'll do whatever he can to fill it. And fill it. And fill it. And none of it has to mean a damn thing if he doesn't want it to.

✧ It's easy to tell when Max is 'filler talking' or, as some have come to calling it, filibustering. He'll avoid eye contact and tends to pay more attention to his surroundings than the person he's talking to. They could leave and he'll just keep talking. That's a good way to tell: leave while Max is talking and if he keeps going, he's likely just talking to fill the space next to him.
✧ When in deep thought, Max will wet his lips and then rub them together, on his teeth, and stare off into the distance.
✧ He refuses to drink orange juice without the pulp, but will sit there and pick the pulp out of his glass until there's none left. It's truly, truly, truly disgusting.
✧ If he's bored enough, Max can be caught playing out a song on his desk as if it were a piano. He does it slowly, and with light fingers - he's too self-conscious to actually play it like he would on an actual piano. Subterfuge air-piano playing.

✧ Filming; his mother has a very old camera he often takes short movies with. Usually just environmental stuff.
✧ Photography; not a heavy hobby, but he does have a cheap camera he likes taking pictures with whenever a moment presents itself.
✧ Piano; plays it often with and without sheet music. He learns classical better with sheet music and learns anything contemporary by ear.
✧ Baseball; an easy one, of course, but when he wants to lose himself to a routine, he often practices with himself or with others.

✧ 80s Sci-Fi flicks
✧ Various documentaries (favorites are nature and anything on the darker side)
✧ Autumn mornings
✧ Old, Silverage Comics
✧ Analyzing movies and films
✧ Birds
✧ Sweaters

✧ Snow
✧ Trees during the winter (minus Pines)
✧ Harsh lighting (especially fluorescent lights)
✧ Bitter beverages and foods
✧ Chocolate
✧ Feeling lightheaded
✧ Mean cats

Janet Rhodes - [Mother; 37]: Estimates the cost of buying a home, remodeling it, and then selling it and then does exactly that when she's got a good project lined up.
Alice Rhodes - [Grandmother; 57]: A successfully retired artist (who was also successful in her field) who saves up her money religiously and currently has enough to live comfortably with her daughter and grandson while also still working a decent amount. She's what everyone aspires to, really.

Just another suburban household in a suburban neighborhood. Honestly, it's not special and it's very much Alice Rhodes: minimalist, spartan, bare necessities. Or, at least, as much as Max's mother can tolerate. They talked her into a two story that can comfortably fit two-and-a-half people because three, to his gran meant three families, rather than just a family of three. Still, it's decent in size and looks nice and tidy, partly because both Max's mother and grandmother are meticulous and immaculate (honestly, so is Max). It's got a modern day family feel, homey, but oddly temporary with a decent living room, working kitchen, two-and-a-half baths, and three bedrooms, one office. It's present and it's there, with decent, if not worn furniture and a number of paintings and pictures scattered through the household.

There's a Honda Civic beater just waiting for him in the garage, worn down green with a rusted fender. The driver side door can only be unlocked from the inside, the passenger side door has to be kicked open, and the windows barely work. Fortunately, the radio is in tip-top shape and the A/C works like a gift from God. It also has decent mileage, oddly enough, and doesn't require much gas to get from here to there.

"He always wore these makes, you know? One day, he decided he couldn't wear 'em anymore."

Contrary to popular belief, life doesn't really begin at birth. In a biological sense, sure, but when does anyone ever remember their first days on this planet? Kind of impossible. So, for Max, life started forming at four and onward, piece by piece. Unfortunately, memory kicked in after his father left them. Took all the money he could and hopped on out. That's what his mother says, anyways. For the both of them, life took a downhill turn. Home turned into a shanty apartment on Maine's rocky coast, which eventually turned into no home, at all. Janet had no job even with a masters and a mountain of experience to show for it. Recession kicked in. Price of homes skyrocketed. They were left on their asses.

Pride kept them on the streets for longer than necessary. Janet finally made the decision after Max had gotten far too sick one day and she couldn't afford the medical bills. Her mother swooped in the moment she could, paid everything off, rented a decent hotel with hot water, a warm bed, and food by the dozen. She whisked them away, happy to take in her grandson and her own daughter after so long out of contact. Pride made way for sympathy and eventually a new found confidence, after toiling in depression and grief for as long as necessary.

A good life, that's all she wanted for her child and she'd failed in doing that. Fortunately, Max never begrudged her any, nor did he look to cast any blame. A kid is only privy to their surroundings and a loving mother, despite all the pain and suffering they both went through, catches the attention and settles in the memory more concrete than the trauma. Like any kid, Max took everything in stride and, plus, a warm winter in Texas was better than the shivering cold of some podunk town in northern Maine.

Growing up in a house that cultivated his many new found talents made for a reasonable transition into a stable teenage life. Piano came first, of course, with his mother having dabbled in playing in her formative years. He took to it easily, let the music come to him. Then photography with a ratty camera that his mother could barely afford - pride still has its moments. He took pictures by the dozen, of himself, of his mother, but mostly of the trees and the sky. And then, after a day of rummaging in a bunch of piled up boxes after a long day moving, he stumbled upon a video camera to film with.

For a child, passion is a sudden thing that their mind cannot yet comprehend, but it takes hold nonetheless. Every moment was spent with a tape in the cartridge just filming whatever he could. It wasn't until a little later in his life that he took to film as more than just a hobby and more like a life. Old films, new films, various movies, and so much cinematography. For the longest time, his aspiration was cameraman until it eventually grew a little larger. Producing, directing, even acting, at one point. He figured out he'd rather hold the camera and direct people, than step in front of it, for how awkward he tends to come across.

Now, supposedly, it's just getting through the muck of high school and heading for bigger things. Of course, Max doesn't really mind it much. High school's just a stepping stone, and in the meaning of everything, it doesn't really... matter, much, aside from the grades and the volunteering and the experience to get an education that will actually aid him in his future job. Shoot wide, the moon is just as good as any of the stars - his own philosophy. Of course, it's hard to chew when mediocrity doesn't suit his ideals.

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