The Chronicles of Max: Packages, Chapter One

New couple imagin8orr and wilmabuttfit were looking for a creative way to challenge one another... so they agreed to co-write a fictional story. The only rule was that each had to build on whatever direction the other decided, one chapter at a time.

We invite you to take a sneak peek into one couple's experiment in letting go of control, trusting the creative spirit, and watching something truly collaborative emerge.

Chapter One

Max Johnson was an ordinary man. He was single, college educated, and lived in a two bedroom apartment in Los Angeles.The master bedroom contained a king-size bed, with lots of pillows, and was decorated in an Asian theme. The second bedroom had been converted to an office, and was filled with an L-shaped desk in the corner, a computer with three monitors, high-backed leather executive chair, printer, and two filing cabinets along the wall to the side. His living room contained a black Italian leather couch, coffee table from Ikea, a few comfy chairs, and a home theater system with surround sound that was the envy of his neighbors. Off to the side, he had a drafting table and chair, positioned so he could work at it and look up to see the television. His walk-in kitchen had a central counter jutting out from the wall, with sink and dishwasher built into it. The front of the counter had three wooden stools spaced along the floor and Max often would cook his food and eat it sitting on one of them.

Finishing his work early, Max wondered what he was going to do with the rest of his day...

He had been avoiding that one email for as long as he could remember, and today was no exception. The issue was one he wasn't completely comfortable pondering head on, and, if he was honest with himself, he didn't even want to cast a sideways look via his peripheral vision. His avoidance and fear was pervasive enough that each morning, as he logged into his email, he very consciously avoided scrolling down to even acknowledge it.

The decision facing him drew the proverbial line in the sand that fundamentally called into question much of what he already worked so hard to achieve. The issue itself loomed large above him for longer than he had lived in Los Angeles - one that had caused him to wait to get serious with Anna (resulting in him being alone, romantically, once again), one that made it impractical to buy a place of his own, one that made him a virtual transient in the town that he loved, dodging the security of a normative life that so many of his peers enjoyed.

What could he do about it? He could keep avoiding, that's what. Max supposed he could just bite the bullet and read that email once and for all, but it seemed his entire will was dead set against it. What's the worst that could happen? He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about it at all. But, somewhere deep down, he knew he had to do just that. He'd been putting it off for so long, it had gotten to the point where he couldn't put it off any longer. He so wanted to get out and enjoy the rest of the day, but he felt compelled to go back to his desk, sit down, and open that dreaded email. "Man up," he thought to himself. "Grow a set." Still he resisted. Finally, something inside clicked and he said, "Fuck it," and sat down to open the email.

The subject line of the email read "Package #4". He recalled the day when this all began for him, when he was approached on campus, sitting in his favorite easy chair by the in the spacious student union. The man drew near him, unannounced, and began as if he was continuing, with the calm demeanor of a colleague. With an impressively broad, muscular frame, a towering height and disproportionately large hands, the man clearly stood apart from the throng of skinny coeds and lumbering surfers. Max remembered glancing up, amenable and listening, at first pleasantly, then with growing alarm, then with a slowly forming curiosity. Max could still recall the intrinsic charge he felt, as he accepted the man's business card and watched him descend the stairs and exit the building. The flush of reproach, the growing incredulity, left his head cloudy. Might this finally be the karmic comeuppance he always believed he was so deserving of?

He did not make the decision that day, nor the day after. He tucked the card in the pocket of his moleskin notebook, and allowed the proposition to slowly take root. He drifted through classes and social exchanges, working hard to still his face, relax his gate, afraid to let on that he hefted this enormous chance on his back, for fear he would drop it, crack it and helplessly witness it leaking and soaking into the carpet beneath. The impending holiday break, normally anticipated as a chance to lounge and drink and cease preoccupation from all things weighty now loomed as an opening, a convenience for Max to do some digging, to secure private moments for himself to wrestle this pursuer to the mat.

"Package #4: The Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels, The Campanile." His stomach sank. This time, it was here, right here in L.A.

Tune in next week for the next installment!