Seattle looked like it used to be a big city. There were tons of huge, abandoned buildings. There were very few cars, mostly cheap bikes that had been used one too many times over. The police were everywhere, just acting like a bunch of jerks. That was my opinion anyhow. The pulse had hit the city hard. People gathered around burning barrels, warming their hands despite the tepid temperatures. They were dressed in rags, most of them anyhow. Fortunately, Seattle looked like it was trying to rebuild after the pulse. Yet, it wasn't California.
Mom turned down a small alley and parked her motorcycle along the side of a building. I slowed down and straddled the bike beside her as the engine died down. "Alright, what are we doing here?" I asked, irritated.
"Can you just bear with me for a bit?"
"Depends."
"C'mon, we just need to walk a couple blocks."
"Do we have a place to stay?" I questioned. "I don't want to live in a box, thank you very much."
"Yes, yes, my old place should still be available."
"You used to live in Seattle?" Mom had always said she used to live in Washington, but she had never said exactly which city. Immediately, my brain began to whirl about the thousands of reasons we were coming back to the place where Mom had once lived. Interesting, interesting.
We walked down the street together. Okay, she led and I just followed. I would've been lost by myself. "City sure looks different," she muttered to herself.
"Really," I said unenthusiastically.
She shrugged and I hurried up to walk beside her. "Eighteen years will definitely change anything."
"Yeah, look at me," I said with a laugh.
"Definitely you."
We turned a corner and headed into a building that looked like it was ready to collapse. "Are you sure this is safe?" I asked as we hurried up the cracked and peeling stairs. I figured that one wrong move would send me plummeting through the stairs. Didn't want that to happen.
Mom laughed. "Like I said, 'eighteen years will definitely change anything'," she repeated.
"Yeah, yeah," I muttered. "But that doesn't tell me if I'm going to become a human pancake."
We arrived on the third floor, (I figured this from the sign that said, "third floor'). The walls were a creamy yellowish beige color. Bleh. All over the walls, there were graffiti drawings, handprints, and stains of all sorts. I didn't pause long enough to examine what the stains were from. Not that I really wanted to know anyhow.
A couple people watched us as Mom and I walked together. Mostly older people with missing teeth and big bellies. They smiled at Mom, and she smiled back. Friends? Perhaps. I wasn't sure.
Finally, we arrived at a door where Mom stopped and knocked on it. "Just a minute!" a voice cried from inside.
Quickly, Mom ran her fingers through her hair and cracked her fingers. "How do I look?" she asked, turning to me.
"Fine, I guess. Why are you so worried-" I began, but at that moment the door flew open.
"Who are you?" the black woman asked who answered the door. She had long curly hair that reminded me of the blob monster-ready to cover everything it touched. Wearing silver, glittery eyeshadow and a faint shade of silver lipstick, I grimaced. Lady, make-up is not your deal, I thought to myself.
"It's me, Max," Mom said. The lady's eyes widened.
"Max?! It is you!" They hugged, and I was left standing outside of the closeness, awkward in my unknowing of what exactly was occurring. My mom stepped back, and the lady turned to me for the first time.
"And who's this, boo?"
"This is my daughter, Alanza," my mom said, resting a hand on my shoulder.
"Hi," I said, extending a hand, politely. The lady accepted my hand and shook it warmly.
"Nice to meetcha, Alanza. Call me Original Cindy." I nearly toppled over. This was Original Cindy of whom I had heard so much about? This was the Original Cindy that Mom would tell me tales about as bedtime stories? This was the lady who was Mom's best friend for most of her life? I couldn't believe it.
Mom was right-eighteen years sure could change anything.
