[Author's Note: I'm taking a break from /r/WritingPrompts. Instead, I want to expand/combine a couple of the existing posts. This will continue from from where yesterday (Homeward Mo) left off.]
Mo's mother lived in the remains of an upscale suburban HOA at the edge of the foothills. There was a low but sharp ridge line, The Hogback, that separated the area from the larger Denver metroplex, creating an illusion of remoteness and privacy without diminishing access. The drive from the power station took her three-quarters of an hour, Mo's minimum time to mentally prepare for her mother. She tried to map out strategies and conversational gambits, using her mental model of her mother to plan for the visit. But she kept getting distracted by the auto-car.
Mo had had very few opportunities in her life to ride in an auto-car, her financial situation keeping her to mass transit. Those few had been prior to the Institute when she was too young to really understand what was going on. Then there had been that thing with her Dad. Now, she was in one as an adult and began to understand the appeal. The ride itself was as unlike Mo's experiences on Denver RTA as soccer is from American football. Both have the same goal, but one is slow and plodding with unrealistic time expectations, while the other is fluid and smooth, never stopping. The car never appeared to be going fast, but it also never stopped. At intersections, the car zipped through, occasionally missing other cars by inches. There were no lights, no stop signs. The car was linked into the Denver RTA expert routing system and adjusted itself in small increments to fit with and around the other vehicles long before such encounters were near at hand.
She would watch other auto-cars approach her own, especially those on perpendicular courses, and try and guess how close they would get as they passed. A small, more sadistic part of her mind started hoping for a collision. Some proof that the system was not perfect.
Eventually, the auto-car drove past a weathered sign that read "Ken Caryl Country Club and Community"[1]. The raised lettering was in some scripty font that was supposed to denote money and wealth and exclusivity. Now the gold paint had flaked off and the chain it hung from was covered in rust. The road past it was still in good repair and led into a sheltered grassland that had been carved into little boxes on the hillside. Most of the boxes no longer had the two story dwellings that had filled them from edge to edge, the houses and foundations long since removed by the new residents.
In their place were stands of grains: corn, wheat, barley. The golf course was pastureland for a flock of sheep that kept the grass almost as neat as the long gone grounds crew. The clubhouse with its industrial kitchen remained and had a cluster of simple huts surrounding it. Each hut had decorations covering their simple clapboard sides: flowers and leaves, moons and stars, other ancient fetish symbols that had been re-interpreted by the current culture. Mo's mother's place was Yin-Yangs inside Egyptian Eyes on a rainbow background.
"We have lost connectivity," said Erics in her ear.
"Yeah, sorry," replied Mo. "I should have warned you. They had this place cut off. Intentionally. It's a network dead zone. They have some idea that living without access is somehow more fulfilling, closer to the intent of nature or some such nonsense. Kind of like a mix between the Amish and a California Weed Co-op."
"This will limit my ability to help you."
"I know. But maybe that's not a bad thing. It also means that it will be more difficult for whoever They are to track us."
"As long as They do not have this place staked out."
"I don't think so. Mother had herself declared dead a while back. When she came here. And I haven't visited her in almost as long. If all they are looking at is on-line records and my visit habits, They won't know about this place."
"Then this is not home. Yet you called it home. Why is this home?"
"I don't know. I guess the apartment should be home, but, well, I was subletting from Sandra and it was always a little temporary. I never really thought of it as home. This place? My mother lives here. And while she and I, we've not gotten along since the accident and the Institute and all that, I have no better place to call home. It's not where I grew up. It's not where I've lived the longest. Heck, today is the first day that I've visited it, though I've seen pictures. But Mother is here, so that I guess that's why it's home."
"It is home because you decided it was home?"
"Sure. Go with that. I've got nothing better."
The car stopped by the club house and Mo got out. She stuck her hands in her pockets and trudged over to the Egypt-o-Chinese hieroglyphics. She knocked on the door and yelled, "Hey, Mother. It's Mo. I mean Maureen. I'm home."
[1] Mo had had occasion to dig into the KC3&C's history just before her mother moved out to it. It had been developed in the 1990's as a place for the affluent to retreat from their day time lives, then called a variety of things like "Valley Traditions" and "Valley Heirloom". Huge homes with french windows and slate roofs had filled the space, each leaving a carefully cultivated median of vibrant grass and rose bushes. The streets had been wide and sweeping, laid out around the Country Club with its upscale grill, swimming pool, golf course and five digit mandatory yearly membership dues. Most of the homes were originally occupied by Baby Boomers and, when they decided that 5K square feet of living space was too much for two elderly people and a dog, retired to expensive rest homes. Most kept the property and handed it off to children, who got together and came up with the KC3&C name, consolidating several HOAs. But when the retirees retired to the after life and stopped paying the club dues, the children sold off the houses at a loss and moved back into the city. The final nail in the KC3&C coffin was the California Gold Dust that drifted across the streets and lawns, killing all of that careful landscaping. There was a space of two decades where the whole area was tied up in a series of finger-pointing law suits before it was abandoned and allowed to revert to nature. That is when Mo's mother's group took over.
Mo's mother lived in the remains of an upscale suburban HOA at the edge of the foothills. There was a low but sharp ridge line, The Hogback, that separated the area from the larger Denver metroplex, creating an illusion of remoteness and privacy without diminishing access. The drive from the power station took her three-quarters of an hour, Mo's minimum time to mentally prepare for her mother. She tried to map out strategies and conversational gambits, using her mental model of her mother to plan for the visit. But she kept getting distracted by the auto-car.
Mo had had very few opportunities in her life to ride in an auto-car, her financial situation keeping her to mass transit. Those few had been prior to the Institute when she was too young to really understand what was going on. Then there had been that thing with her Dad. Now, she was in one as an adult and began to understand the appeal. The ride itself was as unlike Mo's experiences on Denver RTA as soccer is from American football. Both have the same goal, but one is slow and plodding with unrealistic time expectations, while the other is fluid and smooth, never stopping. The car never appeared to be going fast, but it also never stopped. At intersections, the car zipped through, occasionally missing other cars by inches. There were no lights, no stop signs. The car was linked into the Denver RTA expert routing system and adjusted itself in small increments to fit with and around the other vehicles long before such encounters were near at hand.
She would watch other auto-cars approach her own, especially those on perpendicular courses, and try and guess how close they would get as they passed. A small, more sadistic part of her mind started hoping for a collision. Some proof that the system was not perfect.
Eventually, the auto-car drove past a weathered sign that read "Ken Caryl Country Club and Community"[1]. The raised lettering was in some scripty font that was supposed to denote money and wealth and exclusivity. Now the gold paint had flaked off and the chain it hung from was covered in rust. The road past it was still in good repair and led into a sheltered grassland that had been carved into little boxes on the hillside. Most of the boxes no longer had the two story dwellings that had filled them from edge to edge, the houses and foundations long since removed by the new residents.
In their place were stands of grains: corn, wheat, barley. The golf course was pastureland for a flock of sheep that kept the grass almost as neat as the long gone grounds crew. The clubhouse with its industrial kitchen remained and had a cluster of simple huts surrounding it. Each hut had decorations covering their simple clapboard sides: flowers and leaves, moons and stars, other ancient fetish symbols that had been re-interpreted by the current culture. Mo's mother's place was Yin-Yangs inside Egyptian Eyes on a rainbow background.
"We have lost connectivity," said Erics in her ear.
"Yeah, sorry," replied Mo. "I should have warned you. They had this place cut off. Intentionally. It's a network dead zone. They have some idea that living without access is somehow more fulfilling, closer to the intent of nature or some such nonsense. Kind of like a mix between the Amish and a California Weed Co-op."
"This will limit my ability to help you."
"I know. But maybe that's not a bad thing. It also means that it will be more difficult for whoever They are to track us."
"As long as They do not have this place staked out."
"I don't think so. Mother had herself declared dead a while back. When she came here. And I haven't visited her in almost as long. If all they are looking at is on-line records and my visit habits, They won't know about this place."
"Then this is not home. Yet you called it home. Why is this home?"
"I don't know. I guess the apartment should be home, but, well, I was subletting from Sandra and it was always a little temporary. I never really thought of it as home. This place? My mother lives here. And while she and I, we've not gotten along since the accident and the Institute and all that, I have no better place to call home. It's not where I grew up. It's not where I've lived the longest. Heck, today is the first day that I've visited it, though I've seen pictures. But Mother is here, so that I guess that's why it's home."
"It is home because you decided it was home?"
"Sure. Go with that. I've got nothing better."
The car stopped by the club house and Mo got out. She stuck her hands in her pockets and trudged over to the Egypt-o-Chinese hieroglyphics. She knocked on the door and yelled, "Hey, Mother. It's Mo. I mean Maureen. I'm home."
[1] Mo had had occasion to dig into the KC3&C's history just before her mother moved out to it. It had been developed in the 1990's as a place for the affluent to retreat from their day time lives, then called a variety of things like "Valley Traditions" and "Valley Heirloom". Huge homes with french windows and slate roofs had filled the space, each leaving a carefully cultivated median of vibrant grass and rose bushes. The streets had been wide and sweeping, laid out around the Country Club with its upscale grill, swimming pool, golf course and five digit mandatory yearly membership dues. Most of the homes were originally occupied by Baby Boomers and, when they decided that 5K square feet of living space was too much for two elderly people and a dog, retired to expensive rest homes. Most kept the property and handed it off to children, who got together and came up with the KC3&C name, consolidating several HOAs. But when the retirees retired to the after life and stopped paying the club dues, the children sold off the houses at a loss and moved back into the city. The final nail in the KC3&C coffin was the California Gold Dust that drifted across the streets and lawns, killing all of that careful landscaping. There was a space of two decades where the whole area was tied up in a series of finger-pointing law suits before it was abandoned and allowed to revert to nature. That is when Mo's mother's group took over.
