Free Headspace by Calinda B Page A

a section of dreads. A section of spike. A section of perky braids. Lastly, there’s a section of more of the sleek early-Hollywood glam actress. His clothing matches the hair—a quarter Rastafarian, a quarter future-punk, a quarter farm girl, and a quarter ball gown, complete with jewels.
    “How do you do that? Keep all the segments connected, I mean. I’d think they’d fall off.”
    “Do you like it?” he says, swirling again in a dramatic circle.
    “Yes, I do.”
    “Then, that’s all you need to know. Trade secrets and all that. Let’s roll.”
    We head out to his mode of transportation, a classic Cadillac roadster from way back in the 1930s. Highly specialized trans-mode restoration teams have taken to putting current Super-Smart-Car technology in the shells of old cars. The name of the game these days is reuse, repurpose, and restore. No more claim and rape of resources. It’s not that the planetary inhabitants’ morals are improved. We just can’t afford to make any more mistakes. We all need to make do with what we’ve got.
    “Nice wheels, Magicka!”
    “Thanks. They’re Dean’s. He’s got bucks. I’ve got friends. I’m a mere waiter, don’t forget.” He opens the car door and says, “Dean, this is the wonderful woman I told you about—this is Vienna.”
    Dean is another flamboyant gender bender. He sports a full-on Alexander Skarsgård vintage True Blood bad-boy look on one side, coupled with a futuristic female-model kind of makeup from the Nuevo trendzies, current news we can access if we have the right pulse-com subscription. You can see people riding public transportation, sitting in cafes, or even walking with Nuevo trendzies news displayed in front of their retinas. I peruse it from time to time, too. Dean’s full-bowed Kewpie-doll half-red lips dotted with jewels were popular last week.
    “Hi, Dean. Thanks for letting me tag along.”
    “No problem, sugar,” he says and winks at me. “Now huddle up and let’s zoom.”
    I hop in between them, sandwiched between their two distinct fragrances and unique looks, and away we speed.
    The Cadillac navigates us over to Capitol Hill. When I was a child, my mom told me that “the Hill” used to be fun, flamboyant, and full of color. It was mostly occupied by gays. Today the only color that exists is the two men next to me. The streets are in disrepair. Buildings are gone, vacant, or in a state of decay. “Why are we over here?” I ask. “This place is dead.”
    “Not entirely,” Dean answers. “There’s a place here that you’ll just die when you see it. The owner, a guy named Kayos, got tired of waiting for a restoration team so he took matters into his own hands and built himself a gem.”
    “What’s it called?”
    He glances over at me and smirks. “Gem.”
    “Oh. You set me up for that one.” I give him a wan smile.
    “Just trying to cheer you up.”
    “Thanks.” He looks ahead and frowns. “People are starting to find out about this place. Look. A line is forming.”
    “Should we go somewhere else?”
    “Oh, no,” Magicka responds. “Dean does enough favors for Kayos; we should manage to get something.”
    “What kind of favors?”
    Magicka arches his perfectly painted eyebrows. “A girl never kisses and tells.”
    “Oh. That kind.”
    After we find a parking place, we walk around to the back of the restaurant. Dean knocks at the door. It opens, words are quietly exchanged, and soon a bleached blond, statuesque guy I assume is Kayos, due to his exuberantly warm, full-lip contact greeting of Dean, ushers us inside. He leads us up a set of stairs and seats us in a private area overlooking the whole dining area.
    “This is quite a place. I’m Vienna, by the way.”
    He gives me a blond handshake, bats his blond lashes, and says, “Kayos. My pleasure. And thanks.” He waves a hand toward the downstairs. “Well. As you can see my fans are waiting. Chantel will be by in a bit to take your orders.” He leers at