I wake up on Sharron's side of the bed. Even though it's been over a year since she passed, it's still "her" side. When she was in the hospital, I naturally saved her spot for her. But when I knew that she would never be coming home, everything changed.
Deciding what side of the bed to sleep on, which was once a simple choice, if even a choice at all, became difficult, riddled with emotional implications. Should I continue to sleep by the windows? (Did that mean I was in denial?) Should I move to her spot closer to the bathroom? (Or would that reinforce the finality of it all and make me feel worse?)
Rosie (Our cat? My cat? Even possessive adjectives were hard.) solved the problem for me. Sensing that I needed comfort or needing it herself, she started sleeping on the bed. She had grown up to be a big cat, possibly part Maine coon. So, wherever Rosie slept, I took the other side.
Now, no day is typical. In today's variant, I am driving into Las Vegas to see The Wizard of Oz at the Sphere. It's only 20 minutes from the house. I use the word "house," because it's not really a home anymore. It's more a base of operations—Bruce's bat cave, if you will.
Traffic is light, and the 15 Freeway takes me north between the huge structures of the Allegiant Stadium on the left and Mandalay Bay on the right. Mandalay Bay towers over the black pyramid of the Luxor, which used to be the hotel that demarcated the southern point of The Strip. I feel bad for it now, having to sit in the shadow of Mandalay Bay, cheapened further by the advertisement for Michelob Ultra plastered on its side. I can't imagine the Egyptian gods being pleased. Even Bastet, the cat god sometimes associated with music, dance, and celebration, would be like, "What the hell?"
I'm proud of myself for making the trip without Google Maps, and I exit on Flamingo, passing by the mighty complex of Caesars on the left.
I know exactly where to park, under the Palazzo, where the elevators will take me close to Sands Avenue, and I can easily walk to the Sphere. I used to park there all the time when Sharron and I played at PanIQ Escape Rooms, which are located inside the hotel.
My pride in my ability to navigate Las Vegas is short lived. I'm so lost in thought that I turn into the wrong parking lot, and I end up at the Venetian instead. That'll add another 20 minutes to my walk. But that's okay, I tell myself, I've got plenty of time, and I want to do some sight-seeing anyway. It's not a mistake I could have gotten away with if Sharron were with me. The triple whammy of vertigo, back pain, and multiple knee surgeries made walking long distances unpleasant for her, if not impossible.
It's another one of those moments where there are too many emotions to choose from. I'm happy that she doesn't have to deal with all that pain and discomfort anymore. I'm sad that she's not with me. I'm relieved that I don't have to accommodate her, yet I feel guilty for feeling relieved. I breathe and let all those thoughts and the emotions that accompany them wash over me. It's the best way to live right now.
I walk around the Venetian and the Palazzo to get to the Sphere, giving me a view of the half-built guitar that will soon be the new Hard Rock Hotel. It's replacing the Mirage, which is a shame. Vegas is not a sentimental town. We demolish casinos, making a spectacle of blowing them up, and then replace them without looking back.
I'll miss the Mirage. It wasn't long ago that I attended a convention there, and I loved the volcano out front with its scheduled "eruptions." On fall nights, the heat from the flames provided a bit of warmth against the desert chill. Treasure Island is also less impressive than it was. Once the pirate ships out front moved around the lagoon, and actors played out crowd-gathering shows, getting tossed into the water as cannons fired back and forth between the two ships. Now the ships sit quietly in place.
The streets are not crowded. For multiple reasons, Las Vegas has never fully recovered from Covid. While the Covid restrictions were in place, Sharron and I would drive the length of The Strip just to get out of the house. It was surreal. No crowds flowed in and out of the casino entrances. Police tape stretched across the doors. Joggers and bicyclists traveled north and south, where once the streets were full of honking cars. Seeing it so empty made me think of Vegas as portrayed in Stephen King's The Stand, in which the forces of evil holed up in Las Vegas after, coincidentally, an apocalyptic pandemic. As if I needed another reminder of my loss, among the people on the street, I see several couples holding hands, and that ache that has taken residence in my chest gives an extra tug. In the 27 years that Sharron and I were together, we never stopped holding hands.
That's how it is. If reminders aren't surrounding you, they're jumping out in sneak attacks.
I find the Sphere, where I've never been before. A constantly changing collage of color and images shift across the exterior, encircling it in seemingly endless patterns, shapes, and scenes. One minute, it is ringed with a line of showgirls from the New York Radio City Rockettes; the next minute, it's a giant snow globe.
The gates are closed, but now I'm confident I know how to get there and how long it will take, so I return to the Palazzo for lunch. I can always count on the Grand Lux Café to provide the perfect cheeseburger, and they do not disappoint—Angus beef, shredded lettuce, and a thin slice of cheddar.
Sitting at the bar is another new behavior I've adopted, and I'm not quite used to it yet. While I'm there, Sarah texts me. She was my sister-in-law during my first marriage (which ended in divorce), but she introduces me as her brother. That describes our relationship well, but isn't technically true, so she often has to clarify. I introduce her as "Sarah." She's been keeping a good eye on me. Only hours after Sharron passed, Sarah drove me home from the hospital.
I think again about the PanIQ escape rooms located upstairs. The last room Sharron and I did together was The Haunted Manor, and we played it there. Escape rooms were part of our life, and we'd take vacations to play them. We spent even more hours watching movies together.
Right now, I have another movie to attend. I just wish I wasn't going alone.
I finish my lunch and walk back to the Sphere. As I approach the giant spinning marble of color, I hear the music of The Alan Parsons Project that accompanies one of the digital sequences playing across its face. The song is titled "Sirius" and was adopted by the Chicago Bulls as their theme song. It's a fave.
My timing is perfect. The gates are open. The staff guide us to the second floor and into the building where the entry lines are forming. The interior area is called "The Atrium," and incongruous bird sounds can be heard throughout.
The windows in the office where I used to work overlook the runways of the Harry Reid International Airport and The Strip behind it. Before Covid, there were long lines of airplanes, constantly flying in and out. A friend commented about how, when flying into Las Vegas, the passengers on those flights could be boisterous and rowdy, but flying out, not so much. After Covid, the long rows of airplanes never fully returned.From that same vantage point over the airport, I could see the unfinished orb of the Sphere when it was establishing its place among the landmarks.
For a couple years, the Sphere sat there as a dull gray ball—no lights, no animations, just steel and unlit panels. It serves as an analogy for how I felt after Sharron passed: present, but lifeless. Now, a year later, the lights are starting to flicker on. But it is a slow transition, the opposite of the sudden reveal when Dorothy opens the door to Munchkinland and everything outside her house is in Technicolor rather than shades of brown and white.
As I wait in line, I pull out my phone to make sure I can access my Wizard of Oz ticket on the Ticketmaster app. The instructions for ticketing were clear, and I followed them precisely. You cannot use a printout or screenshot for the tickets; you must present them inside an app.
A lady standing next to me starts up a conversation. She's my age, and I willingly join in. It's fine until, muffled by the noise of the gathering crowd, she says something that doesn't make any sense. It sounds like, "Are you going to getch a blabble?"
I figure out what she said using context clues and reform the words as I repeat the question back to her. "Am I going to... catch an apple? Yes, totally." And then for color, I add, "Like a kid at a baseball game."
I was able to piece together what she said, because in the scene where Dorothy meets the talking apple tree and the tree shakes its branches, foam apples—Nerf balls with words printed on them—drop from the ceiling of the Sphere into the audience. The lady next to me explains how she and her daughter are standing in separate lines so either of them can join the line that is moving the fastest. She gestures to her daughter who is standing in the line to our right, a businesswoman who looks like she's in her late 30s.
"Good plan," I say.
The other line starts moving, and the unknown lady disappears with her daughter. It really doesn't matter what line you're in, and in less than a minute I reach the woman who is scanning tickets.
She runs the scanner over mine and says, "That's a screenshot."
"But it's not," I say. My inflection is balanced, walking the thin line between assertive and combative. I've always been a diplomat, a natural result of a people-pleasing disposition, but keeping my self-respect in the process is something I've had to cultivate. In this case, though, I know I'm right. On my ticket, there is an animated blue box that runs back and forth across the screen. Screenshots are static. They can't do that.
The lady shows me her scanner. Regardless of the evidence, it says that my Ticketmaster admission is a screenshot. Technology is misinforming her, not an uncommon problem these days. She looks at my phone and sees that the Ticketmaster app is suggesting I take the additional step of transferring my ticket to Google Wallet. "Do that," she says.
I step out of line and move the ticket over. To her credit, the gatekeeper is very kind when she allows me to pass. Next is the security check. The lady there acts like someone who is training for the TSA. She tells us to keep moving through the body scanner, but the scanner is giving different instructions. The screen says to wait before passing through so that it can process each person individually.
Unsure, I hesitate then bolt forward.
"You're good," the guard on the other side tells me.
I've done it. I've successfully completed the miniature obstacle course of contradiction and I'm inside. Now the fun begins.