The Sands ...

On the third day Cleo slowed and was watching for something as we rumbled along the dusty highway.  When she found it she waved for me to follow her into the desert.  As we traveled I saw other tracks in the desert clay and sand; other bikers had come this way.  I came up beside her and shouted over the thunder of our V-twins.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” was all she would say.

We traveled for over an hour before I saw our destination; a dark object in the distance, thrust up out of the desert’s flatness.  Growing nearer, I saw it was a building, slightly atilt and looming like a grave marker in the wasteland.  Soon I could pick out details of the building and it began to look familiar, but it was when I saw the tall sign that I knew it for what it was; under a bronze sunburst the swooping letters spelling ‘Sands’ and beneath that in block letters on the marquee; ’44 GREAT YEARS THANK YOU’, the last message that it conveyed to the world on November 26, 1996 when it was brought down in a series of demolition charges.

We rode up the grand entranceway of the hotel and heeled our bikes over on their stands.

“Holy shit.” I said, gazing around.

“This building is significant to you.” Cleo said.

“This building is legend.” I said, “Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, they made this place famous.”

“And they were who?” Cleo asked, looking at me like I’d started babbling.

“Legends from my time.” I answered, a bit deflated as we walked into the hotel lobby.

We found the Copa Room and the kitchen and found enough ‘fresh’ food to cook up a pretty good meal.  Like everything else in Betwixt, food materialized like magic – one of the benefits of being in the land of the dead I suppose.  It was odd, sitting in the Copa Room, just  the two of us, drinking wine and eating off Sands plates with Sands cutlery.  I didn’t say much and Cleo picked up on it.

“I hurt your feelings.” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“You were so excited about this place and I’ve only known it as a place to find food and shelter that was better than usual.” Cleo said, “So tell me about this Frank person.”

“Sinatra.” I said, “He was a singer and actor, part of a group of entertainers known as the Rat Pack.  Frank had hit songs in the nineteen-thirties right through into the two-thousands – seventy years.  Back then, nobody asked ‘Frank who?’.”

“He entertained longer than most people live.”

“Yeah.” I’d never thought of that, but it was true, “This hotel was backed by some big named gangsters; Meyer Lansky, Frank Costello, Joseph Stracher.”

“What’s a gangster?”

“A successful criminal.” I told her, “Here’s the thing about Frank; when the Sands opened, races were segregated.  Only white entertainers could play in the big casinos, and black people couldn’t even come to a place like this for dinner.  The Sands was the first to book a famous black singer named Nat King Cole to play this very room, but he wasn’t allowed to eat in the dining room.  It was Frank who broke that bullshit.  He invited Nat to join him for dinner and the segregation rule was gone.  Who knows, they could have eaten at this very table.”

“Was he really a King?”

“What?  No, that was his name.” I said, “How long have you been here?

“I told you; you wouldn’t believe me.” she said and smiled, her eyes at half-mast.  I could see the wine had relaxed her.

“Try me.  I’ve seen a lot of crazy since I got here, I’m starting to get used to it.”

She was quiet for a time as though contemplating whether or not to tell me her tale.  I discovered in those long, silent moments that her face was never truly expressionless.  Her emotions were sculpted there in minute movements; a slow twitch at the corner of her mouth; a slight raising of an eyebrow; a flare of her nostrils that was so glacial in its slowness it was barely noticeable.  When she spoke, she spoke softly, yet in the silence of the Copa Room her voice commanded the space, owning the very air we breathed.  The theatre was designed for great performances and hers was the greatest I’d ever heard.

“I died where I was born, in Alexandria, Egypt, on August twelfth, in the year you call 30 BC.” Cleo said, “I was thirty-nine years old.”

I set my glass down because I was afraid I’d drop it.

“And now I’m over twenty and a half centuries old.”

“Cleopatra.” I whispered, afraid to make even that sound.  She nodded.

“Daughter of Auletes, mother of Caesarion, Alexander, Selene, and Philadelphus.  Last Queen … last ruler of the Ptolemaic dynasty.” she said, “And I am bored with existence, Max Brandt.  I infused my flesh with the poison of a cobra to escape being humiliated by the cursed Romans, but here …” she smiled bitterly, “… here I can’t die.  I can only be gomered like Rosie, and more and more that looks like peace to me.”

“Such a long way to fall.” I said, feeling a tenderness for her.  She looked up into my eyes.

“I have already fallen.” Cleo said, “What better place than Fluffy’s to wait out eternity.  Unaware of who I once was.  Believing whoring is love, that every man’s hand on my body is kind.  Being cared for and cherished like a precious artifact.  Gently used and revered in an animalistic way.  Because after-all; who wouldn’t want to fuck a Queen.  I would never feel lonely again.”

After a time I stood and held out my hand and she took it.  Together we walked outside past the half-moon shaped pool to the hacienda-styled two story motel buildings.  The pool was inexplicably filled with crystal clear water and the motel rooms were level, unlike the tilted tower that loomed above.

We chose the third room we came to, it was luxurious with thick blue carpet and a king sized bed.  We stripped down and I led her to the pool and for the first time since landing in Betwixt I swam its length and together we dived deep to push off the bottom and play.  When we were clean we returned to our room and made slow, melancholic love on the crisp sheets, both of us silent and moving with purpose.  Afterward, I lay on my back and she pressed her body against mine.  As I cradled her head under my chin, she wept as quietly as she made love, but for much longer and without the reward of release.  Her sorrow was deep and eternal.

I felt shame rise in me as I compared Cleo to Olive, the two women I had known so far in Betwixt; one whose spirit was alive and vibrant and filled me with joy, and the other who had escaped a ruined life only to be immersed in the torment of endless existence.

Two thousand years.  After that length of time I wondered how I would fare.

"BETWIXT - where the dead things go"