Hurtling Toward Happiness by Claudia Johnson

Author:Claudia Johnson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Arcade Publishing
Published: 2017-04-04T04:00:00+00:00

Monday, April 13, 1998

Trip budget:

$366.37

Boudro’s:

–$20.78 (Visa)

Balance remaining:

$345.59

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Alamodome

We have a few hours to kill before the Spurs box office opens, so we mosey along the riverwalk back to the Menger. On the way, we hit the Hard Rock Café to buy Ross a T-shirt, then we climb the stairs to the street, the temperature rising with each limestone step. The Alamo looms into view.

Ross lights up. “Let’s go to the Alamo IMAX!”

I have to admit I’m a sucker for IMAX, and it seems so fitting for Texas—big, big, big, BIG!

We duck in the Menger’s revolving brass-and-glass door, across the tastefully opulent lobby, down the long hallway, and out the back door to the IMAX theater where a showing of Alamo … The Price of Freedom is ready to start but we stop. The tickets are seven bucks each. My jaw tightens. Our tab is rising faster than the afternoon heat.

“Never mind,” Ross says, trying not to sound disappointed. “We’ll just cruise the mall.”

But I remember something my mother said before we left Tallahassee: “You can recover the money, but you can’t recover the time.” My jaw relaxes. “Let’s do it,” I say.

The script’s cheesier than the acting, but the screen is four stories high, and the film sweeps us up in the battle and brings it to life. Ross is transfixed. I look at his face in the flickering light and remember being transported, too, when I was a kid and saw The Alamo at the Texas Theater the year we moved to Kingsville. John Wayne put his own money into the production, which pretty well tanked, even though the story’s a Hollywood dream—nary a woman in sight and buckets of blood, everything except a happy ending. That came later, at San Jacinto.

Moved by the movie, we return to the Menger and change for the Spurs-Lakers game. Ross throws on his new Hard Rock T-shirt over his jeans. I opt for khaki slacks and a long-sleeved western-cut chambray shirt, in case the Alamodome has the air-conditioning blasting.

At five-thirty, we walk to the Alamodome and pick up our tickets at the box office. Ross asks about tours of the locker rooms, but the frail gray-haired woman says they’re done for the day. Ross handles this well.

I hand him the tickets. “Take good care of these, boyo.”

Reverently, he reads aloud what they say—Home Game 44/San Antonio Spurs vs. Los Angeles Lakers—then tucks them deep in his jeans’ front pocket.

We cross the broad plaza past a big fountain and look back at the Alamodome.

“Pretty impressive,” Ross says.

“No kidding.” The white Sta-Puft roof looks like more than nine acres, and the building has multiple levels. The middle level is glass. Tuxedoed waiters glide past the windows like tropical fish. Decked-out diners eat at tables draped in white linen. How I wish I could buy Ross an elegant dinner! “Let’s eat there,” I say wistfully.

“Oh, right,” he sighs. “That’d cost more than the tickets.” He looks at his watch and brightens. “Hey, let’s go

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