Free My Life: The Musical by Maryrose Wood

Florida and fling crap. Sweet gig, huh? He told you some happy horse poo about who wrote Aurora, too, am I right?”
    Ian slumped down in his seat. “Uh, yeah,” he admitted. “Did I fall for something?”
    “Did you ever! That’s Lester’s other job—every couple of months he starts a new rumor about who wrote Aurora . For a while he had people saying it was Jerry Herman. Then Sondheim. Then the headwaiter at Sardi’s. What a joker.”
    “But why would he lie?” said Philip, still struggling to understand. “What’s the point?”
    “Sometimes it’s to impress some cute young chorus boy,” Morris intoned ominously. “Otherwise it’s just red herrings. Keeps the public confused. So far it’s worked. Who did he tell you it was?”
    Ian was beginning to hyperventilate. “Oprah Winfrey,” he said, barely audible.
    “Oprah Winfrey!” Morris guffawed. “That’s rich. Jeez, I can’t wait to tell that one to Ruthie.”
    Emily looked at Morris with new respect. He was old and wise as the hills. Old Man Broadway, that was Morris.
    “Morris,” she said suddenly. “Do you know who wrote Aurora ?”
    Morris shook his head. “Believe me, if it could be known, I’d know it by now.” Without asking, he grabbed the maraschino cherry out of Philip’s drink and popped it in his mouth. “Nobody knows who wrote Aurora, and nobody will ever know. Don’t waste your time thinking about it.”
    Philip didn’t care about the cherry, but his head was starting to throb from trying to make sense of all this new data. “So—the show’s not going to close, then?”
    Morris shrugged. “All shows close sooner or later,” he said. “Even Cats closed. You can’t take it personally.”
    “But what about your toe?” asked Emily.
    Morris hesitated, then shrugged again. “Who knows? Maybe it’s gonna rain.”
     
    “It violates all concepts of rational self-interest!” Philip ranted. “It defies standard economic theory! Unless you could predict with a very high degree of certainty that the new show would do substantially better than the one you were kicking out . . .”
    Philip, whose birthday it still was, continued in this agitated vein as the three of them headed crosstown on West Forty-sixth Street. It was only a little after six, but night had fallen and the theatre district was lit up like a thousand blinking Christmas trees.
    “Relax, Philip. It’s not true, okay?” The false alarm about Aurora closing had been debunked, and Emily was only too eager to forget about it. She poked Ian. “Say something,” she mouthed.
    “I’m really sorry, Philip.” Ian sounded convincingly humble. “I can’t believe I did this to you, especially on your birthday. That’ll teach me to repeat stupid rumors.”
    “Forget it, please,” Philip said. “You didn’t ruin my birthday, okay? Honest. I had a great time today.” He smiled at Emily. “Orchestra seats! And a great show. And some, uh, excitement, too.”
    “I’ll walk you to Penn Station, okay? It’ll be my ‘Pennance.’ ” Ian lived with his parents on the Upper West Side, but he didn’t often mention that fact, since it made him seem more like the high school student he really was and less like a star in the making. “But you have to entertain me along the way. Show question: which humungous star auditioned for but did not get the part of Mary Magdalene in the original Broadway company of Jesus Christ Superstar ?”
    “Easy,” snorted Philip. “Bette Midler, everyone knows that.”
    “Consider it a freebie,” said Ian, warming to the game. “Name the Broadway show that ‘The Man I Love’ was written for.”
    “Trick question! It’s Lady Be Good, but ‘The Man I Love’ was cut before the show opened,” said Philip, without hesitation. “1924. Music by George Gershwin, lyrics by Ira Gershwin, book by Guy Bolton and Fred Thompson.” He grinned. “The song was later added to Strike up the Band, which closed out of town, and Rosalie,