when I was a broadway orphan

Yesterday, I was sitting in a coffee shop, idly working but mostly eavesdropping on conversations (of which, unfortunately, there were few). The coffee girl started telling a customer about how she received an injury: in trying to rescue a Bengal tiger from a tree. The story was full of detail about how the tiger moved and she moved and for a few seconds I was cursing my mundane life, wondering how I might also be of assistance to exotic animals. And then I quickly realized that she was lying, and that the guy was buying it, wondering how he might get such an exotic woman. And then she paused, and he shifted nervously, realizing that he'd been duped. She laughed and admitted she was joking, telling the real story--which had something to do with walking down the street.

My envy of her exotic lifestyle quickly shifted to envy of her ability to lie. I am a terrible, terrible liar. Even when I want to lie, when I think lying might serve me well or entertain me, I just can't lie. Just after I finished my cancer treatments, everyone kept asking me about how I lost my voice and giving me rememedies for it. Knowing they all meant well, I still hated people asking and having to tell them my health history. So, my sister and I made up a bunch of lies that I could tell people instead. There were many (kick-boxing lessons, getting mugged, being a singer in a heavy metal band) and they were detailed. But I never told a single one. Every time I was about to, I felt guilty for lying and for playing with people's sympathy. This was my favorite:

When I was eight, I was Annie on Broadway. I was a star. I could sing louder and longer than any Annie had ever sung before. I was selling out the place. jAnd then, I got a cold, a bit of laryngitis. But the show must go on, of course. They filled me full of lemons and honey, and I bravely stepped out onto the stage. Just me and Daddy Warbucks bringing hope to the masses. I sang for weeks soaked through with lemons, and one day my voice simply stopped. I was put to the streets with my red curls and my patent leather shoes. They foudn another Annie in the wings of the stage and scratched my name off every program.

The plan for the end of the story was for me to have tear hovering at the corner of my eye, gliding slowly, sadly, haltingly down my cheek and to offer a final chorus: "Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya tomorrow. . . "