Marion had seen the play many years before in a local production. And, to
tell the truth, she didn’t quite remember the song. The author made a point of the second line, so simple a line really. “Open a new door,” that was it.
Everyday you should open some new door to life. If you followed this sage advice you would undoubtedly lead an exciting and glamorous life. Well, that’s just what Marion wanted on this her sixty-fifth birthday, some excitement. She determined to “ open a new door” no matter what.
In her excitement, Marion had walked right passed Times Square and onto Eight Avenue, with its sleazy bars and porn shops. Eighth Avenue, which would have scared Marion half out of her wits yesterday, held a certain fascination for her now.
She was walking slowly now, trying to make sense out of the barrage of faces that passed her when a smallish boy in a ragged overalls and barely something you would call a jacket moved close to her and asked if she could spare some change.
Maintaining her calm exterior, she simply said no and moved on. He approached a number of people in front of her and then disappeared into a storefront with a sign over it that read: OPEN DOOR. Before she could think what she was doing, Marion had entered that door.
What she saw did what Playgirl, porn shops, and sleazy bars could not do. It