The Greatest Showman #625 - Independence Feast

Buzz, buzz.

The Pioneer Village was alive. Not just crowded—electric. The usual jazz bar had been transformed into a rock venue, its tables cleared to make space. Within minutes, over 300 people had flooded in, packing the bar to the brim, while another 30 or 40 lingered outside, unwilling to leave, craning their necks in hopes of catching even a sliver of sound from within.

Three hundred might seem insignificant compared to the tens of thousands that fill stadiums, but here, it was an ocean—a rolling, surging tide of energy, heat, and raw emotion. The air buzzed with excitement, every glance exchanged carrying a shared anticipation, a mutual thrill. What had started as a gathering of a few enthusiasts had unexpectedly become a movement, a revelation of kindred spirits drawn together by music.

Strictly speaking, they weren't die-hard fans of any one artist. They were simply lovers of music, brought together by Don Quixote. Strangers turned acquaintances, now bonded by a shared heartbeat, a mutual understanding that went beyond words. This night was more than a listening party—it was a celebration of identity, of dreams, of the unspoken truths they all carried.

Then, the stage lights flickered. A figure stepped onto the small platform, and the entire room fell into an expectant hush.

"Hey, everyone, I'm Neil, the bartender here, and the guy behind the YouTube and Facebook accounts that organized this." A ripple of cheers and whistles broke out, making Neil chuckle before he continued. "Some of you may have noticed—the cover of Don Quixote features this very stage. This tiny, worn-down, never-repaired stage."

The crowd stirred, a murmur of recognition rolling through them.

"Why use this stage for the album cover? That's a question best answered by the man himself," Neil teased, prompting laughter from the audience. "But my personal interpretation? It's about resilience. Just like Don Quixote."

He let the thought hang in the air for a moment before continuing, his voice brimming with emotion.

"So, even knowing this album wouldn't sell millions… even knowing it wouldn't get radio play, wouldn't win Grammys, wouldn't be a commercial success—he made it anyway." Neil's voice grew stronger, conviction pouring into every word. "Just like this stage, in the middle of the ever-bustling, ever-evolving New York City, it remains standing. It may not be grand, but it exists. And it matters."

The weight of his words settled over the crowd. Some blinked away tears, others nodded, lost in thought. Here, in this moment, they weren't just fans or casual listeners. They were dreamers—people who had been overlooked, beaten down, and yet, refused to fade away. In Don Quixote, they saw themselves. In Pioneer Village, they had found each other.

Renly stood quietly, observing. The glimmer of unshed tears in Neil's eyes was unmistakable. Despite his usual laid-back, joking demeanor, Neil had always been one of Don Quixote's most fervent believers. His passion, his relentless support, had been an unspoken force behind the album's journey.

Turning his head, Renly caught sight of Stanley. Unlike Neil, he wasn't teary-eyed. Instead, he wore a quiet, knowing smile. Meeting Renly's gaze, he spoke with quiet certainty.

"I told you. There'd be people who get your music."

Renly couldn't help but grin.

Neil took a deep breath before speaking again. "Originally, we were going to play the album and share our thoughts. But someone brought an unexpected surprise, and I can't think of a better way to celebrate tonight." He stepped aside, sweeping his arm toward the stage. "Everyone, please welcome… Renly Hall!"

The reaction was instant.

A thunderous eruption of cheers, whistles, and applause filled the air, shaking the very walls. Even the people outside joined in, their voices blending into the chaos. The entire Pioneer Village seemed to vibrate with uncontainable energy, catching the attention of passersby and drivers on the street.

Amidst the roar, Renly stepped forward, passing through the warm glow of the stage lights. The faces before him were shadowed, yet he could feel their intensity, their passion. His heart, steady moments ago, now thrummed in sync with the fervor of the crowd.

What a beautiful group of people. No industry politics. No expectations. No ulterior motives. Just pure, unfiltered love for music.

"Well, this is unexpected," Renly began, his voice cutting through the excitement. "I swear, I only came here for a beer. But somehow, my vacation just turned into work. Frankly, I'm a little annoyed."

Laughter rippled through the audience.

"Kind of like how you all just wanted to enjoy some music but suddenly found yourselves at an impromptu press conference."

More laughter.

"Alright then," he continued, his expression playful. "Let's make the most of it—before we get shut down for disturbing the peace."

Cheers erupted again.

"I wasn't exactly prepared for a performance," Renly admitted, gesturing toward the stage. "No full band, no fancy production—just me, and hopefully… you."

Confusion flickered across the faces in the crowd. A few exchanged curious glances.

Then, William, standing at the front, raised his hands hesitantly. Renly nodded at him in encouragement. Soon, Graham, Hope, and others followed. More hands lifted—uncertain at first, then with growing confidence. Even Stanley and Nathan raised theirs.

George, on the other hand, hesitated. His arms remained crossed, a skeptical expression on his face. Renly met his gaze, arching an eyebrow. With a dramatic sigh, George finally lifted his hands—albeit halfheartedly—his resistance evident.

"Perfect," Renly said with a grin. "Now, I don't know if you all remember every track from the album, but there's one called Simple Life—and I think it's perfect for this moment. I want all of you to be a part of it."

The crowd stilled, processing his words.

Timsey frowned, trying to recall the melody. What was Simple Life? Why this song? And what did Renly mean by 'being a part of it'?

Before he could overthink it, a steady clap echoed through the bar.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Onstage, Renly kept time, his hands striking a rhythm—sharp, deliberate, urgent. The beat was infectious, reminiscent of soldiers marching in unison, strong and unwavering.

"Come on," Renly urged, his voice warm, inviting. "It's simple. Just follow me."

One by one, the crowd joined in. First, hesitantly—then with growing enthusiasm. The claps synchronized, a collective heartbeat reverberating through the space.

Timsey, still unsure, found himself pulled into the rhythm. And suddenly, it didn't matter what Simple Life sounded like. It didn't matter what Renly had planned. What mattered was this moment—the shared energy, the laughter, the exhilaration of being part of something bigger than himself.

He smiled. And then, he clapped.

The world, for now, was just this—this music, this rhythm, these people.

Onstage, Renly's bright, unguarded smile illuminated the room. He stood at the center of it all—not just a performer, but a conduit, a spark igniting the night. And at that moment, the tiny, forgotten stage in Pioneer Village became the heartbeat of the universe.