The Greatest Showman #632 - Sparks

Andy Rogers was just one street away from his destination when he had to step out of the car. The crowd had already spilled onto the road, occupying nearly half the lane, making the traffic jam unbearable. Many drivers had opted to detour, avoiding the congestion altogether. His first thought? A drunken brawl.

Pioneer Village had never been a mainstream hotspot. Even on bustling Friday and Saturday nights, it typically hosted no more than a hundred people—enough to fill the indoor seating and create a modest line at the entrance, but never anything overwhelming. Yet, the scene before him left him utterly stunned.

Slowing his pace, Andy approached the bar. From a distance, he could see at least fifty or sixty people crowded at the entrance. The door was blocked on all sides, forming layers of onlookers, but this wasn't chaos. No fights, no shouting matches—just an electric buzz of energy. People were jumping in place, laughing, cheering, and screaming with excitement. It wasn't a riot. It felt more like the atmosphere of a concert or an impromptu street party.

With the entrance completely jammed, Andy surveyed the scene, searching for an opening. His broad frame made squeezing through impossible, so he sighed in resignation and stepped aside, waiting for the crowd to disperse. He debated whether to find another bar instead.

Three intense meetings had drained him that afternoon and evening—each one crucial, each one demanding every ounce of his focus. He desperately needed a beer to unwind. Compared to Los Angeles, New York's nightlife was undoubtedly richer, but Andy's familiarity with the city was limited. Pioneer Village had been his default choice. He hadn't expected such a wild night.

Perhaps he should explore other options nearby?

As he contemplated, a disheveled figure was pushed out of the crowd, stumbling forward and nearly face-planting onto the pavement. Andy instinctively smirked and quipped, "Rough night? Seems like getting a beer in New York isn't as easy as it used to be."

The man straightened up, turned toward Andy's voice, and—without a hint of embarrassment—strode over with an easy confidence. He didn't even bother to adjust his clothes. He simply leaned against the wall, looking as if exhaustion had finally caught up with him.

"Nathan called you just now?" the man asked.

It was Roy Lockley.

Andy's eyebrows knitted slightly, though Roy didn't notice the subtle reaction. When silence followed, Roy glanced up at Andy's face and chuckled. "Wait—you didn't come here for Renly? Then what are you doing here?"

"Do I need a special reason to visit a bar on a Saturday night?" Andy replied casually before turning his gaze back to the crowd.

Then it hit him. "You mean... all these people are here for Renly?"

"Yep," Roy confirmed without hesitation. "I just got word and rushed over. I only found out Renly's back in New York a few minutes ago. Judging by your expression, you just found out too?"

Roy and Andy exchanged looks and couldn't help but laugh.

Their client's whereabouts remained a perpetual mystery. Agents and managers were often the last to know, long after fans and audiences had already gathered in mass numbers. It sounded ridiculous, but it was their reality. Their laughter carried a tinge of exasperation.

Roy had just spoken with Nathan and was now relaying the basics to Andy. "So, what do you think? Is this a good thing?"

"Aside from the fact that we, his so-called professional handlers, were left completely in the dark? Absolutely," Andy said, shaking his head in amusement.

Then his tone turned wry. "Of course, the media is going to spin this into a 'Renly hyping himself' narrative."

Andy scoffed, already predicting the headlines. The press would claim Renly was using strategic marketing—leveraging the Toronto Film Festival's buzz to boost his album Don Quixote, or using the album's attention to generate interest in his upcoming movie. And with the ongoing discussions about Fast & Furious sequels, some outlets would surely speculate that Renly was pressuring Universal Pictures with all this orchestrated publicity.

The media loved crafting stories. And while Andy understood their game, he had no intention of playing along.

"But this time," Andy continued, "let them say whatever they want. We're skipping the media circus and focusing on organic word-of-mouth. Independent music, independent film—Renly's work will speak for itself. Those who genuinely appreciate his music will talk about it, and those who don't? Let them be."

Andy and Roy had been deeply involved in Don Quixote's production and release. They understood Eleven Studios' grassroots marketing strategy and Renly's philosophy. Tonight's turnout at Pioneer Village was completely unplanned, but Andy knew the media wouldn't see it that way.

Still, Andy wasn't worried. He had other strategies for dealing with Universal Pictures. As for Don Quixote, he was committed to supporting Renly's vision—building its reputation steadily, relying on passionate music enthusiasts rather than mainstream commercial hype.

Andy believed that those who truly listened would recognize the artistry behind Don Quixote. Maybe it wouldn't appeal to the masses, but it didn't have to. A single spark could ignite a wildfire. In the long run, this slow-burn approach would solidify Renly's professional credibility.

As they talked, the crowd at the bar's entrance began shifting. People started filtering out, their faces glowing with excitement, while others eagerly pushed their way in. Andy and Roy observed, piecing together the night's significance. Even without witnessing the performance firsthand, they could tell something extraordinary had happened.

They waited another twenty minutes before the chaos settled enough for them to move inside. Entering the bar, Andy immediately spotted Renly on stage—not just because the lights still illuminated him, but because of the long line wrapped around the platform.

A closer look revealed that every person in line held a copy of Don Quixote. Some clutched promotional posters instead, and a basket at the bar brimmed with rolled-up posters for those who hadn't brought an album. Anyone who wanted a piece of the night could grab one for free—then get it signed.

Renly sat at the keyboard, a guitar resting nearby—evidence of the just-concluded performance. No table, no grand setup. Just him, seated casually as fans eagerly handed over their albums and posters, striking up conversations as he signed. The atmosphere was electric.

Roy, watching the scene, asked, "Did Renly plan a signing event?"

"Nope." Andy shook his head, grinning at the surreal moment.

Renly had gained recognition from Fast & Furious 5, but he wasn't yet a global superstar. Even at Sundance or Toronto, he hadn't been swarmed like this. And yet, here he was—creating an unplanned, organic moment that felt more authentic than any staged publicity stunt.

"I get it now," Roy mused. "That look on everyone's face when they left—it's like they just had a religious experience."

Andy chuckled. The two shared a knowing glance, their professional instincts syncing.

"What I'm really curious about now," Andy mused, "is just how incredible that performance must've been."

Roy smirked. "Maybe we start by listening to the album again."

Andy didn't reply, just tilted his head meaningfully. But a thought lingered in his mind—Renly had once mentioned Broadway or West End performances. Just how much more talent was hidden beneath the surface?

"First, though," Andy said, eyeing the bustling crowd, "let's grab a beer. It looks like this excitement isn't dying down anytime soon."