The Greatest Showman #1197 – The 60's

Standing at the side of the stage, Levine placed his guitar in the corner and fumbled through his pockets. After a moment, he pulled out a cigarette case. He took one out, but it had already been crushed, leaving tobacco scattered. He didn't mind.

Casually, he stuck it in his mouth, leaned his back against the wall, and ran his fingers through his hair in irritation. His mind wandered, thinking about where to sleep that night.

The so-called friends he had were already staying somewhere, and they all seemed offended by him. It wasn't like last night, where he could have hooked up with a woman and stayed at her place. Maybe he could try the professor's house, though—professors were always generous and kind. Seeing his worn-out look, they probably wouldn't turn him away.

His thoughts drifted to tomorrow's performance. He wondered if Pioneer Village would give him another chance to perform. But the bar owner, a jazz lover, seemed more interested in that genre than in ballads. Maybe he should try another bar, give a different track a shot.

"Fire?" came a voice, breaking his thoughts.

He didn't turn around, just shook his head slightly to refuse. "I'll be on stage soon," he muttered, absently tapping the cigarette holder in his mouth.

"Worried Pappi's going to blame you?" Pappi was the bar owner's name.

He couldn't help but laugh. "No." He paused, then explained, "It's just the performance." Even though it was just a regular show, he always strived to be as professional as possible.

He suddenly remembered something. Turning to the bartender next to him, he asked, "I haven't found a place to stay tonight. Can I crash at your place?" They weren't close, but it wouldn't hurt to ask. "I'm a quiet sleeper. I'm not picky—a sofa and a blanket would be fine, as long as you have heating."

The bartender stayed silent, not expecting such a request. They hadn't even spoken much before.

Levine didn't mind. He bit down on the cigarette holder again, as if savoring its bitterness. Then, he stuffed the cigarette into his shirt pocket, sighing. "I guess your place doesn't have heating," he muttered, half to himself, before picking up his guitar and walking briskly onto the stage.

The bartender remained standing there, confused, unsure of what had just happened.

Inside the bar, the noise was still buzzing. People were eating, drinking beer, lighting cigarettes, and no one seemed to notice him.

But that didn't matter.

He sat down, instinctively tuning his guitar. He listened to the strings, feeling the pressure of his fingers, and began to play. Tonight, he decided, he'd sing "Hang Me, Oh Hang Me."

Maybe it was the most fitting song for the night—not only because his partner Mickey had just died by suicide, but because it mirrored the heaviness of his own feelings. Right now, the gallows didn't seem like such a bad thing.

He hummed softly, lost in thought. "God is pitiful," he sang softly to himself. Was that about Mickey? Or about him? Or was it about every poor soul who played ballads? Or the idiots marching into battle with rifles on their shoulders? A helpless, mocking smile tugged at his lips.

After the song ended, there was only sparse applause, a few scattered whistles. It felt lonely, empty. The weight of solitude pulled at him. He took a deep breath, hiding his emotions, and half-jokingly added, "You've probably heard this one before."

Without stopping his movements, he quickly packed up his things, adding one last line.

"If a song is never new, but never outdated, it's a folk song."

A quiet chuckle came from the audience. Levine raised a hand in a brief gesture, then left the stage with his guitar in hand.

The performance was over for the night. The Kerosene Lamp Bar was one of the most popular spots in Greenwich Village, and time on stage was precious. Folk singers were as common as sardines migrating in winter.

A middle-aged man with a scruffy beard approached, smiling contentedly. "Wonderful, wonderful," he said. Levine recognized him as Ethan Cohen. "Joel and I just checked. The first scene was perfect. We can't believe it. Tonight's show was really good."

Ethan patted him on the arm. "Now, we can call it a day. But Stanley said you're going to give a short performance to thank the fans? Is that right? If so, that would be amazing, a real treat for us."

Ethan smiled, his excitement palpable. "Joel was saying just now that the time for a song is way too short. Maybe we should shoot a concert. Ha." Then, he noticed that Levine wasn't responding. "How are you feeling? Too tired?" he asked. "It's okay if you are. I'm sure everyone will understand."

"No, I'm good," Levine replied, raising an eyebrow with a faint smile in his eyes. The smile was fleeting, tinged with self-deprecation. "Who can turn down an invitation to perform at the Kerosene Lamp Bar? At least I can't. I'm going back on stage."

Ethan stood there, momentarily stunned. Levine didn't wait for a response, turned, and walked back to the stage.

He sat down in front of the microphone again. "Hey, I'm back."

Levine exhaled deeply and rubbed his hair again. It was a mess, completely untamed, but the light of the stage outlined his carefree, almost lazy demeanor. A trace of irritability flashed through, then disappeared, replaced by a small, knowing smile.

"I thought maybe tonight we could spend a few more songs together." He embraced his guitar again, as if lost in his own thoughts.

He couldn't help but think of Mickey tonight. He didn't understand why Mickey had chosen to end his life. He didn't know why Mickey had given up. Maybe he knew but didn't want to face it.

The 1960s—the long decade—was full of darkness, confusion, and bitterness. It felt like suffocation. When would they break through and escape it? It was only 1961, and the end felt so far away, just an unreachably distant blur.

Levine shook himself out of his thoughts. How long could this dream last?

"But forget hanging," he said, his words causing a low chuckle in the bar. "Let's do something else."

His fingers began to play, and the melody unfolded. The chaotic strums began to find order, coalescing into a smooth, flowing stream. The music seemed to cut through the lingering fog in the room.

The brisk strings reminded him of a deer darting through the forest, and slowly, the sound pushed through the morning mist, finding a peaceful, quiet lake. Sunlight filtered through, and everything bloomed, full of color and life.

This was a new melody, one he hadn't played before. The bar fell silent, all eyes on him. The hum of time seemed to fade, replaced by an overwhelming sense of stillness.

His eyes were calm, his demeanor relaxed, but in their depths, a faint bitterness and disappointment lingered. In the light and shadow, people couldn't help but search for the stories hidden there.

There was a touch of sadness in his voice, as if the blue March sky had been lazily streaked with sparse clouds.

"Forget it. This skinny love only lasted a year," he sang softly. "Add a pinch of salt, and we're not going to make it."

His voice cracked slightly, as he played faster, the rhythm intensifying. But his heart remained heavy, sinking into the crystal-clear lake of his soul.

The world seemed to stop. The sound of love breaking, slight but profound, echoed in the bar. The melody, while light and breezy, carried the weight of melancholy, seeping into every note.

The 1960s sky was gray. Everything felt forborne, unrestrained, chaotic. They were all chasing freedom, justice, and dreams—but they had lost their way.

To protect their fragile hearts, they put on a mask of defiance, pretending to not care, as if they would never be hurt again.

"My God, my God, my God."