The Greatest Showman #1343 - Bitterness

In the evening, Levine arrived at the Grofiens' home with the large yellow cat in tow. Unexpectedly, he encountered some friends of the professor who had also gathered there. The professor and his wife warmly invited Levine to stay for dinner.

However, Levine felt out of place. The group gathered in the house were well-educated individuals who appreciated classical music, while he, a folk musician, felt disconnected, his roots deep in the songs of the poor from the streets.

After dinner, Lillian Grofiens invited Levine to perform a piece. Though Levine was reluctant, as his music was not intended to be light after-dinner entertainment but a pursuit of art and dreams, Lillian's insistence and the growing tension in the room made it difficult for him to refuse.

Reluctantly, Levine took the guitar in hand and began to play "Wait Goodbye." He didn't know why he chose this particular song—it was perhaps an old habit, one that ran deep within him.

His fingers brushed the strings, and a slight, helpless smile crossed his face as he softly hummed, "If I can spread my wings like Noah's dove... I will cross the river and pursue my true love..."

The melancholy and weariness of life seeped through his voice, revealing the soul-deep scars of past pain. This song, the second track from the opening soundtrack, had once been sung with Mike at the Grofiens' home, but now, it felt different. Unlike the original rendition, Levine's voice was filled with sorrow and loneliness.

Emily, listening intently, could not help but be drawn into the world of Levine's music. For the first time, she understood the deep anguish in his heart—about Jane, Mike, music, and life. The raw power of his emotions slowly filled her, but before she could fully process it, Lillian's voice cut through the air, singing the chorus.

"Wait goodbye...bye..."

"My love... love..."

Levine's voice faltered, and he stopped playing. His pain surged as he turned to Lillian, questioning her actions.

Lillian, puzzled, explained, "That's Mike's part."

Levine's voice trembled slightly, revealing a fragile vulnerability as he replied, "Don't do this."

The intensity of his reaction left Emily in tears. She instinctively covered her mouth with her hand, unable to hold back the flood of emotions. She finally understood the profound sorrow behind Levine's song, the layers of bitterness and scars woven into his voice, and the confusion and helplessness that lingered within him.

Without warning, Levine exploded. He directed his anger at Lillian, rudely disrupting Grofiens' dinner. The atmosphere quickly turned ugly, but Levine was beyond caring. He unleashed his pent-up emotions, letting the pain pour out.

Even more absurdly, the large yellow cat Levine brought with him was not even Grofiens' cat—it was female, while their cat was male.

Amid the chaos, Emily wept uncontrollably, her eyes locked on Levine, whose restless spirit seemed trapped in the city, lost and aimless. Despite his frantic dash from one place to another, he couldn't escape his inner turmoil. His dreams, once bright and full of hope, now seemed unreachable, stifled by the weight of the world around him.

At that moment, a handkerchief was offered to Emily. Surprised, she turned to see Steven Spielberg standing beside her, his face shadowed with sadness. Without a word, Steven simply shrugged, handed her the handkerchief, and returned his gaze to the screen. His eyes were clouded with sorrow, lost in deep contemplation, as if pulled into the past and unable to free himself from the memories.

For young Emily, this was Levine's story.

For the older Steven, it was his own.

Levine eventually left New York for Chicago.

Previously, Al Cody had mentioned a friend who was headed to Chicago and looking for someone to share the gas costs. Levine, disinterested at the time, had preferred staying in New York. Yet, in the end, he chose to join the journey, accompanied only by the nameless yellow cat.

The trip was strange and silent. The driver, a taciturn, tough, handsome man, barely spoke. The passenger, an elderly, lethargic man, slept for most of the journey. The car's silence was thick, and neither of them introduced themselves.

Finally, the old man woke up, and with an air of disdain, he mocked Levine's folk music. "Folk? I thought you were a musician. A folk singer with a cat? Are you Kei?"

He contemptuously criticized folk music, which he saw as beneath him, ridiculing the people who sang such songs. But for the first time, Levine spoke of Mike, his late partner. "He jumped off the George Washington Bridge," Levine said quietly.

The old man paused, then offered a nonchalant response: "I don't blame him. I wouldn't want to sing 'Jimmy Breaks Corn' every night."

"Jimmy Breaks Corn" was a simple children's song, and the old man found it unbearable.

But just as it seemed he would apologize, the old man shattered that illusion. "George Washington Bridge? Usually, it's the Brooklyn Bridge. Who would jump off the George Washington Bridge? What's wrong with him? Idiot."

The old man's attitude was a reflection of his worldview—a middle-class man, comfortable with his life, rejecting the folk music of the impoverished, the people living in places like Greenwich Village.

"The song of a clean bastard," the tough man mumbled, as if revealing some hidden truth.

The conversation shifted again to Peter Orlowski, the renowned poet and actor from the Beat Generation. Their discussion touched on the rebellious spirit of the time and the different groups of people represented in the conversation: the old man, the comfortable middle class; the tough driver, embodying the Beat Generation; and Levine, the folk poet. Each one of them, shaped by the era they lived in, played their part in pushing society forward, consciously or unconsciously.

In a bizarre turn, the old man overdosed in the toilet, foaming at the mouth. Levine realized then that the old man, despite his apparent indifference, had been numbing his existence with alcohol.

Soon, the three resumed their journey. The driver was stopped by the police for suspected drunk driving. After a brief altercation, he was taken away. Levine watched, confused, as the police car disappeared into the distance.

Eventually, Levine stepped out of the car, leaving both the driver and the old man behind. He stood for a moment, looking at the yellow cat. Hesitating, he finally closed the car door, chose a new direction, and flagged down a car to continue his journey alone.

Three individuals, three different endings.

The darkness of their choices reflected the different paths of their era. Emily, observing Steven, saw him deep in thought. Between the light and shadows of the big screen, he seemed lost in the whirlwind of his own memories.

The scene shifted back to Levine.

Alone, cold, and shivering in Chicago, Levine had no winter coat to shield him from the biting wind. He stepped into a coffee shop, embarrassed, removing his shoes to rub his cold, sore feet. A cup of bad coffee could not warm him.

Later, he called the Bud Trumpet's Gate bar, founded by Grossman, but hesitated to visit. After some time, he walked to the train station, unsure whether to return to New York. Exhausted, he fell asleep on a bench, only to be mistaken for an outlaw by the police. As he was chased, he ended up back at the horn door bar.

Like a spinning top, Levine was tossed about by life, lost in a city of ice and snow with no shelter in sight.

After waiting an hour, he worked up the courage to perform in front of Bud, singing a soulful rendition of "Death of Queen Jane." His gentle, heartfelt voice seemed to carry the warmth of the soul within the music. But the response he received was cold and dismissive: "I don't see any commercial value."

"Okay," Levine said quietly.