The Greatest Showman #1344 - Ulysses

Levine sat alone in the empty bar, a guitar in hand, singing his heart out. His socks and shoes were soaked, and he didn't have a winter coat. All he had was his guitar and his voice—both weathered by the journey. In front of Bud Grossman, he sat, the weight of his wanderings settling deep within him, the melody flowing from him like a slow river of grief.

His voice, raspy from weariness, crooned the lyrics, "Can I beg you to cut open the right side of my body and find my baby? Find my baby."

Emily rested her cheek in her palm, silent tears falling like pearls. The sad melody floated from Levine's lips, touching her deeply. Each note reverberated in her chest like a kite caught in the wind, drifting aimlessly.

The lyrics transported her to another time, to Henry VIII and his beloved Queen Jane—his third wife. Though he ruled over England and Ireland with unmatched power, his heart belonged to Jane. Tragically, after giving birth to Edward, Jane passed away. This loss lingered in Henry's heart, so much so that he was buried with her when his time came.

"Queen Jane," Levine sang softly, the emotion raw in his voice. "Oh, Queen Jane. The Jane of Jim and Jane. The new life she carried, never asking if he wanted her to stay, never questioning if he loved her."

This haunting sorrow mirrored Levine's own life—his two children, one who had passed at two years old, the other a stranger he would never meet. These lost connections, buried deep within him, were the music he now played.

But to Bud Grossman, none of this resonated. "I don't see any commercial value," he remarked, indifferent.

Emily could barely see through her tears as she watched Levine. His eyes, tired and distant, spoke of a soul battered by loss. He exhaled softly, whispering an "Okay," a quiet acceptance of the reality he had been fighting.

The heaviness of it all was too much for him. There was no more resistance. No more struggle. The dreams that had once burned bright were now just dust in the wind.

Levine's heart softened when Bud suggested he work with a new trio—a man and a woman. "You can't sing," Bud said, "but if you'd trim your beard and hide in the shadows, we could see if your voice fits."

Levine paused before replying. "No. Yes... but no. Forget it. I used to have a partner."

"Aha, that makes sense. My advice? You regroup."

Levine nodded in agreement. "That's a good suggestion."

Steven Spielberg, the iconic director of films like Jurassic Park and E.T., watched in silence, his heart heavy with the weight of Levine's despair. His tears, warm and unstoppable, fell as he listened. This era—this dream—was fading, just like Levine's music, which no longer held commercial value.

Levine stepped out into the snow, his soaked shoes sinking with every step. He had long given up on the dream of music. But there was still something that tied him to the road. Something left to find.

Driving through the quiet night, Levine noticed signs leading to Akron, Diane's hometown, where his two-year-old child had once lived. But he didn't turn. He kept driving forward, a quiet decision made in the depths of his heart.

As Levine drove, a big yellow cat darted in front of the headlights. He slammed on the brakes, his heart racing. He jumped out of the car, eyes scanning for the creature. Bloodstains marked the pavement, but then, through the fog, he saw the cat limping toward the woods. It disappeared into the night.

Levine stood, frozen, watching as the cat vanished. His thoughts were a whirlwind of confusion and sadness.

Back in New York, Levine made a choice to give up. With his savings exhausted, he decided to return to the sea, to a more stable life as a seaman. He cleared his dues and prepared for a return to the life he had long avoided.

But the chapters of his story didn't end there. He visited his father in the nursing home, only to find that his father had soiled himself. He went to his sister's house looking for old documents, but they were gone. He returned to Jane and Jim's house, guitar in hand, ready to surrender. He went to the union building, only to find that replacing a certificate now cost eighty-five dollars.

Levine sought solace at the Gaslamp Café, only to be thrown out after a drunken altercation with Pappy, who had been boasting of his success with Jane. The next night, a reporter from Time was to visit the café, and Jane had arranged for Pappy to convince Levine to perform. Yet again, Levine owed Jane.

Frustrated, Levine ended up on another homeless night, wandering the streets until he found refuge at the Grofiens' house. They welcomed him without judgment, even offering an apology for their earlier frustrations.

At the Grofiens' house, Levine noticed a large yellow cat wandering around. It was then that he learned its name: Ulysses.

"Ulysses," Levine repeated softly to himself. It all made sense now—the cat's presence, its mysterious journey, its return to the same place after circling the world. Ulysses had been wandering, just like Levine, only to find its way back home.

The next morning, Ulysses woke Levine. The Grofiens had already left for work, leaving Levine alone. Ulysses, as if repeating the cycle of life, tried to escape again, but Levine stopped him in time, closing the door behind him.

Once again, Levine found himself at the Gaslamp Café, singing the same song, "Hang me, oh, hang me." The melody, familiar and comforting, filled the space. It was as though the world had come full circle, and Levine, like Ulysses, was returning to where it all began.