Just You Wait - Jamilton Story

2.

A letter that change everything
1890

I woke up at the sound of the agitated streets; the usual of a Sunday morning at New York. I could hear the horses galloping, hitting the ground with their weight, or the crowd talking, every little conversation creating this incomprehensible ringing of human communication. Even if I'm not a fan of quiet, right now my headache forces me to be. I growled out of frustration, wanting to sleep a bit more, but the realization of which day it was waked me up faster than Hercules Mulligan's yelling, and God knows how loud Hercules can get. Having my package prepare in advance I only had to dress up, which I did. My brown pants, my white button shirt, my tie, my light brown vest, my black boots, my brown pants-matching trench coat and finally my black hat. The last and finest touch was my long hair, put in a bun with a black lace. Looking at the clock, I heard three knocks on my door.

Toc toc toc

I opened, seeing again John Laurens, who promised to help me transport my luggage to the train.

"You're late." I scolded him.

"Do you truly think we have time for this?" He asked. I looked again at the clock. "Your train leaves in twenty minutes."

"Oh my god…" we gaze at each other for ten seconds before starting to run outside, my things in our hands. New Yorkers gave us strange looks, but I could never care less.

At the train station a guy verified my tickets before letting me in the moving vehicle. I had two tickets; one for me and the other for my baggage. I put most of what I could in the place it was for and all the rest at my feet and next to me. Seeing John in the crowd I put my head out of my window and yelled his name, making him look up. A smile brighten his face as he fiercely waved at me.

"DON'T FORGET TO WRITE!" He yelled. I chuckled at him. The train quickly start and I continually wave at him, not stopping until he couldn't see me anymore. The sun in my eyes, I felt almost giddy as I think that I'm not going to see him for the next three months or more. Making myself comfortable in my seat, I decided to re-read the letter my future employer send me.

"Dear sir,

I've heard little thing about you, but research as much as I could. The persons who use your name often talked about your undeniable ability to write fast, and yet beautifully. Your work with the pen can be as professional as poetic, changing your style at demand. I've read all your published work; and I may say I was impressed.

You must be asking who am I, and why am I sending you this letter. Well, my name is Thomas Jefferson. Maybe have you heard my name before? I don't know very well New Yorkers nor if their interests go further than gossiping about politicians– no offense.

Even if I've read this letter before, this passage always make me laugh.

Well, I'm a playwright, or dramatist for certain, you probably have enough knowledge to understand what I'm doing with my life, but I'm going to explain just in case you don't.

I feel a little insulted by this, but it's irrelevant.

I write plays.

That's when he got all my attention.

I worked under George Washington, name that this time I have no doubt of you knowing.

Oh, lord do I know this man's name. One of the most popular playwrights of the 19th century, a pure genius of his kind. I never had the chance of listening to his plays, sadly, but I've read the scripts more time than I should, imagining what it looks like on stage.

But my expertise doesn't reside in writing, sadly, but in music. And that is where you intervene, Mr. Alexander Hamilton.

My curiosity was alert more than ever, since I never really was popular in any ways, and never really did any important job.

I want you and me to write a musical.

That's when I knew the importance of
this offer, for my career and beyond.

It may seem strange at first glance, this whole thing of me writing you this letter, but I'm ready to begged your trust if it means that you would work with me. You would be paid $20/20h, and would earn 25% of the percentage of the play; be aware that I have the same percentage, everything else going for actors and stage staff. You would be in direct contact with Washington if you doubt of your play writing capacities, he would be happy to answer any of your questions.

Waiting for your response,
T. Jeff"

And that was it. We exchange a few more letters to clarify the blur spots but I accepted fast. I have exactly no experience when it comes to theater and writing plays, but I'm going to give my best. He, Jefferson, would let me live with him in his mansion, that is, according to the rumors, enormous. I did too my amount of research about him. A popular, rich man, who had spent the last 5 years in France. He never lived in hardship, being born with money and will probably die with it. He decided to learn how to write under George Washington, and now decide to write a musical. This way of getting things done and sort out so easily frustrated me, I'm sure nobody ever said no to him. My only wish is that he isn't an arrogant, self-centered ratbag.

His house was located in Charlottesville, it's called "Monticello." A big, overly fancy, French inspire mansion. Virginia is a state full of history, most of it related to slavery and its plantation of Tobacco. Now that the Tobacco cost way less than it did before, farm started to customize for more variety of plantations, and, well, slavery being abolished since 1865, having to fully pay people for their hours of work didn't do well to the commerce, for the best. However, the legalization of various forms of racial discrimination was a way of keeping African-Americans in a status close to slavery and confining them to the work that was assigned to them during slavery, so I could only respect Jefferson and his ancestors for creating their name even with their racial differences. And I think I will never fully understand the concept of racism, every human have the same worth, so why so much discrimination over the color of someone's skin? It was tiring how much it was stupid for me.

I wrote during most of the hours of train, about what? Anything that comes in my mind, really. I always loved to write since the day I learn how to. I remember going over to my mom and telling her my new poem, it wasn't good, as expected for a nine years old, but she always encouraged me to do more. She always said "never stop writing, Alex, no matter what." And so I never stopped. Well, I literally did never stop; sometimes not to eat, not to sleep. I wrote my way out of the Caribbean, wrote my way to work and to a relatively comfortable life. And now, I'm going to write my way into everyone's mind, I promise I will.