Hamilton Remembered

The Beginning

BURR- Exactly 1801, January 1st, Manhattan

Most people spend the new year with friends. With family, drinking their way well into the night. Clearly, some people seem to resort to indulging in whiskey instead of solving their problems normal people would. An accident waiting to happen, if you would care for my opinion. 

Aaron Burr. That's me. Where am I? Honestly, I don't know. I like to wander about the streets and settle down where I feel fit. Watching a group of young soldiers down bottle after bottle. It's actually quite impressive how he gets all that into his system. Amusing yet terrifying at the same time. "Aaron Burr!" He slunk down in his seat. After loosing the election, he wanted to keep the publicity at the minimum- the whispers that flurried around him like a storm was driving him mad. Some of them about the election, or about Theodosia, now resting forever more under a sad little slate of stone and a mound of dirt. It seemed that his list of problems was growing longer and longer with each passing day.

And number one? Was Alexander Hamilton. Why hadn't he recognized that voice? It was kind of hard to miss, Hamilton likes to make himself heard, and he was far too familiar with it. He should have just gotten up and ran out of the place as fast as he could. Like he was on fire.

It really would have saved him a lot of trouble if he just denied the fact that he really was Aaron Burr that faithful day.

"Sir?" He turned to the face of his previous co-counsel. "Yes?" He sighed. At least he didn't seem as tipsy as his friends were. "Care for a drink?" "No," He said flatly. That was how his conversations went. Drink? No.  Ya sure? Yes. Have a drink. "Come on Burr, liven up a little!" A man he remembered as Hercules Mulligan strode over, several filled mugs in his hand. The tailor. Who was, no question, drunk. How many shots did they have? He had lost count. Or was he even paying attention?

But to be fair, he did need something to clear his head. So maybe a drink- no,  he scolded himself. Do not let the Hamilton vibes rub off you. One of him is enough. Actually, one Alex is plenty. No no no no no no no.

But Alex soon forgot about him, much to his great happiness, and went on to start a conversation with Mulligan about horses. With that, he took out a book and began to read, letting the printed words drown out the whispers around him.

When he finally flipped over the last page of the book with great satisfaction, he noticed that he was no longer in the bar. Why wasn't Lafayette screaming in his ear? Why wasn't anybody telling him that reading was stupid? Actually, why wasn't anyone annoying him as usual? In fact, he seemed to be in some sort of theater. Along with many other people that seemed rather confounded. And some...

"What in the world?" He demanded, directing the words to a man with blue eyes and scruffy hair. "Laurens?" "I KNOW! ONE SECOND I WAS DEAD AND SUDDENLY I'M NOT DEAD! I'M ALIVE! I'M ALIVE! JOHN LAURENS IS BACK PEOPLE! WHOO!" With that, he ran off to "Say hi to Angelica", which would probably involve a lot of yelling and damaged ear drums. Poor girl,  he thought. 

"Aaron!" He spun a full circle on his heel, just in time for the  youngest Schuyler sister to barrel into him. "Peggy-" "Finally! It only took you half an hour to stop reading!" Half and hour? Huh. 

Part of him was still back at the bar, happily reading about the American law, without a care for the world. The other? Desperately wanted to ask someone what the heck was going on, and who stole his book. He liked that book. It was his favorite book. But he allowed Peggy to drag him to the growing crowd of people, loyalists and patriots alike, not wanting to crush the young girl's infectious enthusiasm.

"Whoever owns this place must be rich," he mused, because the chairs were soft and smooth, the good quality type, he doubted even the richest could afford. Well, maybe they could. Looking around twice to make sure everyone was preoccupied, he bounced up and down one a seat a couple of times, then stopped, relishing the feeling of childlike pleasure that he hadn't experienced since his youth.

Ignoring the slight feeling of shame that began to boil in his stomach, he reached forward and grabbed what looked like the playbill. And put it back. 

Across the front was the words, Alexander Hamilton. Why was there a musical about Alexander Hamilton? Better yet, why would anyone want to write a musical about Alexander Hamilton? The guy seriously didn't need anything to feed his ego any more. If his arrogance got any bigger, it would explode. Causing a miniature eruption that could wipe out the city of Miami.

When he got the position as the Washington's right hand man, he had slowly began to resent Hamilton for his decisive and impulsive personality, and how by stepping past the line, unlike Aaron himself who stood a safe distance behind it, was able to reach power and fame.

But I have to admit, he thought. The guy has the brains to survive this long. His train of thought stopped. Or maybe that's just thanks to his wife.