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Before this began, Aaron Burr thought he’d had a shot at a normal life.
Sure, he’d been orphaned at the age of two. Sure, he’d graduated from college in a record two years’ time to join the revolution. Sure, he’d been a captain under General Montgomery. Sure, he’d been friends with Alexander Hamilton. Sure, he’d gone into politics. Sure, he’d married the widow of a British general. Sure, he’d become the Vice President.
Sure, he’d shot the first Secretary of Treasury in what grew to be the most infamous duel in the history of the United States.
But he’d thought that he could live like any other man. See the world, befriend some people, marry, have kids, and eventually die.
That was, of course, before he found himself on a street he hadn’t visited in over fifty years, the words “Pardon me, are you Aaron Burr, sir” echoing in his ears.
Rewind.
“You look distressed, good man,” a voice behind him said.
Without turning, Aaron knew it was Hamilton. “Do I?” he asked, chuckling drily. The Am I this obvious? went unsaid.
“Oh, yes.” The chair beside him scraped as Hamilton sat down in it.
“Great,” Aaron muttered, more to himself than anything. He sipped sullenly from his glass.
“I’m Alexander Hamilton.” This time, he introduced himself first. “And you’re Aaron Burr, correct?”
Aaron sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid I am,” he said when the silence grew too stilling (too reminiscent of the silence in the air that day, after he’d fired his gun and—). “Can I help you?”
Rewind.
He stayed in his house that day, in hopes it would deter Hamilton from finding him.
No such luck. Hamilton approached him two weeks later as he headed out, empty bottles in his arms.
Rewind.
“Paron me, are you Aaron Burr, sir?”
“I’m not.”
“Don’t lie, good man,” Hamilton smiled jovially. “I know you are.”
“Then why did you bother to ask?”
“I wanted to hear the answer from you yourself. Would you like a drink?”
Rewind.
“I have never seen a man ingest so much beer before,” Hamilton said.
“You certainly haven’t been to most of the taverns in New York, then,” Aaron said.
“I have, thank you very much.” Hamilton pushed the glass away from him, ignoring Aaron’s objections. “It’s rather unhealthy, Mr. Burr, sir.”
“How do you know, Mr. Hamilton, sir?” Aaron replied, not bothering to keep the venom from dripping into his voice.
“I never told you my name.”
“Yes you did.”
He could no longer conceal it after that.
Hamilton reacted surprisingly calmly, considering the less-than-normal predicament. He’d asked Aaron to tell him what had happened—what would happen, for Hamilton.
“Everything?” Aaron had asked.
“Yes, everything. And don’t go easy on the details,” Hamilton had answered.
So Aaron told him everything. Hamilton was a surprisingly good listener, despite the fact that he could never quite shut up—or, at least, that was how he had been when Aaron had met him the first time around. It was hard to remember this…situation he was in, sometimes.
“So we were friends?”
“Were, yes.”
“And you shot me?”
“I did.”
“In a duel?”
Aaron nodded. (Talk less, smile more, the voice cackled.)
“And now you’re just stuck meeting me again and again,” Hamilton exhaled softly. “This is…certainly a lot.”
“Indeed it is.”
They sat in silence. The tavern was emptying around them.
“I have to go,” Aaron said. “The day’s going to restart soon.”
“Wait.” Hamilton held up his hand, digging into his pocket and producing a quill and a scrap of parchment. He started writing on it. “Can you keep things after each…day? Cycle?”
“I’ve never tried, but I suppose so, yes.”
“Great.” Hamilton folded up the scrap and handed it to Aaron. “Show this to me the next time we meet.”
“All right.” Aaron tried for a smile. It came out small and strained.
“All right.” Hamilton smiled back. “Stay away from alcohol, will you?”
Rewind.
Hamilton didn’t show up today.
Aaron spent the whole time just sitting there with a book he had memorized, waiting for Alexander Hamilton to walk through the door, whatever Hamilton had written still in his pocket.
He wondered why the man was suddenly evading him now as the sun sunk below the horizon.
Rewind.
He wasn’t there the next day, either.
Aaron went looking for him, walking through the streets of New York, asking every passing man who looked vaguely like Hamilton for his name. He soon grew tired of this, however, and instead veered into his old school.
Hamilton also studied there, right? Could he be working hard on his essays this time, instead of going into taverns to talk revolution with strangers?
“Sir!” Aaron called to a passing professor. “I’ve got a question, sir.”
“Sure,” the professor said, brows furrowing in confusion. “But you are not in my class, young man.”
“I know I’m not.” Aaron rushed to get his words out, something he had never done before. “Where’s Alexander Hamilton, sir? Is he still here?”
The professor looked at him quizzically. “I’m afraid I do not know what you’re talking about. There is no student named Alexander Hamilton at King’s College.”
Rewind.
It was like the universe was playing a trick on him.
Whatever Aaron did now, he couldn’t seem to run into Alexander Hamilton. He wasn’t in the tavern, at King’s College, on a ship docking at New York Harbor, or…or anywhere.
Aaron lasted for a full seven days before he finally gave up.
“Pardon me, are you Aaron Burr, sir?”
Aaron sighed. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”
The Hamilton in front of him smiled sadly. “What do you think?”
“Where am I now?”
“Drinking yourself to oblivion in a shabby tavern in New York.” Hamilton looked distinctly troubled. “I thought I’d told you to stay away from—”
“Another one, mister,” Aaron shouted to the barman.
Rewind.
Ah, I’m losing my mind, Aaron thought as he came into consciousness again. That’s what this feels like.
New York moved around him at its usual breakneck pace. People shouted, Redcoats marched, and carriages rumbled into the distance, sending dust flying into the air.
In the midst of all this activity, Aaron Burr stood in the middle of a street, plagued by thoughts of a man who no longer seemed to exist.
Oh, how pathetic I have become.
He headed into the tavern again.
Rewind.
On and on it went. Slowly, painstaking slowly, Aaron Burr got used to that day without Alexander Hamilton.
Which was why it surprised him when he did show up.
“Pardon me, are you Aaron Burr, sir?”
Aaron sighed. “Are you another hallucination again?” he waved his left hand dismissively. “Go away. I’m not in the mood for this.”
The hallucination was not deterred, however. “What are you talking about?”
Aaron groaned. “Please…please don’t pretend you’re him,” he said, more desperately than he’d wanted to sound. “You’ve done this for—what? A couple thousand times? You never get it right. I’m used to this by now, and—”
“Used to what?” The hallucination sat down beside him, shockingly real. My mind’s getting better at this, Aaron thought. “Pray, tell me. This is getting worrying.”
“You know everything by now, don’t you? You know I’m going through this day on repeat. Why bother asking?” He’d asked this question before, but Aaron found that he did not care. He couldn’t remember the answer anyway.
“You’re…going through this day on repeat?”
“I am.” Aaron laughed humorlessly. “Absurd, no? But I really am.”
“What—” The hallucination reached out. “Sir, you’re talking nonsense right now, are you sure you’re—” his hand touched Aaron’s.
Aaron jumped like he’d been struck in the face.
The Hamilton he conjured up in his mind never did that. No, the hallucinations only talked. They sometimes moved, but never, ever, did they touch—
“You’re real,” Aaron breathed, in a sudden flash of understanding. “You’re actually real.” He choked on his words. “Holy shit.” He scrambled for the letter Hamilton had written the last day he was there. “Hold on, I’m supposed to give you this—” he grabbed the scrap of parchment and shoved it towards Hamilton, and watched as the young man’s eyes grew wider and wider.
“You—you’re joking,” Hamilton whispered, almost awed. “This can’t be.”
“I wish I was joking,” Aaron said, wetness on his cheeks. “You have no idea how much I hope so.”
“Yes, but—but—” Hamilton spluttered, and failed to come up with any words—a first for him. “Just—look at this!” he held up the parchment.
It read, in a messy but strangely artistic script:
My dearest Alexander,
The man who has given you this is my best friend, second only to my beloved Betsey (and perhaps my dear Jack) in terms of closeness. He would eventually end up shooting you in a duel, though I am not sure of how time works anymore. I am writing this to give you the utmost assurance that he, Aaron Burr, is indeed repeating the day of our meeting over and over again.
I know you may be extremely confused right now, for I was too when he informed me about his situation, but please treat him with kindness and compassion, for he has been through too much—and I have long forgiven him for what happened on Weehawken that day anyway.
Sincerely,
Me.
Aaron sat there, stunned. Hamilton had…forgiven him?
“See?” the Hamilton sitting before him said. “I am literally so—”
“Thank you,” Aaron said, barely above a whisper. “Thank you, Alexander Hamilton.”
“Er…you’re very welcome,” Hamilton said, smiling. “For what, though?”
Instead of answering, Aaron let himself sob uncontrollably into his hands.
The sun set on another day, and time rewound no more.