Chapter Text
Hamilton leaned back in his office chair and looked with some satisfaction at the words on his computer screen, using his leg to turn back and forth, nervously.
Companionship
Must be living in the New York or Albany area.
My name is Alexander. I am a recently divorced male, mid-forties, looking for a companion. I am not adverse to romance, but romantic attachment is not my primary object. On the contrary, I am open to all forms of friendship, from the strictly platonic to the amorous. I would like to discern for myself the type of relationship our encounter would amount to on a case by case basis. Please respond to this message via e-mail, so that we might meet up.
He put the tip of his pen to his mouth and chewed. The low sounds of typing from the other two occupants of the room filled the space around them and he swiveled his chair to face the large, floor-to-ceiling windows at his left, tearing his eyes from the screen in front of him.
The view had been the same one he'd seen every day, all day, for the past several decades, give or take.
Jutting upwards from the earth towards the coal-grey winter sky was the equally dismal Manhattan skyline, a jagged field of blacks and silvers and concrete. Crammed together, filling the island, suffocating – cars below crawling through the streets like termites. Hamilton never quite got used to the utilitarian ugliness of it, the boxy steel buildings so diametrically different from the warm, brick and mortar and wood ones he remembered so vividly from his past life. That was something he couldn't dwell on too deeply.
The low hum of traffic and the sound of a helicopter pulled him back into the modern world. He spun back to his desk, waking his computer from its sleeping black screen with the touch of a finger against the trackpad.
"I'm finishing up for the day," Hamilton announced. He dropped his pen back into the cup holder, then reached behind him to the suit jacket hanging off the back of his chair, shrugging it on. The words on the screen caught his eye again and he knew he'd have to make a decision. The two other occupants in the room - Troup and Rufus - looked up in unison at the sound of his voice.
They were like lifelines, two of his oldest friends, hooks keeping Hamilton tethered to reality in the new, strange world they found themselves in.
Rufus King was wise and level headed, senatorial, and Hamilton jumped at the chance to be able to set up a law practice with him when they'd been reacquainted in this modern life. Bobby Troup, once his college roommate in eighteenth-century New York, was as practical and easy-going as he'd always been: the friend Hamilton had known the longest.
Hamilton swallowed an itch in his throat at this thought, turning his back to his computer and his two partners, reaching for his bag from a hook on the wall. That's not quite true, is it?
Troup was the first to respond, a suspicious edge to his voice, "Not feeling well?"
"I'm fine. I finished what I needed to," Hamilton indicated absently to his computer, "I told the client he will need to contact his broker before we can do anything, legally. Ten thousand dollars doesn't just disappear. The shares aren't missing from his account, they just haven't been transferred yet. But don't try telling Robertson that." He exhaled tiredly. The ad caught his eye again.
Troup stood and walked over to him, turning the laptop towards him and scanning it before Hamilton could stop him, "Let me give it a once-over and then send it to the client."
"Bobby, wait, that's actually not - "
Troup's face creased, confused, then flattened as he realized what he was reading. He looked back up at Hamilton, " - You can't be serious with this. Still, Alex?"
From a couch against the wall, laptop perched on his legs, Rufus muttered dryly, “Let me guess. It's the blasted advertisement again.”
Hamilton warmed, shooing Troup away from the computer. He leaned down and maximized a different window on the screen, "This is the letter I'm going to send to the broker on Robertson's behalf."
Troup put his hands on his hips, yanking the subject back to the ad, "For God's sake, Alex, I don't understand why you're trolling the internet looking for strangers again. Remember what happened the last time you met up with someone? Three am, I get a call from the police station - 'Troup, come get me, please. I can't call Betsey' - "
" - He's not going to listen, Troup. Don't waste your breath," Rufus cut in.
For some reason, this set Hamilton even further on edge. The professional, eloquent message on their law firm's letterhead fled from his mind and was replaced with his newest scheme. He turned to face Rufus, defensive, "Keep your comments about my personal life to yourself, please. When I need your advice, I will ask for it. The incident to which Troup refers was... I was mistaken. It was different. I wasn't specific enough. I am certain that this time will be better."
"Different? You were mugged!" Troup replied.
"I wasn't mugged , he just - needed a friend. And a little bit of money." Hamilton raised his voice and even in his annoyance could hear how childish he sounded.
Rufus adjusted himself against the couch, looking up from his laptop, “We should go out and meet friends at a bar or something. Join a club. There are conferences, meet-ups...I mean Christ, we've even been invited to alumni dinners despite having matriculated over two-hundred years ago and you tossed those letters directly in the trash. It can't be all that bad. Why can't we just look for people the normal way?”
“Because some of us aren't normal, Rufus,” Troup shot Hamilton another look, situating himself back in his seat.
Hamilton stared quietly at his computer, hands in his pockets, something stopping him from shutting it and slipping it into his laptop bag.
It started where it all ended. Hamilton's memories of his previous life thinned out the further back he went in his mind, until it came to one single pin-prick of a thought. He had died. It was black. There was no afterlife; no warm light. He opened his eyes to a cold fluorescence and human-like shapes hovering above him, shouting words he didn't understand, surrounded by metal and tile, a sickly chemical smell he didn't recognize filling his nostrils. A doctor's faraway voice: gunshot victim, male, mid-twenties. No identification.
No one had the philosophical energy to question things too much: why they'd come back, seemingly at random. Was it purgatory? Hamilton remembered closing his eyes for what he thought was the last time on that miserably hot July afternoon in sweat and blood-soaked sheets amidst a wet stillness that didn't exist in the modern world. No one dared speak about it and it drove him crazy.
Rufus' laugh cut through Hamilton's dark memories, “And you think the internet will yield quality results? Like tossing a bottle into the ocean. Look at the ad he typed up! It sounds ridiculous.”
Troup shrugged, typing away at his own computer, “Hamilton thinks he can cast a net and catch only the right sort of person—”
“—Definitely not some sort of insane killer.” Rufus finished. They continued their banter, and Rufus lazily picked lint from his tie, " - What do you tell them when you start talking? ‘Hello, my name is Alexander Hamilton’—”
“—It’s not that uncommon of a name. My parents could have been fans. At least I'm not stuck with a name like ‘Gouverneur'," Hamilton reasoned weakly. Distracted.
Troup looked at him.
“It’s just…” Hamilton faltered, sitting back down, “…I've been thinking, lately, about this new life. About our situation. There has to be more of us from our generation. I mean, we know Morris, we know each other, I've heard talk about people in Virginia and New England... it's been so long - I feel confident, now... I just think it's silly we haven't tried to branch out a bit more. Especially given all we have at our disposal.”
Rufus sat up straighter, trying to be delicate, “You know I’ve thought about that, too, Alex. And I just don't know if trying to re-claim our lives and friendships exactly as they were is... the best option. And why haven't they tried to contact us?”
“I suppose they could be living under aliases," Troup offered, walking over to Hamilton's desk. He lowered his voice and stared at the back of Hamilton's head, hand on his chair, “But, Rufus is right. Are you really sure you want to meet up with them, in any case? There’s a lot of baggage. You were gone for a long time. Things changed.”
The words hung in the air in the office, filling the tired afternoon with unanswered questions. This was the wall Hamilton always hit with those closest to him.
Things changed. You were gone. Let it go.
"Look, I know you both have good intentions,” Hamilton began, “But you can’t protect me from reality forever. This feels like a life half-lived."
Rufus rolled his eyes, "Whatever you say, then."
“Reality? Alex, you’re the one who said you were divorced,” Troup pointed to the laptop, “If anyone needs a reality check, it’s you. What are you trying to accomplish here?”
“Let it go, Bobby,” Hamilton responded.
“Exactly what kind of companionship are you looking for?” Rufus chuckled to himself from the couch. “More than drinks and a lively discussion about mergers-and-acquisitions law? A bit of sexy banter about SEC regulations? This isn’t ancient Greece, Alex,” he interjected, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Wives aren’t as forgiving.”
Troup looked at him and nodded approvingly, “You can’t just—”
“—I know this isn’t ancient Greece. Don't take it there, King,” Hamilton replied sharply. He picked up his laptop and held it delicately in his left hand while his right pointer scrolled, pacing around the room, reading and re-reading his tract, disseminating what phrases should stay, and which ones should go. Every single sentence was chosen, word for word, perfectly.
“You lied, Hamilton,” Rufus pointed to the computer, “The net you’re casting is faulty. You’ll get faulty results. Someone's bound to think you either have ulterior motives or you're just insane. God forbid it actually is someone from our time who answers. What then?”
Hamilton stopped pacing, closed his eyes and thought about Betsey. What to make of the woman who stuck by his side even as he took his last breath; in whom he'd taken refuge when she was presented to him as he came-to in the modern hospital, as his wife. He was terrified, delirious. The look on Betsey's face as she sat in the cold, uncomfortable chair by his hospital bed told him she was feeling the same. Panicked and confused and playing along, they waited until the doctors left to exhale and fall into each other's arms, too exhausted to figure out what, exactly, had happened. They found the twenty-one year old Betsey wandering around a train station, remembering nothing but her husband's name. She was diagnosed with amnesia.
“I won’t let things get too far. I have learned my lessons, I assure you. And you two don’t understand the relationship I have with my wife,” Hamilton reasoned, “She is forgiving. And understanding. She always was.”
He and Betsey didn't have much of a choice, staying together. Betsey was in the same situation he was. They faced the new world together, figuring it out on their own. The day to day of having and raising their children - learning about their new reality - took up most of their energy. But it wasn't long before the wall crept up between them: words unspoken, repressed thoughts.
“Why test it?” Troup walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Betsey is good for you. You need her. Not to mention she is still the mother of your children.”
“So I am supposed to just pretend it's all water under the bridge? No answering any questions? I am not allowed to see who else has returned?”
For a moment, the three men sat quietly. The new world offered much to be discovered; indeed, Hamilton thought, it would be a foolish waste not to discover it. But how to find the middle way? Privately, and not without some pain, Hamilton thought about all the times he had betrayed Betsey, in thought as well as deed, and wondered if there was even a middle way at all. Surely she felt the same way. Surely she was tired of him.
“If you post that, Hamilton - if you're serious about trying to find people like us...” Rufus called from the couch, cautiously, “...You're going to need to add something to it that only someone from our generation would catch. Something someone like us would pick up on immediately, but the average person might not."
Hamilton sighed, "Which is...?"
The trio thought for several quiet seconds.
A tiny part of Hamilton knew exactly why his friends treated him with kid gloves; knew exactly why uncomfortable silences and polite smiles dancing over dangerous memories occupied the waking hours of his life with those closest to him. There were subjects that no-one dared to breach, except Hamilton, in his lonesome hours. Long drives, afternoon naps.
Troup let out a loud exhale, distracting Hamilton from his reverie.
"If you post that, and you actually get a result—” Rufus spoke up while the other two men turned to look at him, "I will leave this firm and start my own practice. Just like I always said I would. Right here in Manhattan.”
“For God’s sake, Rufus, don’t encourage him,” Troup pleaded, walking over to the other man.
Rufus held up a hand; Hamilton watched him curiously. “Nope. Those are the stakes. You two will make it. I want to see what Hamilton thinks he will gain from his venture. Call my bluff, and I will call yours.”
“But our client base—” Hamilton started.
“—Hire someone else. Hire Morris. He’s looking for work anyway," Rufus reasoned breezily.
“Rufus, please. This is a terrible idea. You’re asking him to cheat on Betsey and go looking for trouble, you know that, right?” Troup pointed to Hamilton, who had spent the last several minutes studying the pattern on the floor. At the mention of his wife's name again, Hamilton looked up.
"Who said anything about cheating?"
Rufus shrugged, stubborn, “I’m asking him to prioritize. Hamilton’s going to do what he wants. Regardless of opinion. Aren’t you, Alex?”
“You don’t have to leave the firm, King,” Hamilton muttered, looking out the window, “I only ask that you two let me make my own decisions.”
Troup threw up his arms, defeated, and his words came out uncharacteristically barbed, “Great. Excellent. ‘Let me make my own decisions,’ he asks. Because that’s always ended well.” He began to pace, occasionally leaning against the large glass window that looked out over the grey, sparkling city. “Do you know how precarious our situation is, Hamilton?”
“I think I have some idea,” Hamilton responded curtly.
“If the wrong person comes contacting you—”
“—The wrong person?” Rufus called out, “The wrong person? Troup, I don’t think this person even exists! Let him post the damn ad, if it makes him happy. What do we care?”
“We care because we are his friends, and we aren’t going to let him hurt himself!”
"I say the worst that can happen is he meets someone unsavory and loses a couple hundred dollars again."
Troup shot back, "And I say the worst that can happen is that he winds up in a body bag."
“I am standing right here,” Hamilton raised his voice, “I am perfectly capable of handling myself.”
“There, you see?” Rufus lifted an arm, “Perfectly capable.”
Troup huffed again and reached for a half-finished bottle of water, taking a sip. He shot Rufus a dangerous look, “You know what I’m talking about, King." He then turned his ire on Hamilton, pointing, "You have a bad record of making irrational decisions. You know it, I know it, and though he appears to be deluded at the moment, Rufus knows it. I know things are tough right now. I know this new world offers much to be discovered. I will even grant you your ennui at the thought of Betsey and the average life she promises. But better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.”
Hamilton looked at him for a long moment, and then threw himself back into his desk chair. He exhaled, “The curiosity is too great. I can't sit here and ignore it. I have to know. I can’t pretend that this second chance is for nothing.”
“You have a death wish," Troup shot back. Hamilton looked at him slightly stung.
“That was unnecessary,” Rufus said.
Troup grunted in response, still staring out the window angrily.
The sharpness of the words hit him directly in the chest; he bit his tongue to keep from responding in a like manner. He couldn’t argue with Troup, really, though he wanted to. He sought an excuse, reasoning for his behavior, and could find none. After a moment, he pressed the tiny keys on his computer.
“I can’t believe it.” Troup hemmed and hawed, arms crossed, from the window.
“I told you he’d go his own way, the headstrong fool,” Rufus' voice filled the small office. He thought briefly about the private practice he might have to start.
“You are the walking definition of poor judgment,” Troup called from the window, turning and facing Hamilton.
The bright screen of the computer reflected in Hamilton's eyes, and he stared at it blankly. He knew what he was doing, but there were times when he convinced himself that his body acted independently of his mind. His fingers moved across the keyboard and he signed the post with lines from a poem he memorized long ago.
But when finally we have gone down where / Good Aeneas, rich Tullus, and Arcus / Have gone — we will become mere dust and shade. / Who knows if the gods will add to our sum / Tomorrow?
Hamilton stood in front of a floor length mirror in the guest bedroom of Troup’s practical townhouse just outside of the city, examining himself minutely. He did sort of like the modern coats and belts and ties, flattering and breathable and leagues more comfortable than starched cravats and too-tight military boots. But that was about all he liked of his reflection. An aged, gray hue flecked throughout his once shining, youthful hair. Crows' feet gathered at the corners of his deep-set eyes; frown lines on his forehead and between his eyebrows, closing in on the bridge of his prominent nose. His slowing metabolism hadn't changed from his previous life, either, Hamilton realized one morning after his fortieth birthday. What would this new friend look like? Hamilton inhaled, straightened his back and sucked in his stomach, and then deflated again. It shouldn't matter, remember.
“Well, I’m coming with you," came Troup's voice from the doorway.
”Bobby, no, you're not. Don't be absurd," Hamilton replied at the sound of his friend’s protest.
“You can’t stop me,” Troup walked through the door and closer to him, purpose alight on his face, as always. “I know the kinds of people out there, people who will take advantage of you. You are meeting this person in a public place, I assume?”
Hamilton ignored him for a moment, more intent on fixing his tie. He stepped up to the mirror and examined his face more intently. He absentmindedly toyed with the wedding ring on his left hand with his thumb.
“Alex, did you hear me? I asked you if you were meeting this person in a public place.”
“Yes, Bobby. Yes. For the thousandth time. We are meeting at the bar across from the old church, on..." Hamilton stopped his thought, and stepped back from the mirror. Rector Street, he resisted saying. You know, the place where your bones are rotting underground. Hamilton continued, "It’s only a few blocks away from the office, for God’s sake. And he has a name. It’s Edward.”
“It’s shady, is what it is.” Troup invited himself in further and plopped down on the neatly made bed, muttering to himself, "Doesn't sound familiar, either. Were you close with an Edward? I can't recall."
”How is meeting a new friend for drinks shady, Bobby?” Hamilton turned to look at him. He fidgeted with the cuffs of the freshly starched white linen shirt, and immediately remembered it had been washed so by Betsey.
“Because with you,” Troup inclined his head, irritated, “it’s never ‘just drinks.’ It’s too many drinks. And then a touch. Or a particular type of gaze. And then, before you know it, we have a situation on our hands—”
“I can handle myself, I mean it.” Hamilton, still standing, turned and examined the backs of his pant legs. “I appreciate the concern you and King are showing, but really, it’s unnecessary.”
The room fell silent and Hamilton stepped into the adjacent bathroom to splash cold water on his face and brush his teeth. Troup watched him warily, his thoughts plainly visible on his open, round face.
“I still don’t like it. I don’t care how confident you are,” he called over the running water, “You shouldn’t be posting advertisements on internet billboards for companionship. I still can't believe someone replied. What’s wrong with me? Or King? And what on earth is wrong with Betsey?”
Hamilton walked out of the bathroom, towel-dried his face and then looked at his watch, responding calmly, “There is nothing wrong with you or King or Betsey."
Troup narrowed his eyes, “Hamilton, you have to listen to me on this. Please, just this once, listen to me. You know your limits. You know how you can be—”
Hamilton sighed and sat back down beside his friend, studying the carpet, allowing him his argument.
“You put yourself in these situations and you are asking for trouble. Plain and simple. Forget this …meeting…or whatever you’re calling it. Stay for dinner here or something. Don’t put yourself in harm’s way.”
“I appreciate the sentiment,” Hamilton responded, louder, and clasped a hand on his friend’s knee as he stood up, “But I have already made my decision.”
Troup clenched his fist in frustration as his friend’s back turned, “Fine. Fine, Hamilton. If you’ve already made your decision, then I’ve already made mine,” Troup stood up seconds later, “And my decision is that I’m going with you.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have come over here first,” Hamilton replied, “I knew you would try to change my mind.”
“You came over here precisely because you knew Betsey would be suspicious if you went home and changed and then went back out,” Troup reasoned, red-faced. “You have a guilty conscience. I can’t keep covering for you, either!”
“No. I’m doing this. And I don’t need a babysitter.”
Hamilton grabbed his suit jacket from a nearby side chair and put it on, exiting the room before his temper got the better of him. Walking down the stairs, he heard the rustling of Troup's dog and a low, gruff bark, followed by the huffing of the much slower man who was close on his heels. Ignoring this, Hamilton reached the front door, grabbed his keys from the small side table, and stepped outside.
“Hamilton, I’m not kidding,” Troup called as he watched his friend maneuver into the driver’s seat of his car. Troup walked quickly towards the vehicle and pulled on the passenger’s side handle. He pleaded, muffled, with Hamilton to let him in.
“You’re not going without me. Unlock this door!” His palms slapped against the glass and a tiny, entertained smile played on Hamilton’s face. “This isn’t funny, Hamilton. Let me in!”
A new song began to play on the radio and Hamilton turned up the volume all the way, singing along to block out the other man’s pleas.
“For God’s sake, Hamilton, unlock this door!”
The song hit a crescendo and Hamilton belted out the melody, perfectly on pitch. Troup jiggled the door handle.
“Stop singing and laughing! This isn’t funny!”
Hamilton revved the motor, put the car in reverse and buckled his seat belt. At the sound of the engine, Troup jumped back. Wide eyed, he looked first at the car and then the driver inside—who waved, smiling mischievously, and backed out of the driveway as if nothing were wrong.
Several minutes later he sped down the highway, away from the suburbs of Troup's comfortable home and towards the city, the sun setting over the horizon, casting everything in a purple glow. The late winter air, though brisk, wet and cold, made him feel alive with the promise of spring. Perhaps that was why, a small voice said, he felt so reckless. Perhaps a promise was enough to make people act irrationally. He tapped his fingers to the beat of a new song on the radio.
There was nothing wrong with what he was doing.
“Not a damn thing,” Hamilton reiterated out loud, “There is nothing wrong with going to meet someone for drinks, for God's sake. I know my limits.”
The thoughts were always there, and he was helpless to present the subject to anyone.
Instead he was left with a sort of prison of memories: should-haves and almosts. There was not another soul, as far as he could see, that could understand him, and so he buried those regrets in deep, cold, black earth, hoping never to need to explain himself again. He tried to get on with living, again.
No one looked at him the same. Those who professed friendship and loyalty to him eyed him with a sort of mawkish pity in their features, watching to make sure they said everything correctly, never bringing up anything that could hurt his feelings. It made Hamilton feel silly. He knew exactly what they saw when they looked at him, and his skin burned with rage. Victim .
He gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles glowed white in the dim light, felt his face turn red. Of course they meant well.
But Hamilton didn’t know what was worse: the hovering, suffocating protectiveness of Troup, the disappointed resignation of King or Morris, or the thinly-veiled discomfort with which Betsey looked at the scar on his lower right abdomen.
There were too many things that desperately needed discussing, Hamilton reasoned, and no one was willing to talk—no one was ever willing to talk— except him.
It was almost too good to be true, when he received a response to his ad.
Hamilton read it several times, discerning whether or not it was real or a scam. The wording was short, concise - impossible to determine a mood or a motive. His natural suspicion told him it was a joke. Perhaps spam, perhaps someone mocking him.
He opened the short message that morning at the office, his eyes immediately landing on the final few lines that the recipient included:
The only thing that escapes / Your heir is what you've added to your soul. / When you have died and Minos has given / His judgment, nothing, Torquatus — not birth / Nor eloquence nor worth — restores your life.
Hamilton smiled to himself. He reasoned that his friends' worry it would be another member of their generation was misplaced and blown out of proportion.
Yes of course there is a chance, but it's incredibly unlikely.
In the minutes he had spent driving, the sun had set, and in its place the oranges and red of the city’s nightlife bloomed. Hamilton’s heart raced. This was one positive of modern life: everywhere around him told him that boredom was a thing of the past. And he thrived for the unknown.
He pulled into a parking garage, parking in a corner facing a wall. Walking from his car into the thick night air, Hamilton ran over in his mind what he would say. The logistics of the situation made true connection impossible. But at least he could speak freely—about love and life and regrets—without the fear of being looked at as though he were helpless.
“My name is Alexander Hamilton,” he muttered, out loud, practicing his introductory speech, hitting the lock on his car keys. Then, he knew, he would wait for the New Friend’s face to split into a grin, trying to place the familiar sounding name. “Like the 'founding father',” Hamilton would reply, giving just the right amount of pride to his voice, “No, not a president. The man on the ten dollar bill.” Hamilton would then wait to see if the New Friend was as educated as his laconic response on the internet had hinted.
Hamilton jumped over a puddle and scurried across the street just in time to miss a honking, speeding car. Ahead of him stood—loomed—the bar he would be meeting the New Friend. He practiced his introduction to no one in particular.
“Hello Edward, my name is Alexander. It is a pleasure to meet you.” He reached for the handle. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.
Immediately Hamilton was hit with the stench. Lingering cigarette smoke from careless patrons and cheap perfume lingered together indiscriminately, causing him to cough twice. He swallowed and allowed his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting.
It was a somewhat handsome place, Hamilton decided: dark, sensuous. The type of place a wealthy business man would take a mistress for cocktails. The type of place he'd seen in his own fantasies. He scanned the room and saw, in some far flung booths and at the edge of the bar, just that. Beautiful people making connections, infidelities. A new, pleasantly edgy feeling spread throughout his body.
Hamilton stepped forward and nodded as the host pointed to the bar. Yes, he was here to meet someone. The host eyed him up and down, taking in the expensive watch he'd picked out for just this occasion. Hamilton remembered that his shoes were real leather and his tie was real silk, and though he couldn’t imagine why he’d bought them in the first place, he was glad he didn’t look like he’d crawled off an abandoned beach. The law had its perks.
He was suddenly aware of his flushed skin and rapid heartbeat as he took his seat at the bar. Across from him, like a conscience, a mirror glared back, reflecting his face. Across its glazed surface sat bottle after bottle of liquor and Hamilton was overwhelmed and confused by the choices. He dug a nail into the mahogany counter.
“Can I get you something to drink?” A slim, sandy-haired bartender slid up to him, her thick dark lashes blinking innocently as she wiped down an empty glass. Hamilton stared at the drinks for a moment more, and then thought better.
“Just water, for now.”
She nodded and brought it to him, eyeing him curiously. Hamilton ignored her, but knew she was staring. Knew she would be tapping her friend on the shoulder and pointing at him, trying to remember where she’d seen that face ten million times before. Doesn’t he look like someone we know?
“Check your tip jar, darling,” Hamilton muttered under his breath and sipped his water.
A flat television hung in the other room—the dining room—and silently played the news. Hamilton craned his neck to watch it, and caught the time. Half-past eight. The man, in his ad, said he would be here by then. Hamilton tapped his fingers impatiently and caught the bartender’s eyes again, who looked away hurriedly.
He laughed bitterly to himself. Hamilton shook his head and gulped his water again, feeling foolish. He put down the glass loudly and stared at the reflection in the mirror behind the bar. A woman several seats down from him, who also appeared to be waiting for someone, did the same, oblivious to her surroundings. No one was here for someone else, Hamilton concluded. We are all here for ourselves.
He tilted his head until the dim ocher lighting caught in his thick hair, watched as freckles became invisible with the shadows cast by his cheekbones. Played with the cuffs of his sleeves, furrowed his eyebrows, watching how the artificial light made him appear gaunt and desperate, exacerbating the bags under his eyes and pointed chin. In the mirror he saw the patrons behind him: some watching the news, others chatting with a companion, some sitting by themselves, lost in their own thoughts.
Hamilton checked his watch again. Eight forty. Whoever had promised to meet him here was long gone or laughing at his credulity. Hamilton stood up and shook his head. The bartender walked over as soon as she caught his eye for the third time, sensing something was wrong.
“Were you supposed to meet someone?” She asked.
Hamilton looked at her. Young, pretty, probably attending a university in the area. She raised her eyebrows and waited patiently for him to answer.
“Yes. He was supposed to be here at eight thirty. I fear I have been mistaken.”
“And so you’re just going to leave?”
“I don’t believe I have a choice.”
The bartender, confused, put a hand on her hip, not understanding how anyone could leave a bar and not be drunk, “But you haven’t ordered anything except water. That’s sort of cheap. Only homeless people come in here and do that,” she eyed him up and down, “and you don’t look homeless.”
“Oh? And who do I look like?” Hamilton could not help himself. He leaned on the counter.
“Like someone who’s just been stood up.” She smiled back, angling for a drink order and, more importantly, a tip. “Like someone who needs to either order a real drink, or stop coming to bars and taking up precious space.”
“But just a second ago you wanted me to leave.”
“I never said that. Get the cheapest wine on the menu. I don’t care. But don’t just come to bars and drink free water wearing an outfit that probably cost more than my rent.”
Hamilton exhaled, and sat back down onto the stool. He watched the waitress, his arms folded, pour him a glass of deep red wine. She spun around and placed it in front of him, happy with herself.
“This one is the special tonight. It’s, uh, Chilean? I think.”
“Cheers,” Hamilton lifted the glass to his lips and sipped, letting the alcohol do its work. His reflection did the same. It wasn’t half bad. The bartender watched him for a reaction. He smiled and nodded appreciatively.
“It’s alright,” Hamilton responded appropriately.
“What does your friend look like? Maybe he’s already here.” The bartender craned her neck over the patrons to see across the bar, to see if anyone looked like they were missing another half.
“That’s just it. I don’t know.”
The bartender landed back down from her tip toes with a thud and looked at Hamilton more closely, like she and her friend had done earlier. Hamilton felt the change in her demeanor, sipped his wine, and shifted uncomfortably.
“You don’t know what he looks like?” Her face split into a smile, as if she’d solved the mystery, “Is it a blind date?”
Hamilton ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head, no. The bartender looked slightly disappointed. She walked towards the end of the bar, still looking around, then outside to their patio area, and Hamilton was faced with his wretched reflection once again. He pondered, silently, why the architect designed it that way, as if daring the patrons to watch their bad decisions unfold before their eyes.
“There,” the bartender came back to him, breathless, indicating with her head a small table on the sidewalk, “That man’s been sitting there since quarter after eight. Checking his watch. I bet that’s the guy you’re looking for. Wouldn’t hurt to ask. Do you want me to go over and ask for you?”
“If you must,” He sighed. Hamilton didn’t even bother looking up; he nodded halfheartedly, staring into the red liquid in his glass. The bartender smiled broadly and walked off in the direction of the outdoor seating. Hamilton could not muster up the energy to care. He suddenly felt like going home.
He felt the flurry of the bartender’s return.
“He says it’s him, he’s waiting for someone, too.” She put a hand cautiously on Hamilton’s shoulder. “Go over and say something!”
In the dim light, Hamilton could only just make out the shape of a man, not any larger than himself, sitting at an outdoor table just beyond the far window at the other corner of the building. He toyed casually with a cigarette, putting it to his lips and puffing out clouds of thick smoke, obscuring his full face. Light reflected off the wine glass he held between his fingers. The man took another small sip, inhaled the cigarette, and then resumed his calm waiting. A wave of blind coldness washed over Hamilton so quickly he tasted metal.
“What are you waiting for? Go over there already.” The bartender stepped back and took a good look at him. “Are you sick or something? You’re all pale. Was it the wine?”
Hamilton breathed heavily and steadied himself on the bar.
You fucking idiot.
“No. No, the wine was fine. I just…” out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man in the coal-black suit shift. He tried to remember everything he’d said in the ad, tried to remember how rigidly specific he’d been. To the point of neurosis, of impossibility.
“Then what are you waiting for?” The bartender pestered again, gently pushing him from the bar. Several patrons looked on with interest at the unfolding drama. Hamilton didn’t care.
The man at the outdoor table looked up and turned his head, and the light from the indoor glow caught his face. As if finding its target, his gaze settled on Hamilton, sizing him up. A bemused grin spread across the man's lips and he nodded a greeting. He put the cigarette to his mouth one last time and, from his detached vantage point, blew a final cloud of smoke before snubbing it in an ashtray by his sleeve.
Hamilton felt the tips of his fingers go numb as Aaron Burr stood up, smiled politely at the waiter taking his empty wine glass, and made his way back into the bar, arrogant and unashamed.
The bartender, feeling successful and as though she’d done her good deed for the night, flitted off to her customers and took drink orders.
The dark presence walked closer; Hamilton felt his mouth go dry. Pithy, panicked phrases sprung to his mind. Face your demons, and conquer them —that was one of the sayings.
“Good evening,” Burr slid into a stool next to Hamilton. Burr ordered the same wine, from the same bartender, who had smiled at him.
He leaned close, low, “I knew it was you the moment I started reading, General,” Burr whispered over his glass, using Hamilton's military moniker with confidence, “I couldn’t believe my luck.”