The Ballad of Nixon and Brezhnev

Chapter 11 - Drunken Revelations

The smell of whiskey and cigar smoke filled the dimly lit room, and the air was heavy with the hangover from a late-night drinking binge. Sitting slouched in the worn leather armchairs, Nixon and Brezhnev's ceremonial poses gave way to more casual, human poses. A neglected bottle of bourbon stood sentry by Nixon's side, while a half-empty bottle of vodka lay between them, its label curled from moisture. With every drink, the severity of their earlier statements eased, their edges becoming less sharp as the alcohol set in.

Nixon was the first to break the silence, his voice gravelly and slurred. "You ever think... maybe this whole Goddamn thing is just too much? All of it. The expectations, the speeches, the fucking...decisions..." He waved his hand, almost knocking over his glass, his eyes narrowing as if the weight of the world rested in his tired gaze. "They think I'm cold. But I—hell, I don't even know if I'm doing the right thing half the time."

Brezhnev grunted, his thick fingers clumsily maneuvering the vodka bottle as he refilled his glass. "Cold? They call you cold? You should try running the Soviet Union. My own people treat me like I'm just another meaningless cog in the machine." He paused, taking a long swig. "They act like I'm the piece of shit who invented bureaucracy, when really, I'm stuck with the shit. Half the time, I can't even push through the simplest reforms without hitting ten fucking walls. And yet, they stress all the blame of stagnation on the man on top."

Nixon chuckled darkly, the sound more bitter than amused. "Yeah? Try dealing with Congress. Same bullshit, different continent." He leaned back, his eyes drifting up toward the ornate chandelier overhead, his mind clearly elsewhere. "Do you think... they'll remember us, Leonid? When all this shit is said and done?"

Brezhnev's face twisted into a sour smile. "Maybe. But probably not the way we would want it to be. They'll remember the bombs, the threats. Not... this." He gestured vaguely between them. "Not that we ever tried to figure out what the hell we're even doing here."

The weight of their raw and weighty admissions rested between them for a minute. However, as the evening progressed, the discussion drifted into ridiculousness. Whiskey gave Nixon the confidence to start talking freely about his college years, football, and a lady he never fully moved on from. With a thicker Russian accent, Brezhnev started telling a narrative about how he had once wrestled a bear in Siberia, a story that Nixon only partially believed but didn't really care about because he was too inebriated.

"Let me tell you something," Nixon said, jabbing his finger toward Brezhnev with a half-serious expression. "You don't know fear until you've tried bowling with Henry Kissinger. The man's a menace. Breaks more pins than balls, I swear."

Brezhnev blinked at him, then erupted into a booming laugh. "Pins? Pins are nothing! You haven't lived until you've arm-wrestled a factory worker after six shots of vodka. I lost. My arm still hurts."

The silliness of the situation—a U.S. president and a Soviet premier bonding over trivial grievances and bizarre stories—washed away the tension for a brief, intoxicating moment, as their laughter filled the room.

However, the weight of their duties returned as morning broke, casting soft pink and orange streaks across the sky. Now sober and with foggy eyes, Nixon stood up and shook his hands nervously to fix his tie. Brezhnev trailed behind, dismissing his uniform as though to erase the susceptibility of the previous evening.

About what had happened, neither man said. When they said their goodbyes, it was as if their talk had vanished with the evening's final sip, leaving just the chilly, comfortable space between them.