Craig Stockwell
Doctor Kissinger
On one lovely October weekend, my boyfriend Hao and I decided to visit New York from Providence to see a drag show. We were staying in Manhattan, so we decided to visit Central Park. Hao was holding my arm, and we were enjoying the sunny, cool day. Unlike Hao, however, I was unable to, shall we say, enjoy the moment.
I observed, “For fuck’s sake, everything about this city is a fucking EA microtransaction festival. Like New Netherlands never ended, and the patroons became ‘asset managers,’ or just remained as landlords. Pay for this, pay for that, a service charge for things they don’t tell you about, tips added onto bills and expected toute de suite, toute de même.[1]”
“MY GOD, WILL YOU SHUT UP! YOU SOUND LIKE FOX NEWS IN FRENCH!”
I did not. I proceeded, “—And my God, the literary scene. Yes, everyone in America wants to read about the same damned neighborhoods in Brooklyn: I have a perfect mental map of what that bodega looks like off that subway line. Who the hell cares? Know who lived in Brooklyn? Fucking Lovecraft. No wonder people still talk about Gordon Lish and Raymond Carver, because that’s when corporate money paid for copy and their booze bill—”
“SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP. YOU. ASS!” Hao yelled back.
I stopped, exhaled, looked out at The Lake, and then said, “Fine. I’m probably hangry. I could use a hot dog.” So, we made for the southern side of Central Park to leave.
After a bit, Hao said, “Daddy, I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Okay, let’s find a toilet.”
Not long after, we found one, so Hao went in. I didn’t have to go myself, so I stood outside. After some time appreciating the greenery, I noticed a very aged man sitting alone in a wheelchair. He had white curly hair, and his head was bent down and forward. He was wearing a dark grey suit, black tie, Brown oxfords, and old man cotton socks. No one else was with him.
“No, it can’t be…” I muttered as I started walking towards him instinctively. “Oh my God, it is. It’s Henry Kissinger,” I gasped.
My neurospicy mind was piqued. The architect of late Twentieth Century American foreign policy. The cause of most of the world’s problems today. Decrepitude personified. I had to talk to him about China, or AI, or anything. I had recently seen interviews with him where he had a delusional sense that he alone could solve US-PRC diplomatic issues. My brain began churning. The possibilities were too exciting. What if I just… took Kissinger?
To avoid spending the rest of my days in Guantanamo Bay, I had to frame this as a fun expedition for Kissinger. He needed to want to go with me. Thus, I decided to frame my “outing” with him in a way he would relish.
“Doctor Kissinger,” I said as I looked into his sad, depressed, lonely face. His mind was still sharp, but his body was a round ball of realpolitik. His sad face looked up at me.
I said, “We must get you to Beijing, because only you and you alone have the power to resolve the current diplomatic issues between the US and China.”
Kissinger stared into my eyes. He said, “Only I can do this. But the politicians do not listen to me. They refuse my advice, experience, and knowledge. The young people these days, they reduce everything to emotion. They think bombing Cambodia made me a war criminal, but no, I was right, and they will remain wrong. Biden and Trump do not understand the depth of their ignorance. I am still capable of determining outcomes.”
“Precisely, Doctor Kissinger,” I cajoled. “The time has come for your final, penultimate return to Beijing. You and I shall show Xi Jinping the force and power of American dominance, as you did with Mao in 1971.”
“I opened relations with China in 1971 under President Nixon,” Kissinger murmured.
“Yes, Doctor Kissinger, and you shall do so again…” I was now standing behind his wheelchair and disengaging the brakes.
“I shall return to Beijing… The third world will again obey the dictates of American interests. The good old days shall return. I miss Gerald Ford…”
We began walking together, me pushing Doctor Kissinger, through Central Park. I asked, “Doctor Kissinger, do you like ice cream?”
“Yes, I would like a vanilla soft serve.”
“Very well, Doctor Kissinger, I shall buy you an ice cream.”
I wheeled Kissinger over to an ice cream truck once I saw one and bought us each a vanilla soft serve, “Here, Doctor Kissinger, enjoy.”
“Thank you, young man. Few people your age appreciate my genius. Tell me, what do you know of my work?”
I knew exactly what to do here. I stopped driving Kissinger for a moment, unzipped my backpack, and handed him my copy of Edward Luttwak’s Coup d’Etat: a Practical Handbook. He started laughing as well as a nearly 100-year-old man could.
“YOU KNOW THE SECRET OF POWER! YES! WE SHALL RETURN ORDER TO FOREIGN POLICY! MY LIFE WILL HAVE MEANING AGAIN!”
“Yes, Doctor Kissinger. Here, have a napkin, you’re getting ice cream on your tie.”
“I appreciate your sincerity. Many people would simply ignore the ice cream on my tie and make me look silly. But you know that, to paraphrase Otto von Bismarck, honesty is the most confusing weapon a diplomat has.”
“I do, Doctor Kissinger. Tell me about ‘the good old days.’”
Kissinger rambled about the 1970s as I walked him towards the edge of the park. I knew I had to take Kissinger somewhere besides simply around the park, as I’d be very visible with him. Plus, I was getting hungry, and I wanted pastrami on rye. Fuck the hot dog.
At this time, Hao called me. I declined the phone call and texted him back a picture of Kissinger’s bald patch and him holding onto his soft serve. Hao texted back “PUT. THE. FUCKING. WAR. CRIMINAL. BACK.”
Instead, I replied to Hao that I would be taking Kissinger to Katz’s Deli on East Houston Street, and he should meet us there. Hao took a bit of persuasion to convince, which is to say, he reacted very aggressively until I pointed out that I was the one paying for lunch anyway, and the idea of meeting the man who opened relations with Mao was too strong for Hao to ignore. Besides, this was too absurd to not see through.
“Doctor Kissinger,” I asked, “would you like to go to a deli?”
“Yes, we should go to Carnegie, the owners know me and provide me with a discount.” He was now slightly drooling on his suit jacket.
“Unfortunately, they closed in 2016. When was the last time you have been to Katz’s?”
“That is a good idea, young man, we shall go there. ONWARD!” Kissinger pointed towards the 59 Street / Columbus Circle MTA entrance for us to take the subway. I was laughing so hard inside that I could barely control myself.
“Tell me,” I asked out of curiosity, “why did you give the Chinese atomic secrets?”
“Leverage, my young colleague. The Soviets would never do that, whereas we would. This created the impression that we were the superior alternative.”
“I understand, Two Bombs, One Satellite. But are not nuclear secrets our most protected? Did you not provide China with too much information? What about DOE?”
“The DOE is the most privatized government department. Bechtel was quite eager, so, so very eager, to get contracts in China, which they did over the 1980s and 90s. Opening relations with China made Bechtel, Goldman Sachs, and everyone else significant sums.”
“I understand, Doctor Kissinger. Please forgive my naivety,” I said sarcastically.
“That is fine. Please, tell me about your thoughts on our relations with China today.”
“Yes, Doctor Kissinger, but let’s get you into the subway first…”
“Situational awareness dictates all,” Kissinger mumbled.
I got Kissinger into an elevator and gently pushed him through the station. Neither Kissinger nor I had MTA cards, which added to the complexity. Once we bought tickets, I advised Kissinger to hold on as I balanced his wheelchair using my foot.
“AHH, be careful!” He yelled as I got him over the gap. He was being dramatic, I think.
Once I parked Kissinger in the handicapped section of the subway car and sat next to him, people started staring at us. One guy was quietly muttering under his breath that the lizard overlords were among them. I instead focused on speaking with Kissinger.
“Well,” I said, “China is one of the US’s oldest trading partners, going back to the Revolution and Canton Era of the Old China Trade. There was the Open-Door policy, early Dollar Diplomacy under Taft, then enmeshment with the ROC. One can argue that what forced the hostility between the PRC at its founding and the US wasn’t simply ‘communism,’ but rather, US capital being kicked out of China.”
“I see you do not believe in the Domino Theory,” Kissinger croaked.
“No, because the Soviets, and especially China, couldn’t fund global revolution. They’d go bankrupt before seeing any meaningful return. Look at Cuba; that cost the Soviets how much for essentially a few boxes of cigars for the Politburo, sugar, and sub bases?”
“Which is exactly why we needed to resist communism’s spread: identify choke points, then use overwhelming force to break their political will.”
“But it wasn’t Soviet or Chinese political will to break, but rather, the individual peoples resisting colonialism, like what happened in Vietnam. Thiệu’s government had no—okay, minimal—support, and the US spent how much propping up that corrupt puppet?”
“You are merely focusing on the failures, not the larger number of successes.”
“I swear to God, if you say Papa Doc was a success—”
“Did he or did he not curb communism’s spread in the Caribbean?”
“Oh, I am so making you do Rhum Barbancourt shots after Katz’s,” I joked. Kissinger broke out laughing as well. My mind flashed back to The Comedians.
“Had Duvalier fallen,” Kissinger continued, “we would have another Cuba on our hands. Right next to the Dominican Republic, a key American ally—”
“Colony,” I cut in.
“—ally,” Kissinger said, “which would have led to continued destabilization in the region. This, we, and our allies, could not afford.”
“How much of ‘cannot afford’ is Wall Street and the City of London speaking?”
“More than they will admit in public, young man.”
I nodded. “You’re not wrong, Doctor Kissinger—”
“—I am always right, never wrong.”
“—but your moral compass is…”
“Consistently pointed towards the right direction.”
“Towards whoever pays you.”
“So what?” Kissinger laughed. “What is right and wrong? Who decides the—”
“Please don’t say ‘exception.’”
“What? How did you—”
“‘Sovereign is he who decides the exception,’ Doctor Kissinger. You know the line, I know the line, we all know the line, now, where are you going with this?” This was starting to feel like Seinfeld or a Borscht Belt comedy with a war criminal discussing Carl Schmitt on the MTA, which is to say, quite absurd.
“Okay, bad word choice, perhaps… But permit me to continue… who are you to decide what is right and wrong?”
“I have no right to, I’m not the moral arbiter of the universe.”
“Precisely,” Kissinger smirked. “You understand; not acting is almost as powerful, or, more powerful, than acting.” Lizard Overlords Guy sitting near us started glaring. “Let me explain how the British handled the Palestine mandate, I think you will enjoy that story—”
“I would, Doctor Kissinger, but our stop is coming up soon,” I said to, first, shut Kissinger up and prevent him from being protested in public, and second, to actually go get Katz’s. But I wanted to continue the discussion.
Once we were back above ground, walking down East Houston Street, I joked to Doctor Kissinger, “Okay, if ‘sovereign is he who decides the exception,’ whose sovereign now, given that I’m pushing your wheelchair?”
“You tell me,” Kissinger joked.
“Well,” I conjectured, “if I know you, you’re likely guarded by at least five different government agencies, still have a handful of security clearances, and perhaps have already accessed my EB personnel file. So, I’d say, you’re letting the exception happen, and I’m simply the Marinus van der Lubbe pushing you to go get deli food. Fair?”
“I cannot confirm or deny that statement,” Kissinger said robotically. I nodded and smirked, meaning, that was a yes in Kissinger-talk.
Kissinger continued after a bit, “I have not had a sandwich at Katz’s since the Clinton Administration. I am debating between pastrami, tongue, or Knoblewurst.”
“Pastrami would be the classic choice. That’s what I’m getting. Tongue would be most appropriate for Machiavellian shenanigans, as it would likely inspire fear in other diners. The Knoblewurst would likely be intense, but too cliché.”
“I wish to be feared, young man, so I shall go with the tongue.”
“A wise decision, Doctor Kissinger,” I sarcastically joked. We went silent again for a moment, then Kissinger noticed that my mind seemed occupied.
“Indeed,” I said. “Meeting you reminded me…”
“Of?”
“Myself.”
“In what manner?”
“Well, everyone calls you a ‘war criminal,’ right?”
“They are merely ignorant of the realities of power, young man.”
“—Morality aside, Doctor Kissinger, money is power. You are, well, were, the personification of American foreign policy over how many administrations?”
“Thank you for the compliment.”
That wasn’t intended as such, I thought, but I kept talking regardless, “You’re the upstream source for the money that funds the military-industrial complex. I’m the recipient as a guy with a regular job at a submarine shipyard. I make the nukes move silently under water by just filling out paperwork all day. If someone— well, you would know, you and Nixon ordered Task Force 74 to the Bay of Bengal during the Bangladeshi war of independence—wanted to express US interests in a region, they call for a carrier force with subs. Subs that I—”
“Help build.”
“Help build,” I agreed with Kissinger.
“Do you see?”
“Unfortunately, I do,” I replied. “Like Eric Arthur Blair in Burma-see.”
“And how does that make you feel,” Kissinger needled.
“Implicated because of the Goddamned Rhode Island job market.” While I loved my job, a regular guy doing something as boring as compliance, I was the center of a web of complicity.
I continued, “You think you’re nowhere near danger, until you realize, no, you in the metropole only exist because you benefit from it. That’s what I was going to say about Schmitt, by the way. He doesn’t consider cui bono.”
“He does,” Kissinger replied. “‘The concept of sovereignty is the one most governed by actual interests.’”
“Right,” I clarified, “which ‘can be enlisted to serve the most varied political interests.’ But he never says who those ‘varied political interests’ are.”
“Why would he?”
“He wouldn’t, not under his ‘friend/enemy distinction.’”
“Precisely, young man. You know.”
“I know too well.”
“So,” Kissinger asked, “what will you do about it?”
“Well, right now, get us both lunch…”
At this point, I pushed Kissinger into Katz’s. I waved to Hao as I got in line to order. Hao’s head slumped down onto the table in sheer disbelief. I ordered Hao and I two pastramis on rye with Swiss, mine with mustard, Hao’s with mayo, two sodas, plus a jar of pickles. Kissinger ordered the tongue sandwich with mustard and sauerkraut, as well as an iced tea. Everyone also got a piece of cheesecake. I covered Kissinger’s tab because… what else could I do?
I parked Kissinger at the table Hao was sitting at and engaged his brakes, then served everyone their sandwiches. Hao just stared in disbelief.
“It really is him. Him. 肏你妈…[2]” Hao gasped.
“Hello, young woman,” Kissinger said to Hao. Hao cackled and flapped his arms.
“Thank you, thank you so much for saying that!” Hao said about being misgendered, before posting a picture with Kissinger on Instagram.
Given the Lich Lord Kissinger’s extremely advanced age, I then prepared the table so that we could all eat comfortably. I cut Kissinger’s food, moved his iced tea so he wouldn’t knock it over, and opened the pickle jar. I then decided to bib him.
“Doctor Kissinger, that is such a nice suit, kindly permit me to place a napkin under your shirt collar so that it does not get mustard on it,” I said sarcastically.
“Thank you, I bought this suit in 1992,” he murmured. I have no idea how he was able to still wear a suit from about thirty years prior, but hey, here he was.
I started eating my sandwich, which Hao had already taken a bite out of (yes, mine, not his), when Hao asked Kissinger, “So, what was it like negotiating with Mao?”
Kissinger perked up as he was slowly, gradually, and noisily putting the pieces of sandwich in his mouth with a fork, and said, “Mao by that time was quite old and decrepit, as he constantly smoked and drank and never bathed. Most of the negotiations were handled through Zhou Enlai.”
I joked, “Did Zhou tell you the story when he lost his notebook full of CCP agents within the KMT security apparatus in 1946 on a plane, and General Marshall gave him back the notebook neatly wrapped and tied with string?”
Kissinger found that droll, then continued, “I enjoyed working with the Chinese, as I appreciated their directness and focus on long term strategy over temporary results. In a totalitarian state like China, there are no meaningful elections, and thus, you can develop a consistent, long-term strategy in foreign relations.”
Hao and I shot confused, shocked glances across the table at each other. Kissinger was comfortable. We knew this because of how… open… he was with us. Then, Kissinger asked us about us being a gay couple.
He said, “How do you two navigate geopolitics and the bedroom? Or do you, like most people, simply claw at the mud and hope?”
“Ideally, not clawing in the mud, no, Kissinger,” Hao joked.
I stopped eating to cut in, “It’s becoming a problem, quite frankly, Doctor Kissinger.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, Hao’s family is back in China still, and me having a clearance—”
“Makes the situation, shall we say…”
“—Complicated,” I filled in.
“Indeed,” Kissinger continued. “Have you considered working for the State Department? It worked… rather well for me.”
“Doctor Kissinger,” I replied, “if my concern is the morality of American foreign policy, do you think I’d want to work in Foggy Bottom?”
“Wait, what?” Hao asked confused.
“Foggy Bottom, it’s—”
“What, a drag queen?” Hao joked. I rolled my eyes.
“If I may,” Kissinger said, “if you wish to see systemic change, why not embody it and ‘be’ the change, as you young people say?”
“Because, Doctor Kissinger, if you’re change embodied, is there change?”
“An apt question. You see, I asked myself the same question during my time as a Harvard PhD student, writing my dissertation about Metternich and—”
By this time, Hao and I had finished our sandwiches, and Kissinger was almost done with his. I was cleansing my palate with a few pickles. There were so many things that I wanted to discuss with him. Discuss is not the right word, rather, I wanted to tease out admissions from him to fully realize how evil he was. Hao probably wanted to get into the question of how Kissinger diplomatically isolated Vietnam and influenced Deng to attack Vietnam. But Kissinger would spin it so that he was right and I was wrong. Try arguing with Jello; it simply returns to form.
I also knew that Kissinger would likely be leaving us soon. People had noticed that he wasn’t just any old Jewish grandpa getting a tongue sandwich at a deli. Besides, Hao took a selfie with Kissinger, so it would only be a question of when someone took him away from us. Not to mention that he could quite simply die at any moment. I therefore decided to wrap up all this blood on his hands into one question.
“Doctor Kissinger,” I asked in a lull, “how do you evaluate the worth of human beings?”
Kissinger was chewing the last pieces of his sandwich like a cow chewing cud. He made all the loud, coughing, unaware noises typical of old men chewing food. He stopped for a moment once he swallowed, and then replied, “An appropriate question, young man. The answer is that, in short, I don’t.”
This left Hao and I stunned, staring at each other across the table. Hao’s nose started to twitch like a rabbit. I could tell Hao was going to start attacking Kissinger, so I put my hand on his to calm him down, then wrapped our fingers together.
Kissinger took the last pickle out of the jar and loudly, obnoxiously, and cluelessly started chomping on it. Kissinger’s napkin bib was covered in bits of tongue, mustard, kraut, and pickle juice: a perfect metaphor for all the blood he let pool around the world, from the Khmer Rouge to the Congo. He then swallowed the pickle and smiled.
“Thank you for taking me out to lunch, young man, I found this experience very enjoyable. Shall we now enjoy our cheesecakes?”
“Yes, Doctor Kissinger, I think we will,” I agreed out of sheer lack of options.
About halfway through the cheesecakes, a group of NYPD, bodyguards in suits, and someone who appeared to be either Kissinger’s professional handler or caretaker relative, an older man in his upper fifties wearing a black overcoat with grey, curly hair like Andrew Cuomo, headed straight for our table. The game was over. Kissinger was now going to leave us forever.
“Doctor Kissinger,” the Cuomo clone said, “we’ve been looking all over for you! Where have you been?” The handler was quite exasperated.
“This kind young man bought me an ice cream and lunch. I was very alone and sad before he found me. I was in Central Park, all alone. We will go to China together to repair relations with Xi Jinping…” Kissinger kept monologuing as the handler started talking to me.
“Please don’t mind Doctor Kissinger, he’s been having a hard time recently. Did you really take him out for ice cream and lunch?”
“It was the least I could do,” I said. “He looked so, well, sad and lonely.”
“Well, thank you for taking care of him, at least it looks like he’s enjoyed himself.” The handler then disengaged the brakes on Kissinger’s wheelchair, before the old man started yelling and waving his arms around.
“WAIT! I HAVE NOT YET FINISHED MY CHEESECAKE!”
The handler then opened his eyes wide, and decided, fine, let him finish his cheesecake. Kissinger looked into my eyes as his spoon scooped up the last piece.
“Thank you for listening to me, no one ever listens to me anymore.”
Kissinger’s eyes began returning to their sad, depressed, mopey look, like when I first saw him in Central Park.
“Of course, Doctor Kissinger,” I said. “Thank you for letting me ‘kidnap’ you.”
“It was my pleasure. If you had been a serious threat, you would have been immediately eliminated, but we knew who you were from your clearance.” I gulped at this line.
Kissinger continued, “Next time, we should go to the Bohemian Club, I think you will fit right in there. I will talk to the club president about bringing you as a guest.” Kissinger gave me one last smile before he finished his cheesecake, and they wheeled him away.
Kissinger died a month later. His estate sent a black rose when Hao and I married. See you, Space Cowboy—you dirty, arrogant, war criminal.
[1] “Immediately, all the same.”
[2] “Fuck your mother.”
Craig Stockwell (he/him) is a queer Rhode Islander writing from Scotland. He attends the University of Aberdeen MLitt in Creative Writing. His work appears in mnemotope magazine, Scottish Left Review, The Helix Magazine (Central Connecticut State University), and elsewhere. Instagram: @c__stockwell
