HUBERT HUMPHREY, FORMER VICE PRESIDENT, EX-SENATOR FROM MINNESOTA, AND Democratic candidate for president in 1968, was a patient at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester on and off in the spring of 1978, while undergoing radiation and chemotherapy for a quick-spreading cancer of the bladder that would soon claim his life. One evening while being visited by his devoted wife, Muriel, and other loved ones, he said he was feeling very tired, so they hugged and kissed him good night. On the way out, Muriel informed the nurse that the vice president was not to be disturbed. Desperate for sleep, Humphrey himself dialed up the switchboard to make sure they would turn off his phone. With the promise that they would, he fell quickly asleep. Ten minutes later, the phone rang. Startled and annoyed, Humphrey fumbled around for the phone and answered it, none too happy, only to discover that Richard Milhouse Nixon, his opponent in the ’68 election, was on the other end of the line, calling from his house in San Clemente, California, where he’d been living in disgrace since resigning the presidency on August 8, 1974.

That night these two men—Humphrey dying, Nixon wishing himself dead—spoke on the phone. What did they talk about? No transcript of their conversation exists, but it stands to reason they spoke about how the vice president was feeling. Perhaps they discussed their loving wives, their wonderful and supportive children. Nixon may have talked about the recent birth of another grandchild. Maybe they voiced admiration, regrets. Maybe they had old friends in common to discuss. Maybe Nixon said something that made Humphrey laugh. We’ll never know. But this much is certain: What had likely been intended as a brief call to a former adversary turned into a two-hour conversation.

I thought about Nixon and Humphrey in those moments after Jeff Slade had excused himself to take his turn in the Heights Café men’s room. Kate had been gone half an hour at that point. I know it’s a stretch—Nixon/Humphrey, Slade/Welch. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder: Were the feelings between me and Jeff Slade somewhat like what Nixon and Humphrey felt that night after hanging up? The surge of warmth in the veins, the sense of uplift that comes when your enemy is no longer your enemy, that what kept you fierce and burning no longer needed to be fed.

Yes, this was like that.

Now it wasn’t that I’d instantly become Jeff Slade’s best friend. But I found myself kind of liking the guy. What had happened? One moment, I later realized.