That was all I needed to hear. I was exhausted. Since the news of the earthquake, we had all worked nonstop for almost a week. So, I badged out, went straight home, changed out of my suit, and… went out to get hammered with other overworked staffers who wanted to blow off some steam. （Don’t tell Tina.）
After too many picklebacks and Jell-O shots at the old Adams Morgan dive Millie & Al’s, I made a pit stop at 7-Eleven to invest in the universal, peer-reviewed hangover cure: Gatorade, ibuprofen, and a frozen pizza of questionable vintage.1 I finally crashed into bed at around three thirty. Three hours later, I woke up to use the bathroom and noticed that the red light on my work BlackBerry was blinking. I checked my email while stumbling to the toilet.
From: “Jarrett, Valerie.” [email protected]
Date: Sat, 16 Jan 2010 06:21:14–0500
To: “Modi, Kalpen.”
Subject: This morning
Can you pls meet us in the Cabinet Room at 7:30am to brief 42, 43, and POTUS on Haiti outreach at Golden Globes?2
Oh, FUCK. I threw down my BlackBerry and jumped in the shower. I wasn’t drunk anymore but wasn’t hungover yet—I was in-between. The In-Between is the worst. In the In-Between, you feel both completely invincible and totally screwed. You hope you’ve avoided the debilitating crapulence of your actions, but you know there’s still residual alcohol left inside you. You’re either totally fine—heroic even!—or you are about to vomit.
Now, imagine feeling that way and knowing you need to brief three presidents. Terrified, I darted out of the shower, threw on my suit, and bolted out the door. The weather was surprisingly mild for a January weekend. I ran a block. No cabs. Jesus. One more block. No cabs. Seriously? Damn it, DC.
The S1 bus wasn’t running, and this was a pre-Uber world—I couldn’t just whip out my phone and get a car. I had to get down to the White House, so I did the only thing that made sense: I ran. In a full suit and dress shoes, I sprinted all the way to the northwest gate of the complex. （I don’t recommend going for a panicked run if there’s a chance you might hurl.）
As I bounded up the driveway at seven forty-five, the impassive marine sentry stationed outside opened the door for me. In the lobby, I found ROTUS—the president’s nickname for the West Wing receptionist, or Receptionist of the United States—at her desk. The first ROTUS of the administration was Darienne Page, a friend who—at that moment—looked at me like… well, like I was totally insane.3 I stood there out of breath, glistening with alcohol-infused sweat. “I’m here to see Valerie in the Cabinet Room.” Consistently calm, ROTUS stared at me wide-eyed. “Are you sure?” I pulled out my BlackBerry to show her the email. She was still skeptical, which makes sense, and I think it was with a decent amount of hesitation about my future that she pointed down the hall and said, “They should still be in there.”
A flock of security personnel parted to let me through. I made a left turn and walked down the hall to a room where one current and two former presidents were sitting. I hastily wiped my face with a napkin stuffed in my pocket, knocked, put on a professional smile, and went in. Two friends inside—Ben Rhodes and Tommy Vietor—immediately recognized my in-between state and smirked. Invincible!
“You just missed the presidents,” Valerie said. “Have a seat. You can brief Doug and Andy.” Doug Band and Andy Card, respectively Clinton’s and Bush’s chiefs of staff, seemed to know I had been called in last-minute, so there were no hard feelings for my tardiness. （Whew.） I took everyone through the White House outreach plan “to magnify the ways in which our outside partners would help with earned media during the Golden Globes the following day.”
Yes, it was a relatively easy thing to brief somebody on but let me tell you, under the circumstances, I crushed that briefing. As I learned on my second day at the White House （after running to Tina’s office post–Whappy conference call to tell her about the Department of Hot Dogs decision）， I knew not to expect a pat on the back for doing my job well. Still, if I’m being honest—considering the 7-Eleven food I was struggling to keep down—I was thankful that I seamlessly executed. Nobody except my friends could tell I was In-Between. I was proud of how far I’d come. I’d gone from not ever having worked in politics before to briefing two presidential chiefs of staff on something of substance without breaking a sweat. （Proverbially. I guess I was still lightly perspiring from running a 5K in businesswear.）
We finished up our meeting and waited for our bosses next to the entrance to the Oval Office. Someone had placed a tray of cookies on a table, but I didn’t think it was smart to test the fortitude of my stomach by having one.
As we stood side by side, all of us serving people who were either currently running the world or had run it before, we talked about normal things: how people’s kids were doing, the fact that it was cardio day for me （done and done）， that I might pick up my favorite Chinese food at Great Wall on Fourteenth Street for dinner. It was a reminder of the paradox of the West Wing: that you can stand in the same space where so much history has been made and still debate the ideal spot to get ma-la cold noodles.
The casual banter broke as the presidents started walking out of the Oval, on the way to deliver their sobering announcements. President Obama walked out first—and he didn’t even look at those cookies. Talk about self-discipline. President Clinton exited next. He stopped to take a peek at the cookies, but he didn’t pick one up. “My doctor says these are bad for my heart,” he mentioned to President Bush, who exited last.
President Bush saw the cookies and took one. Then he took another one. He smiled ear to ear, looked off in the distance, and said, “Some people say I don’t even have a heart.”
Standing in the Rose Garden watching the announcement, I felt my BlackBerry vibrate. An email chain with Rhodes and Vietor, who were standing an arm’s length away from me. “Hey, didn’t you do a movie with George Bush?” Tommy wrote. I had, sort of. Actor James Adomian played President Bush in Harold & Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay. In a now-iconic scene, Harold and Kumar hang out and smoke weed with him in his Crawford, Texas, ranch. Standing there in my in-between state, feeling proud of my small contribution to this moment, and getting ribbed by my friends a few feet away, I thought about how to respond. This announcement by three presidents was a somber one. I also had a quick flashback to my MILF email and knew I should be cautious in whatever I wrote back. Stifling a laugh, and craving Advil and water, I simply typed, “I can’t believe you put that on PRA.”
1?Oh, you do this too? Hello, friend.
2?42 is President Bill Clinton, the 42nd president of the United States. 43 is President George W. Bush. 44 is President Obama.
3?The last ROTUS of the administration was my former intern Leah Katz-Hernandez. Both are remarkable women, and—shameless plug—you should look them up. This video is an inspirational start: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ubUhTRzREM.
CHAPTER TWENTY #SEXYFACE
I first met Barack HUSSEIN Obama in 2007; we doctored his birth certificate in a secret meeting at a socialist madrasa in Indonesia when… Wait, this isn’t my speech. Who’s operating the teleprompter, Sarah Palin?