I glanced at my in-box. Underneath a grim Situation Room update was a new email, subject heading, “Heels for Haiti!” Jesus Christ, she had actually emailed a full proposal.
Often, when writing responses from the White House, I’d compose a draft in the heat of the moment and then—because of the Presidential Records Act (PRA)—remember what I wanted my contribution to history to be and I’d revise it. So, I might have started by typing exactly what I wanted to say: “Please, do not send your $1,200 Diane von Furstenberg heels to a natural disaster zone, you fucking lunatic.” Then, knowing that such a response would be put on PRA and one day make me look bad, and because I was a dedicated staffer whose guidance might actually save lives, I’d graduate to writing, “Hi! Thank you for your thoughtful suggestion! I can tell that you are passionate about making a unique contribution to this important cause on behalf of the American people. Right now, the most helpful thing is financial donations. Regarding the heels, perhaps you might consider organizing a fundraiser auction benefiting the Clinton Bush Haiti Fund.”
* * *
These bizarre incidents make for great stories, but they were, thankfully, real outliers. Most people (Hollywood or not) were generous in their eagerness to help—and in ways that were more meaningful than donating used pumps to people who didn’t have food.
Some examples: George Clooney’s Haiti telethon raised $61 million. Olivia Wilde had been working outside Port-au-Prince since long before the quake and stepped up big-time by raising money and awareness. Sean Penn had a strong connection there, too, and after the earthquake, he expanded his efforts via J/P HRO, his organization on the ground. The outpouring of generosity from the entertainment community was heartening. Lots of celebrities used our talking points to guide the public to the right places to donate and help, and those good people all over the country opened their hearts and bank accounts. Everyone was doing their part.
Our round-the-clock week finally came to a close late Friday night. On Saturday morning, as planned, Presidents Bush and Clinton would be joining President Obama to formally launch the Clinton Bush Haiti Fund from the Rose Garden. I wrote a final memo at Tina and Valerie’s request, detailing our entertainment messaging and outreach, then walked over to Tina’s office in the West Wing to make absolutely sure they had what they needed for the next morning’s senior-level meeting with the former presidents.
“We’re ready. Just go home and get some sleep,” Tina said. “And you don’t need to come in tomorrow.” This is one of the many reasons we all loved Tina. Her expectations were high and she could be tough, but she also cared deeply about her staff. “Thank you,” she said as I turned to leave. “POTUS really appreciates this, the extra push is huge. Get some rest!”
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!