But POTUS wasn’t like that. Where Clinton’s ego expressed itself in an insatiable craving for power, Obama’s expressed itself in the absolute conviction he deserved it. This faith in his own virtue is what made him authentic. He handwrote thoughtful responses to letters from conservatives. He met with kids from Make-A-Wish without mentioning it to the press. But the president’s high-mindedness also made him impatient when he felt other, less-worthy politicians were being let off the hook.
“Jonathan”—it was as if the reporter were four years old, and the president was explaining, for the thousandth time, why they couldn’t have ice cream for dinner. “Jonathan, you suggest that somehow these folks over there have no responsibilities, and that my job is to somehow get them to behave. That’s their job. Members of Congress are elected in order to do what’s right.”
POTUS wasn’t incorrect. McConnell’s behavior was reprehensible. The do-nothing Congress was holding America back. But just because Washington is contemptible doesn’t mean a president benefits from showing contempt. We heard the same thing in focus group after focus group. Americans empathized with their commander in chief. They knew he had an impossible job. But they did not, under any circumstances, want to see him complain.
I, however, am not the president, and will take this opportunity to complain bitterly. Jon Karl’s question was ridiculous. Not just useless, but harmful. The presidency is not an orange. You could have put Mitch McConnell on a fast, a diet, a weeklong cleanse: no amount of juice was going to change his mind. He believed he could elect more Republicans by constantly opposing President Obama than by occasionally joining him. He believed this, in part, because reporters who could help Americans understand the true cause of gridlock would rather ask POTUS about juice. Thus, obstruction continued. Nothing got done.
Actually, that last part is not quite fair. While no new laws got passed, outside Washington, real change was taking root. The economy, on the edge of collapse four years earlier, was steadily creating jobs. Clean energy production rose. Foreclosure rates fell. So did deficits, in part because George W. Bush’s tax cuts for the superrich expired at the beginning of the year.
During my first few months back at the White House, these signs of progress were at the heart of our communications strategy. If Washington represented America at its worst, we would highlight America at its best.
Which is why, for Memorial Day 2013, POTUS scheduled a visit to the Jersey Shore. Less than a year earlier, Hurricane Sandy had devastated the area. Now, the tight-knit community was bouncing back. For America, the shore was a model of resilience, a shining example of our country’s determination and grit. For me, however, the shore was important for a different reason: Jacqui’s parents lived there. In fact, their home was just a few minutes from the Asbury Park Convention Hall, where the speech would take place. I could live a thousand years and never see a better point-scoring opportunity.
Naturally, I volunteered to write the remarks.
May 27, the morning of the speech, brought the exact opposite of beach weather. It was cold and rainy, with suffocating fog. But I wasn’t worried about sunshine. I was worried about upgrading Jacqui’s mom and dad to VIP seats. As I watched Chris Christie win a stuffed bear for POTUS on the boardwalk, I mentioned my predicament to Bobby, one of the president’s aides.
“Why don’t we just put them in the photo line?” he asked.
I hadn’t even thought to request this. Unlike tickets to a speech, which could be scattered to staff like confetti, a picture with the president seemed impossible to obtain. But on the road, the tear-inducing onion of White House bureaucracy shed its layers. There was no obscure form requiring five signatures, no office that could grant my request but was only reachable via fax. Bobby gave me a name. I sent an e-mail. An hour later I was standing backstage at the convention hall, happy to be out of the rain and waiting for POTUS to begin his remarks.
“Your girlfriend’s here?” asked the prompter operator.
“Yeah,” I said. “I got her and her parents in the photo line.”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then he smiled, caught somewhere between jealous and impressed.
“You’re gonna have to work real hard to screw that one up.”
As if the day wasn’t perfect enough already, we got to take choppers back to the National Guard base where Air Force One was parked. For these short hops, the president rode in Marine One, the champagne of helicopters. Junior staff, however, were herded onto Chinooks, twin-rotored military transports that look like flying RVs. Windows were open to the elements. Two long benches took the place of seats. The interior smelled like a blend of motor oil and locker room. It was paradise. More than walking through security checkpoints, or even flying on the presidential plane, the helos made me feel badass.
In fairness, not everyone on these flights needed help with their badassery. While I admired the view, a half dozen of my seatmates adjusted the helmets covering their crew cuts. As I extended my phone for a helicopter selfie, they cradled assault rifles in soft cases on their laps. The pockets of their bulletproof vests bulged with deadly knickknacks. The glassy look in their eyes suggested a decidedly informal approach to human life.
They were members of the Counter Assault Team, or “CAT team” as it was more commonly known. I once asked a more experienced speechwriter what separated these people from the rest of Secret Service. Here was his reply:
“If something bad happens, Secret Service gets the president out of trouble. The CAT team finds the trouble and kills it.”
That afternoon on the shore, as we boarded the helicopters, the CAT team members assumed their typical posture. Backs straight. Chins up. Mouths flattened into an expression best described as “last thing you see before you die.” I, however, was less stoic. The rain was still falling heavily. The fog had only gotten thicker. I was surprised we were cleared to fly. As we lurched upward, I remembered someone telling me that, rather than using radar, our pilots navigated by sight.
It’s okay, I told myself, there’s a grown-up in charge of the weather call. They won’t let us do anything unsafe.
Twenty minutes into our ten-minute flight, I reconsidered.
For those who have never been suspended midair inside a thundering Chinook surrounded by smothering fog, let me try to explain. Imagine a kind of military-grade sensory deprivation chamber. The rotors are the world’s loudest white noise machine. Out the window lies ceaseless, unchanging gray. As cold air floods the cabin, numbness sets in.
If you’re like me, this experience will lead you to cycle through the following questions: Are we flying in the right direction? Are we flying in any direction? Are we dying? Are we already dead? Is this limbo? Is this purgatory? Trust me: there are far more pleasant ways to spend twenty minutes on a Monday afternoon.