We also took a shot at the growing number of Republicans obsessed with Vladimir Putin. This was a truly bizarre trend. Prominent conservatives had recently begun heaping praise upon the Russian autocrat, often in not-quite-unsexual terms. “I know the only time that Vladimir Putin shivers is when he takes his shirt off in a cold Russian winter,” Governor Mike Huckabee declared, as if he’d read a particularly ham-fisted profile on Grindr. Sean Hannity and Rudy Giuliani were less swoony, but not by much. With the help of our graphics department, we came up with an image to meet the moment: Mike, Sean, and Rudy at a slumber party, giggling over a poster of a shirtless Vlad.
We added the slide to our growing list of audiovisual bells and whistles: more than a dozen photoshopped images; a parody of The Matrix; a video starring Julia Louis-Dreyfus as her character from Veep. We even held a brief photo shoot where the First Lady, looking deeply confounded, held up a picture frame made of popsicle sticks. Then we added the resulting picture to the slide deck. Tech-wise, it was our most ambitious Correspondents’ Dinner to date. No one could accuse us of not swinging big.
“You’re sure all this stuff will work?” asked Cody. “After health care, we can’t have any screw-ups.”
“I’ve got this,” I promised. “We’ll do a run-through the morning of the speech.”
THE RUN-THROUGH IN QUESTION TOOK PLACE ABOVE THE HILTON ballroom, in a small, enclosed catwalk about thirty feet above the stage. The floor was made of concrete. Wires splayed in all directions. At the far end sat a gloomy metal cage that brought to mind a third-world zoo.
Inside the cage sat Steve. Steve did not work for the White House. Steve worked for the Washington Hilton. From the moment we met, he made it clear he considered the Hilton the more important institution of the two. With his close-cropped hair, permanently put-upon expression, and belly perfectly designed for resting cups of coffee, Steve oversaw the A/V booth with the territorial instinct of a panther and the work ethic of a house cat.
The only other person at the run-through was Jenn, the newest member of the White House graphics team. The kind of person who wore purple fanny packs without irony, Jenn also served as fan club president for the Canadian rock band Rush. She was not the type to keep her emotions in check.
And right now she was nervous. “Does everything look okay? Do you need me to bring a backup computer? Is there anything we need to triple-check?” But Jenn’s anxiety only made me calmer. The cool, battle-hardened veteran, I promised her everything would be fine.
My sense of icy, been-there-done-that composure was further reinforced when I returned to the Hilton that evening. There, a CAT team member checked the pin on my tuxedo jacket, lowered his assault rifle, and ushered me into the hotel’s back entrance with a nod. I stalked the predinner receptions for finger food. I made the president’s last-minute edits. Then, as POTUS prepared to address the crowd, I headed for the catwalk.
Jenn was already there, MacBook at the ready, hyperventilating in a flowing purple gown. Steve was there as well. His expression suggested he had DVR’d something—Ice Road Truckers, maybe—and held us personally responsible for keeping him from his show.
As the president’s monologue began, however, I was too high on adrenaline to give either of them much notice. This was our chance to get out of the barrel, and with a jolt of excitement, I realized it just might work. The Veep video was a hit. The self-deprecating section on health care left the crowd impressed and applauding. And POTUS’s timing—already good to begin with—grew better every year. In the ballroom below, he landed joke after joke. Before I knew it, the only thing standing between us and a huge success were a few remaining slides.
“Two weeks ago, Senator Ted Cruz and I, we got a bill done together.”
“Okay,” I said from the catwalk, “go to slide.”
This was where Steve came in. Stretching out a reluctant arm, our A/V expert pushed a large square button. On the giant screens in the ballroom, the live feed of POTUS was replaced by an image of hell freezing over. The audience laughed.
“Okay, go back,” I said. Before releasing his button, Steve was supposed to wait for my cue. But he had already resumed splaying grumpily in his chair. The slide had vanished from the screen.
POTUS continued his monologue, unaware that above him, a passive-aggressive war was breaking out. With each slide—Biden shoe ambush, Game of Thrones staff meeting, Raging Socialist High School—Steve took just a little bit longer to press his button. Each time, he gave a slightly more exasperated scowl before slumping back into his seat.
“Everywhere I look, there are reminders that I only hold this job temporarily,” said POTUS.
“Okay, go to slide.”
Steve once again leaned forward. But this time, too busy loathing me to pay attention, he failed to place his finger in the center of the button. Instead he clipped the side. To the confusion of the audience, a picture flashed on-screen, then disappeared. I was furious. Steve was jeopardizing President Obama’s big moment! This was completely unacceptable!
And that’s when I noticed that our next slide was missing entirely.
In a state of shock, I double-checked Jenn’s laptop. There was Slide 13—the president, looking frowny, standing in the Oval Office. And there was Slide 15—computer code from The Matrix. But Slide 14, the picture of the First Lady holding her popsicle-stick picture frame, was nowhere to be found. Slide 13; Slide 15. Frowny-face Obama; The Matrix. There was nothing in between them. And POTUS had no idea. In less than ten seconds, the president of the United States would be humiliated, and it would be my fault.
By now, Jenn realized what was happening and, leaping into action, she panicked. “Where’s the slide? Where’s the slide?” she gasped, in a tone I thought was reserved for missing children. “There is no slide,” I replied, in a tone I thought was reserved for climbing the guillotine steps.
Steve, meanwhile, was in heaven. This was way better than Ice Road Truckers. As the seconds ticked away in slow motion, he rested his hands contentedly on his belly, as though we had all learned a valuable lesson about not bothering the A/V guy. Jenn had a series of small strokes. I stared at the tiny monitor in the catwalk, totally numb.
POTUS, meanwhile, kept going. “George W. Bush took up painting after leaving office, which inspired me to take up my own artistic side.”
The president paused, waiting for an image only three people in America knew did not exist.
“I’m sure we’ve got a shot of this,” the president said. My skin had turned clammy. My mouth was sandpaper dry. POTUS licked his lips, annoyed.
“Maybe not.”
I have never been the kind of person who refers to “my career” as if it is something I gave birth to. Still, it was distressing to watch it die. President Obama was about to look foolish. A new wave of “hapless president” stories would soon dominate the news. Heads would roll, beginning, understandably, with mine.