That spring, The New York Times Magazine ran a story about all the young staffers working in the administration. The whole point of the article seemed to be, Look, our country is being run by children!
It wasn’t breaking news by any means—actually it seemed about a year too late—but still, everyone was buzzing about it. The focus of the article was Benji, mostly because the reporter was a friend of his, was dating his roommate actually. She followed him around for a few days, at work and then at a party he hosted at the house in Logan Circle that he shared with three other young White House staffers. The theme of the party was “America,” which wasn’t so much a theme as an excuse to make everyone dress up in American-flag-printed clothing. When the article came out, it was mentioned that a group of “higher-ranking” White House staff stopped by the party, and there was a half-page picture of Jimmy, wearing an American flag bandanna around his head, drinking a beer and standing next to Rahm Emanuel.
Jimmy pretended to be embarrassed, but was thrilled with the attention. “I didn’t know I’d end up in the Times looking like a crazy person,” he said to us. But of course he knew that, it had been his whole reason for going. Somehow, he always managed to make it to the spotlight.
“This is exactly the kind of story we should’ve done,” Ellie said in the staff meeting that week. “We can’t let the Times scoop us like this.” I almost burst out laughing at the fact that Ellie could compare DCLOVE to The New York Times with a straight face, but I looked down at my notebook and concentrated on doodling.
“We need to be edgier,” she went on, “we need to be ahead of the curve.” (Sometimes I imagined that Ellie spent her weekends watching marathons of movies that featured unrealistic journalists as characters—The Devil Wears Prada, 13 Going on 30, The Paper—and wrote down different ridiculous catchphrases to say at work.)
The takeaway from that meeting was that DCLOVE started running blind items about White House and Hill staffers. I’m not sure why Ellie thought this would bring us closer to The New York Times, but I didn’t ask any questions. “I’m counting on you to bring us some good stuff,” she said to me after it was announced. “Make sure to use all your connections.”
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Our first blind item at DCLOVE was this:
Which two White House staffers are secretly dating? One has to schedule herself into her wordy lover’s life, and rumor has it they’re keeping their relationship on the down low for reasons other than workplace decorum.
“This is mortifying,” I said, showing it to Matt. “It’s like ‘Page Six’ and Politico had a baby that’s not quite right in the head.”
Matt just laughed. “They really think people will get into this, huh?”
“Ellie said she was so excited about the new section she couldn’t sleep. She asked us all to pump our most ‘in the know’ friends for information we could use.”
Matt looked nervous for a minute. “You’re not going to repeat anything I tell you, are you?”
“No,” I said. “I’d never do that. And anyway, you’re just not good at gossip. You know that, right?”
“I do,” he said. “And that’s my burden to live with.”
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A week or so later, this blind item ran:
Which talkative southern man is renowned for his amorous ways on campaign trails? No one is off-limits, not a Biden niece or a Gore daughter or even a close and personal friend of the Obamas. The number of campaign staffers that saw the inside of this cowboy’s hotel rooms is “too high to count,” says our source. “It would be like trying to guess how many jelly beans are in the jar, how many stars are in the sky.”
I showed it to Matt that night. “Is this Jimmy?” I asked. Matt read it and laughed. “Jesus,” he said. “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever read. Can they print this stuff? They’re naming real people now.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Ellie doesn’t seem worried about it at all.” I noticed he didn’t answer my question.
“So is it?” I asked. “Do you think they’re talking about Jimmy? Really? It’s almost exactly what Ellie said about him before.”
Matt looked more serious for a minute. “I don’t know,” he said. “Like I said, I’ve heard people joke about things, but, Beth? These are just rumors. That’s the whole point of it.”
“I know,” I said. But it left me unsettled.
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On the first truly warm Saturday of spring, we went to have afternoon drinks with Jimmy and Ash at American Ice, an outdoor bar near U Street that Jimmy loved because of its extensive whiskey menu. It was sunny and pleasant and felt great to be day-drinking outside for no real reason.