by Love, Reggie
He wasn’t wrong. But his pitch didn’t make it more desirable for me. It was like my mother urging me to eat spinach and Brussels sprouts because they would make me faster and stronger. I could see the value. But I wasn’t hungry for it.
The next day I took the afternoon off and met up with Darryl Scott and James Evans. They were friends from Duke who came in for Election Night and who didn’t work on the campaign, and we sat on the roof of the Rock Bottom Restaurant, eating lunch and having beers. I was, for the first time in years, relaxed—finally a day without a to-do list.
“This is why I’m not going,” I announced with some satisfaction. “This moment right now.”
Three days later I was back with the president-elect on a flight to D.C. We were headed to a meeting with President Bush and the first lady. For weeks Obama had been ribbing me about my best friend, Chris Duhon, exiting Obama’s beloved Bulls, talking trash about how Chris, only in his fourth year in the NBA, shouldn’t be making that much money.
“It’s like he’s stealing money,” he’d joke.
But after the game where Chris went for a season-high sixteen points in the Garden and his two-handed dunk from the baseline was on the front cover of the New York Times sports section, Obama eventually conceded that he might have been wrong about Duhon’s potential and earnings.
“Your boy Duhon is killing it already,” the president-elect said, approaching me, his face a sleepy grin. “Maybe he does deserve that money.”
I agreed, and we shot the shit as we always did, recapping the games we’d watched, making our predictions for the NBA season, which was in full tilt, how great it was going to be with LeBron approaching free agency, and then, out of nowhere, he said, “You’re coming with me, right?”
I thought I knew the answer to the question. Every fiber of my being was prepared to say, “not on this part of the journey.” I had, in fact, already said no to everyone else on the team. And yet, in that instant, I somehow couldn’t form the word. Instead, I took a deep breath and somehow blurted out, “Yeah, I’m in.”
The president-elect gave me a fist dap, and that was that. I was back in the fold.
In the hours that followed, it dawned on me that maybe prior to that moment I’d been a little irrational, I’d been thinking about the job in the wrong way. And if nothing else, there was so much I knew I’d have missed out on. The team would have carried on, and I wouldn’t have been there. You don’t play all season and then punk out for the playoffs. That felt wrong. But not as wrong as saying no to the guy who was three months away from being the leader of the free world. As tired as I was at the end of the campaign and as ambivalent as I was about spending years in any capacity in government, I couldn’t let him down now.
In the end, there was no way to decline. I was caught up in the mo. And it was going to take me where it wanted me to go.
* * *
The day of the inauguration, Tuesday, January 20, 2009, started just as so many others had on the campaign trail. There was a podium check. Obama wasn’t making major changes to the speech, as he had in the past, but he was making small edits, and I was responsible for making certain they were entered in the final draft and on the teleprompter. I was the guy who could distinguish his “L’s” from his “I’s.” Thankfully, the President’s handwriting isn’t messy, though he does prefer cursive, which can cause confusion. As can his habit of inserting chunks of text with arrows. But I’d had two years of practice deciphering his code.
It didn’t escape me that, unlike our other events, this one was about to change the world forever: the inauguration of the first African-American president. Seven million citizens were projected to show up to watch history unfold and listen to him speak. People were sleeping in their cars because the hotels had sold out. The city had closed the bridges into the nation’s capital; they were shutting down the town. It was like you see in a science-fiction movie when they literally pull up the bridges to keep more people from flooding into the city. All this historic insanity was swirling around me, but I still had a job to do, so I kept my head in the game and shut out the noise, way too busy to have a moment of reflection.
The chaos of the day was further compounded by the fact that I was new to my job at the White House. There were a million details that required tending to on that front, and on top of that, I’d just bought my first place, a seven-hundred-square-foot condo. I was sleeping on a mattress on the floor. My stuff was packed into boxes. I felt like I was treading water across the board, again.
The Obamas were staying at Blair House, the traditional residence for presidents-elect. Security had been amped up to epic proportions; it was even a challenge for me to get Obama’s barber, Zariff, into the building so Obama could have his pre-inauguration trim. The motorcade to the Capitol was massive. There was no way any of us could have prepared ourselves for the transition. And yet, once you are in the flow of the shift, you find yourself floating right along. You deal.
So much of the inauguration was a blur, but what stands out in my memory is the minutes before Obama walked out to take his oath. Gibbs, Marvin, Mrs. Obama, the girls, and I were all in the holding area. One by one their names were called and they left to greet the crowds. Soon enough, it was just Marvin, the President, and me, standing in the background, the whole world eagerly waiting for him to appear on the platform. I remember we joked about how freezing it was outside, a record low. There we were, on the brink of a new life, a new world order, talking about the weather.
“How cold do you think it will be by the time I actually deliver the speech?” the president-elect asked.
“Not as cold as Springfield,” I said. “And this time there’s a heater under the podium. It’ll be fine.”
“Remember Springfield?” he said, smiling. I laughed. Springfield was where he’d announced his candidacy. It was February 2007, and the weather that day had been equally inhospitable. “It’s going to be even colder than that,” Obama said now.
“Yeah,” I joked. “Colder and a little more crowded.”
Soon, the Lincoln Bible was brought out, and the president-elect looked at the Good Book, then at himself in the mirror.
“It’s all good,” I said. “You got it.” Fist bump and out, as his name was announced and he walked out onto the platform and made history.
I stayed behind and observed from the background. I saw the sea of overjoyed people and it stole my breath away. Finally, it washed over me. The significance of electing the first African-American president. What that meant to people like my grandparents. To the children around the world watching. And there I was, in the middle of it all, doing my part, as I had been all along.
20
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HISTORY HAPPENS EVERY DAY
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I had about as much prep for my transition into the West Wing as I did when I began my stint as bodyman. Which is to say: none. There was no White House for Dummies manual, not even a simple punch list. I did have the phone numbers of a few past presidential PAs—Jared Weinstein, Kris Engskov, Doug Band, Andrew Friendly—and I relied on their wisdom, particularly Jared Weinstein, a Duke alum ’03, who had worked for Bush and gave me the best advice, which was really more of a warning.
“Something amazing will happen every day,” he told me. What he meant was that being the personal aide to a sitting president was like watching the finale of the fireworks display every hour. It was as exhausting as it was phenomenal. He also said, “You’re going to see a bunch of crazy shit. Stay composed anyway.”
On Obama’s second trip to D.C. during the transition, there was a lunch scheduled for all the personal aides of former presidents. Clinton’s guy, Bush’s guy, Carter’s guy, Bush senior’s guy. Do the math. Forty-four presidents. Only a few men in history had done this job. Sitting in the Ward Room down in the Navy Mess with these interesting and distinguished men regaling me with tales of what it’s like to work as an aide to a presi
dent was when it hit me like a ton of bricks: Special is an understatement and not many people ever have the chance to do it!
After the inauguration, President Obama’s team began taking up their offices in the White House. Though I’d visited the White House before, it was never as an employee whose office sat five steps from the Oval. Once there, my eyes darted to and fro, hungry to take everything in. I noted the grandfather clock in the corner, the starburst rug left over from Bush (no one could see the point in replacing it when some Americans were barely making enough money to cover their rent). I marveled at the eagle carved into the ceiling of the Oval, its claws clutching the olive branch and the arrows, representing war and peace. Absorbing the weight and significance of the setting, I thought to myself, Don’t screw this up, Reggie.
There was no rookie seminar class or debriefing. The only briefing that I got was when the White House curator took POTUS, FLOTUS, and me on a tour the first weekend. And that wasn’t even on the schedule. The President decided, “I’m going to live here. When people ask me questions, I want to know the answers.” I agreed one hundred percent. If I was working there, I should at least know something about the place.
The curator, Bill Allman, was visibly excited. He took the three of us on a five-hour exploration of every inch of the White House. You know when you are processing so much detail you can’t keep it all in your head? That was the tour. Who created every piece of art, where the china came from, who chose what wallpaper. The kids joined us for a bit, but they grew weary and peeled away. Meanwhile, the President was asking an endless series of questions, eating up all the minutiae. And for the curator, it was like winning the lottery. I had the impression that no other president had ever asked for a tour before. I also got the impression that Obama understood that the White House was a museum. And he wanted to pay his respects.
In time, just as I had on the campaign, I found my professional groove. My typical day at the Oval saw me getting up between 5:15 and 5:45 A.M., going to the gym by myself, working out for forty-five minutes, showering, eating hard-boiled eggs, and walking ten minutes to arrive at the office between 7:30 and 8:00 A.M. I would sit in my office, go through the schedule, read all the briefings, make sure that I was aware of all the things that were happening throughout the day, become somewhat knowledgeable about the subjects on the off chance that he would say, “Hey, what’s this?” or “Who is that?”
Reading the daily briefing book was my favorite part of the job. I learned so much. It was like going to college and majoring in everything. Economic reports, issues for advocacy groups, background on members of Congress, where they were from, how many children they had—I literally sat at the information hub of the world.
The President would arrive at the Oval Office around 8:30 or 9 A.M., after which there would be a PDB, “Presidential Daily Briefing,” given by the national security team. As he was being briefed, usually his next appointment would be milling around the outer Oval, which meant milling around near my office. While they waited, I’d ask the financial experts what they thought was going to happen—how was the economy doing and why, what did they think the job numbers were going to be, were we seeing growth, what was the GDP? I’d talk to the military guys about Iraq. I’d talk to the legislative team about what was happening with the health care bill. It was a tremendous opportunity, and I seized it. Instead of sitting idly by and saying nothing, I used that time to educate myself about what was unfolding in the world. I also forged relationships that will prove useful in the future. I took advantage of the situation, instead of being intimidated; because I wasn’t as seasoned or knowledgeable as most of the people being ushered in and out of the Oval, I asked questions. Jared was right. History was happening every day. And I made sure I was present for it.
* * *
I also learned quickly that being in the White House basically means you are always moments away from the next crisis. Every day brings another storm, and you have to batten down and brave the weather. The buck stops with the President.
POTUS felt the weight of his office keenly. He would tell me, “All the easy problems have already been solved before they come to me.” The folks surrounding him excelled at their jobs. They knew what they were doing. So if any problem made its way to the Oval Office, that meant it was a doozy, and often these problems required immediate solutions.
I made it a facet of my job to find the silver lining in the day-to-day activities, even if I had to make it up. “Look here, sir. Between 2:20 and 2:45 you have a window.” He would often use these small moments to grab a chance to see an old friend. They’d swing by the Oval, and in those brief windows of time, he’d smile, say something like, “It’s been way too long. How old are your kids now?”
Sometimes the friend’s children came, too. As he did with everyone, Obama always interacted with them, no matter how young. All in all, it was the normalcy in what was otherwise a full and demanding schedule.
* * *
Once I was settled into my cubbyhole office a few feet from the Oval, in theory I had fewer duties then I’d had on the campaign, but the scale of them went way up. I was still responsible for helping with the execution of Obama’s daily schedule and its logistics. For anything that was planned at the White House, I would need to know the specifics, the duration, the details. Then, when we traveled off-site, it was more like the old days of the campaign—only with triple the entourage and details. (The Executive Office protocol seemed cumbersome to me. When I wanted to decorate the wall of my office with a framed copy of the Duke newspaper carrying the headline “2010 National Champions,” I had to get an approval letter, a signature, and talk to three different people in different departments before a single nail was hammered. I guess that was to be expected when your office is part of a museum.)
On the road, Marvin or I would tell the President what to expect for the day—the number of people in a photo line, the crowd size for a speech, etc. During the campaign, Sean Graham-White, or someone from his team, typically had been the teleprompter operator. But during the presidency, there was a team from the White House Communications Agency—an operator, a deputy, and a technician—and they handled their job to perfection, which made work for me easier.
Other dimensions of my job were made simpler. With the presidency came perks. There was always food on hand. There were printers everywhere; bottled water, chilled and not chilled. I still loved the job, but suddenly there was a lot more support. And my responsibility was more to manage the support, instead of doing the tasks myself. Sounds great, but it came with complications and a new learning curve.
Before working in the West Wing, if Obama wanted to speak to someone on the phone, he would just pick up the phone and dial, or I would just pass him my cell phone with the line connected. I would open every single call with, “Hello, I’m Reggie Love, I have Senator Obama here and he would like to speak with you.” Once in the White House, there were teams dedicated to placing secure and nonsecure phone calls. I didn’t have to figure out where meals were going to come from because now there was the Navy Mess with its professional chefs. When POTUS ate out, I would just have to communicate the plan, location, and time, and someone else would make it happen. I was learning to expect the unexpected, seamlessly.
Now and again, I found myself babysitting the kids of visiting dignitaries. Like when French president Nicolas Sarkozy and his wife, Carla Bruni, came to the White House for dinner. They brought President Sarkozy’s twelve-year-old son, Louis, along because he wanted to meet the Obama girls, but Sasha and Malia weren’t home, so it fell to me to entertain him.
I showed Louis around the White House, the swimming pool, the garden. He enjoyed himself, and when it was all over, Sarkozy collected him and gave me a hug. (Something he’s continued to do every time I have seen him since.) The fact that he even knows who I am is incredible enough. But a ritual hug? Even I couldn’t dream that up.
While my new position could be fun, it remained odd to go f
rom having so much autonomy to being a manager. I’d grown accustomed to the frantic pace and ceaseless workload of the campaign. A part of me longed for that energy again. In the Oval, I had a desk job. It was a stellar location, of course. But it was still a desk.
There was a tangible shift in my job and my relationship with everyone working around me. It reminded me of when my basketball team would disband after the season. You grow addicted to the heightened camaraderie and closeness of a team with a single, shared goal. There was also a subtle shift in my accountability, a shift from representing a candidate and a campaign to representing a president and a country.
The transition to the White House was tough on other people, too. For instance, the first lady used to say she wished she could sneak out and go shopping. Just hit the mall and browse a store or two. But, of course, she couldn’t. Not without tons of security and then being mobbed when she arrived. Being in D.C. and living in the White House bubble meant that people had to adapt to feeling somewhat trapped.
Even the basketball games changed. When I organized them, they were now basketball games with the President, major events, not an Election Day ritual that Marvin would try to dodge.
There were upsides to the new routine. For one, I got parts of my personal life back. I was able to date more often. I also had time to think about what was next, to start looking into getting an MBA or a law degree. The WallyBag stayed in the closet more often than not, and I had an apartment, kitchen, and bed I could return to no matter how late the day ran. But none of that compared to the adrenaline rush of the campaign trail. I remember reading a psychological study that found that the more grueling an experience is, the more enlivening your memory of that experience will be. If you manage to summit Everest, you’re not going to forget it. I hated Iowa. I hated the cold. I hated so much about the campaign. And yet I oddly missed it, like Stockholm syndrome. When we would return to Iowa, I would always want to swing by the old Hampton Inn and the gym tucked away close by in the strip mall.
