by Pat Cunnane
I wasn’t late. Secretary Clinton, on a quick break from her presidential campaign, had been meeting in the Oval with Obama while we prepped the Corvette and the Beast on the South Lawn.
It was one of countless reminders that, while we were sitting in the White House, there was a rampant race among those vying to replace us beyond the gates. There were two watershed moments during the primary campaign, when the race directly impacted our work at the White House.
The first came in October 2015 when closed doors and hushed meetings meant something was going on. I just didn’t know what. It was what we sometimes called a “secret squirrel operation.” When I gleaned that Liz, who got her start at the White House working for the vice president, was involved—and given the context of growing questions about Biden’s 2016 intentions—I assumed he had made up his mind.
Suddenly the press assistants were called into action: told to gather the press in the Rose Garden for an announcement. I didn’t know it then, but the vice president was in with Obama. No one knew what his decision was; the president helped him edit his remarks at the Resolute desk. And then we all watched from the Rose Garden as he elected not to run. I was sad for Biden—he would have made a fantastic president—but I was touched by the bond that Obama and Biden so clearly shared, standing side by side in the Rose Garden. Ultimately, I was happy for the clarity. HRC, PIWVI as I called her, would be the nominee.
I continued to believe that to be the case even as Senator Bernie Sanders made impressive inroads across the country. Still, Secretary Clinton had secured millions of more votes than he had, and to me, it seemed like a formality that she would eventually clinch the nomination. It became even more of a formality during the second watershed moment, when the primary seeped beyond the gates of the White House, and Bernie Sanders came for a chaotic visit. To put it mildly, the Bernie camp was not prepared for the stop. We didn’t know at which airport they were arriving or which entrance to the White House they would use. Our press people were running around like crazy; their press was not in our security system, so Velz had to scramble to be sure they could be swept in time.
As their one-on-one meeting, which lasted roughly an hour, was wrapping up, Bernie’s campaign manager came into Upper Press. The senator was going to make a statement at the stakeout location, which was about fifteen feet beyond the windows into Upper Press. We could see hordes of press gathering; the cable networks were beginning to take the feed live. Turns out, the Sanders camp didn’t have a binder for remarks, so I found an old one that I had used years before above my desk. Next, they wanted a stand, so Velz rummaged through the chair room (that’s where we keep all the chairs) for a music stand, which looked a little ridiculous—but it was the best we could do. Finally, as Bernie was ready, Velz walked the stand out to the mass of reporters, and we all watched from beyond the window as the primary began to wind down.
But back to the Seinfeld taping. Clinton’s and Obama’s meeting had ended. I was about to head in, but I stopped just short of the Outer Oval Office. Clinton was showing Obama photos of her grandchild on her cell phone. As I struggled to catch my breath, I listened in as she explained what was happening in each photo, the perfect doting grandmother. I couldn’t help thinking that if America saw—or eavesdropped on—the literal behind-closed-doors Hillary, their character concerns might be allayed. But, also, that’s total bullshit. It wasn’t the case that America never had the chance to see Hillary in this homespun light. It’s just that they chose not to.
No time to dwell on that because—before I could fully catch my breath—I was ushered inside. As I set foot in the Oval Office, the rush of anticipation was overcome by a very sudden realization: they really only ever sent me in to brief the president for the weird stuff. As I creaked onto the zigzag pattern of the hardwood floors, I remembered just six months earlier, the previous Mother’s Day, and the last awkward encounter I had in the Oval.
• • •
For Mother’s Day 2015, we decided to shock some moms who had written to the president about relevant issues. It was a peculiar assignment, so it should have been no surprise to me that I was put in charge. I approached the president as he studied his briefing book at the Resolute desk. Jason was standing off to the side. “So you’re going to surprise some moms today,” I told the president. He seemed to be into the idea of calling some moms around the country on their special day, and I thought, Okay, maybe this won’t be the weirdest thing ever.
But then the first mom didn’t pick up. I had precalled them, made sure they weren’t nuts, and told them a White House official wanted to follow-up to ask a few specific questions. I was frustrated, but we moved on to the next mom, Stephanie from Minnesota, who—thankfully—answered her phone. Only problem: she didn’t believe it was actually the president on the other end of the line.
“It’s really me,” he said.
The bulk of the call was Obama convincing her that it was, in fact, him on the phone. He even offered to have her test him with some policy questions: “You want to ask me about Syria?”
Next, we connected with Dawn from Arizona, who had written to the president thanking him for Obamacare. Her son had been bitten by a rattlesnake and—had it not been for the ACA—the medical bills would have cost $170,000. Under the new law, they paid only a $150 copay at the hospital and a $15 copay for each additional visit. Perfect little story, I thought. Just one hitch: I should have known that the president would want to dig in on the rattlesnake at the bottom of it all: How did her son get bitten? Why was he not paying attention? Turns out he was zoned out into his headphones, pounding Kendrick Lamar, which the president approved of from the Resolute desk.
“He’s a fine young rapper,” he affirmed, as I stifled a laugh, worried we were veering off-course. I was right. Dawn is a corrections officer and it was “CO Appreciation Day” at the prison where she worked, which meant she was in the middle of a luncheon with dozens of other COs. She asked to put Obama on speaker so he could say hi to all of the other folks at prison. He, of course, agreed. And as she struggled to figure out the speakerphone, I knew we had taken a turn. With the president on speakerphone to a bunch of ladies at prison, we had jumped the shark. Or the snake.
As the president politely wrapped up his conversations with the prison corrections officers, he said, absentmindedly, “I’ll see you all soon!”
To which Dawn replied something along the lines of: “Well, I hope not. We work in a prison!”
We edited the video heavily.
• • •
The Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee video edit would be out of our hands. That’s why I needed to get the president’s preparation right. “So, you’re going to take a drive with Jerry Seinfeld,” I said, approaching his desk.
I expected him to be more excited, but after a quick smile, he asked about my memo. “Says this is scheduled for ninety minutes.” I understood immediately what he was going to say but had no solution to offer as he continued, “Seems a little long, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, adding, “I’m sure it won’t actually take that long,” which may have well been my second Oval Office fib. It seemed to work, though, as we flew through the rest of the briefing. He had read my memo, which included the rundown, some possible topics, and a few suggested jokes I had written. I could tell he read it because he marked up some of the jokes. I tried to make sure he understood the opening, because that was the only semiscripted part. “The point is that Jerry is being a nuisance,” I said. “Pretend like you don’t like him. The key is to make him feel very uncomfortable.”
“I got it,” he said calmly. I worried his confidence might be misplaced, but I certainly wasn’t going to ask him if he was sure he “got it,” reminded as I was of the viral memes he spawned in 2008 when the race with Senator McCain tightened. “Relax, I got this” was superimposed over a photo of Obama looking cool.
He looked pretty cool now at the desk, so I gave the high sign to the crew, took to t
he corner of the Oval Office, and waited for Jerry to trample through the bushes and knock on the wavy ballistic glass behind the president’s desk.
As usual, I was wrong. My worries were misplaced. The president played the dry, annoyed role perfectly. Never broke character even as Jerry squeaked in, flopped down on the couch in the Oval, and grabbed an apple from the modern-chic coffee table, chomping down obnoxiously. I bit my lip to keep from laughing. It was hard to get a grip on the moment—and before it could sink in, it was over.
They nailed the scene in one take. From there, the real fun began—and one question lingered in my mind. Was I about to get fired for the advice I had given Jerry?
Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, Jerry never had to hire me. Turns out he did end up convincing the president to play along while in the car. “Just tell him you’re the president,” he said. His gambit killed.
The episode smashed all viewership records for the show and helped send Comedians in Cars into a new category of Emmy nomination. For us, it further humanized the president around the holidays. I’ll never forget the picture-perfect responses I saw pour in on Facebook the night it aired, like the random Republican who posted: “I’ve never been an Obama supporter, but he seems cool. I could get a beer with him.” This was particularly thrilling because the person who comes out on the correct end of the “Which dude would you rather get a beer with?” question is usually in good shape. Just ask Al Gore. Or Walter Mondale. Or Stephen A. Douglas.
The week his episode of Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee aired, the president’s Gallup weekly approval rating was at 45 percent. It would never be that low again, rising steadily over the next fifty-five weeks, up to 59 percent on the day he left office.
That’s not to say the president’s appearance on Jerry’s show directly swayed his approval ratings. It’s not causal, but it was part of a concerted effort, with the clock winding down, to show another side of the president. The lighthearted, minutiae-minded, human Obama, revealing both his humor and humanity. And people, regardless of politics, responded.
Best of all, Obama responded too. He didn’t seem to mind my fib in the Oval Office. In the end, the shoot had taken even longer than the president worried. “Why don’t you let me do fun stuff like that more often?” he asked Denis after the taping.
Maybe we should have. Because it turns out interviews about nothing can really get you something.
* * *
I. I once heard “Burger King’s,” which was so beyond the pale, all I could do was laugh.
II. I think the only thing worse would have been if he called the place “Patrick’s.”
III. POTUS joked that 2016 could mark “the last” WHCD, a reference to Donald Trump’s devastating effects on the country in the unlikely event he became president.
IV. The nerve.
V. The first television episode I ever wrote that was produced (for ABC’s Designated Survivor starring Kiefer Sutherland) involved a president’s secret trip to Afghanistan and a missing CIA station chief. Clearly, I’m not over missing this trip.
VI. President-in-waiting, for those of you who didn’t read the prologue. (Also, you should really read the prologue.)
9
* * *
Friday the Thirteenth
No matter where you go, there you are.
—WHO KNOWS?
I lived about a mile from the office, so, rain or shine, oppressive heat or crippling cold, I walked to work. Typically, it was a treat—a nice way to worry about what the day might bring. The first twelve minutes offer few surprises and are littered with the usual perils of Washington waking up: the guy who refuses to look up from his phone; the gentleman who grabs his Uber in the worst possible spot; the homeless person whose lot in life lingers with me for a block.
It’s in the last minute, at the edge of Lafayette Square, as I pass the ramshackle tent manned for decades by a small woman protesting for peace, and cross Pennsylvania Avenue, approaching the gate, when something new is stirred in me each day.
Most White House staffers say it is “humbling.” It is not. They are lying.
Sure, the view knocks you back, but it also pumps you up. Yes, the building amplifies your anxiety, but it also fortifies your focus and lifts your purpose—whether your purpose is rebuilding the economy or, like me, refilling your morning Mountain Dew.
So walking into the White House is a lot of things, but it is not humbling. There is no bigger ego boost than strolling through security, past the press, and toward the West Wing, feeling like maybe you belong.
The late White House press secretary Tony Snow once said that it’s the people on the outside looking in with the real perspective on the place: “They know what you’re likely to forget. You’re blessed . . . Leave no room for regrets, for someday, in the not-so-distant future, you will be back where you started: on the sidewalk with the other folks, gawking at that grand, glorious, mysterious place where Lincoln walks at night; and our highest hopes and dreams reside.”
If only those passersby knew.
I wondered what they might think if they could peek in; if they learned, God forbid, about my failed Pope sneeze, or the never-caught West Wing pooper, or the broad range of Millennial minutiae that filled our days, beyond the grand walls and behind the bulletproof glass of the building. Those countless moments of nonsense didn’t replace the glorious mystery of the place, I would tell them—they resided alongside their and my “highest hopes and dreams.”
No day at the White House was the same as any other, but many of the rhythms of the day were more constant, the mix of the minutiae and the momentous consistent. I don’t remember many single days from beginning to end, but I’d like to take you through one that stands out.
On Friday, November 13, 2015, I was in Upper Press at my desk scrambling to prepare for the morning senior staff meeting with the twenty most important people in the building, save the vice president and the president, who did not attend these meetings. The morning gathering helped set the stage for the day, and Friday’s meeting teed up the next week’s activities. The goal was to get everybody on the same page; keep departments apprised of opportunities or flag potential problems down the pike. Typically, it would not be my job to detail our planned messaging, but Liz was out, and the duty of presenting the president’s communications activities for the following week fell to me.
I enjoyed when I could sneak into that meeting. You heard weird shit. One time, I remember, the nation’s chief scientist was explaining that a civilization-ending meteor had passed unusually close to Earth, which we didn’t learn about until two days prior. “So we gotta get better at that,” he understated.
Because the meeting was just a few paces from my desk—in the Roosevelt Room across the hall—I crammed until the last possible minute, figuring out the quickest way to get through everything POTUS had coming up next week. You see, the emphasis in these meetings was on speed. Denis ran them efficiently and with zip. On a typical Friday, this would have been easy enough, but the president was going out of town the next week—with six jam-packed days in the Philippines and Malaysia. A mouthful.
As the door closed, Denis turned to me: “Take us through next week, Pat.”
After a deep breath, I did my best to speed-read. “On Sunday the president will arrive in Turkey, where he will take part in a bilat with President Erdoğan. There will be a pool spray with statements at the bottom.” Inhale. “Then he’ll do a working lunch that will include a pool spray, but no statements from the leaders.” Exhale. It went on like this for a while, and I knew I was losing the room.
I was wrapping up Tuesday’s schedule when the door on the opposite end of the Roosevelt Room swung open.
Fortunately, I was already standing, so when Barack Obama swaggered in, I didn’t have to worry about the awkward internal debate about whether to get up when he enters. They used to do it on The West Wing, but that was TV. And it seems so . . . formal. No matter: he put the room to ease at once.
“I hear this is where you guys do all the planning,” he joked, interrupting my soliloquy.
I shut up, and he dug in: “You know, a year ago they said we were dead.” He let that settle for a moment. This was definitely not on the agenda.
“And ever since, we’ve just kicked ass.”
Safe to say a swear word counts for double, maybe triple, when it’s uttered by a sitting president. Next, he launched into a recap of a remarkable year, highlighting a few of the biggest accomplishments from the previous 365 days: the Supreme Court’s rulings that the Affordable Care Act was here to stay and that, in America—no matter where you live or who you love—you can get married. A fifty-years-in-the-making shift away from a failed policy in Cuba toward a new course.I A historic nuclear agreement with Iran. Plummeting unemployment and a growing economy. Not bad.
“This was one of the most consequential years in presidential history,” said this president. But he was quick to offer credit—this wasn’t a victory lap.
Looking around, he said, “Collectively, the folks in this room are responsible for billions of people.”
I’m just here to speed-read a slide, I thought.
He kept going: “The actions you take affect billions of people.”
He may or may not have looked at me prior to this next part, but he definitely said, “Now, if you look around the room, that may be disturbing.”
