Obama Barack - Thanks, Obama: My Hopey Changey White House Years

That motherfucker be sliding!

The guy leaning out his car window doesnt know hes shouting at the motorcade. Nor, in all likelihood, would he care. It is January 20, 2016, and an inch of snow has fallen on the District of Columbia. Thats more than enough to throw the nations capital into chaos. Were halfway between Frozen and Mad Max.

Presidents arent supposed to get stuck in traffic. Thats one of the jobs best perks. Tonight, however, is an exception. The same snowstorm that emerged from nowhere to snarl Washingtons roads grounded the presidents helicopter. There wasnt even time to clear a path for his car. The best the military office could offer was an upgrade. Ordinarily POTUS travels in The Beast, a tank wearing a limousine costume, but with ice on the ground, thick armor plating has been traded in for traction. Barack Obama is still commander in chief. Markets move on his decisions. Nations can be decimated at his command. But tonight, Barack Obama is also just another middle-aged dad in an SUV, struggling to make it home on time from work.

At least he has four-wheel drive. Junior staffers like me are in ordinary fifteen-passenger vans. Were fishtailing like crazy.

I had not expected to leave Andrews Air Force Base and run straight into a metaphor, but thats what happened. Washington is hopelessly gridlocked. Were moving forward more slowly than anyone would like. It seems only fitting my last-ever POTUS trip would end this way, confident were heading in the right direction but concerned the wheels are coming off the bus. As we carom toward a bank of parked cars, I can even hear our self-appointed pundit deliver a fresh critique.

That motherfucker be sliding right now!

Against all odds, we regain control. Our incremental progress continues.

When I boarded the plane that morning, I was thinking less about symbolism and more about snacks. There was a time when entering Air Force One was like stepping through a closet into Narnia. By my final flight, however, I had developed a routine. Climb the stairs, walk past the conference room, pluck a handful of grapes from the fruit bowl. Hang my jacket in the closet, grab an Ethernet cable, swipe a box of presidential M&Ms. Order an iced coffee, deploy the retractable footrest, put on the enameled metal pin reminding Secret Service agents not to shoot me. Then try to finish editing my speech before lunch.

Whenever I saw POTUS eating on the plane it was something healthy, usually just a chicken breast and veggies. The rest of us ate food I can only assume was prepared by cannibals fattening us up. The meals were packed with calories, the menus with adjectives. On that mornings flight out of Andrews, a short one to Detroit, wed been served creamy Brie cheese with crispy pancetta on toasted rustic garlic bread. The fresh arugula had been topped with fresh cracked pepper and shaved Parmesan cheese.

I once brought this up with Ted, a crew member. Why were even the lighter options covered in bacon bits or doused with melty cheddar?

An army marches on its stomach, he replied.

That might be true for actual armies, ones with soldiers who march long distances and burn calories killing people. As a speechwriter, I didnt march. Enemy bullets were not a concern. Food coma was. Aboard the presidential aircraft, I ate stuffed pork chops and crab pretzels and giant cups of buffalo blue cheese dip that were, remarkably, categorized as snacks. After a last-minute edit, Id reward myself with fun-size Twix or Snickers from the candy tray by the window. Then there were the actual desserts. Who knows how many pecan pies and strawberry parfaits, apple tarts and brownies la mode I polished off in service to my country?

IF YOUD ASKED ME TEN YEARS EARLIER WHAT I MIGHT BE DOING AT age twenty-nine, clogging my arteries on Air Force One would not have made the list. True, I went to Yale, the kind of fancy-pants university where a sizable number of students have been running for office since birth. But not me. I imagined spending my twenties squeezing every drop of adventure from life. I would trek through far-flung landscapes and learn new languages and develop six-pack abs. I would disrupt institutions. I would subvert them or transcend them. But join them? Never. That would be pathetic.

Fast-forward a decade. I have taken zero journeys of self-discovery, but own a robust menagerie of ties. I carry a thin stack of business cards in my wallet and a thicker stack of backup cards in my bag. Each time I fly for work, an Air Force officer hands out warm towels and addresses me, without irony, as sir.

When Im not careful, I even start to think I deserve it.

But events have a way of cutting staffers down to size. Two months before my Detroit trip, I went to see President Obama record his weekly address. I usually hid discreetly in the corner for these tapings, but this time, for reasons that now escape me, I sat front and center. When POTUS glanced toward the teleprompter, we accidently locked eyes.

Few activities offer less upside than a staring contest with the president. But now, having started one, I didnt know how to stop. I considered averting my gaze, like a shy maiden in a Jane Austen novel, but that would only make things more awkward. I kept looking at President Obama. President Obama kept looking at me. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he spoke.

What are you doing here? He wasnt annoyed, exactly. He just seemed to find my presence unexpected, the way you might be surprised to discover your dog in the living room instead of in its crate.

A different young staffer would have handled the situation gracefully. Perhaps they might have tried a high-minded approach: Im here to serve my country. Or they might have kept things simple: Im hoping to catch typos.

Here is what I did instead. First, in a misguided effort to appear casual, I gave the leader of the free world a smile reminiscent of a serial killer who knows the jig is up. Then I said the following:

Oh, Im just watching.

POTUS took a shallow breath through his nose. He raised his eyebrows, looked at our cameraman, and sighed.

It always makes me nervous when Litts around.

Im 90 percent sure President Obama was half joking. Still, two months later, on my final POTUS trip, my stomach full of arugula and Brie, I was careful to avoid his eyes. Backstage in Detroit, POTUS went through his usual prespeech routine, shaking hands with the prompter operators and joking with personal aides. Then he stepped onstage to remind a roomful of autoworkers about the time he saved their industry seven years before.

I had written plenty of auto speeches for President Obama. There was nothing especially new in this one. But as POTUS reached his closing paragraph, my eyes filled with tears. I had tried to prepare myself for each milestone: my last set of remarks for the president, my last ride in the motorcade, my last flight on Air Force One. Still, the nostalgia left me reeling. I fled the staff viewing area and found a mens room. With my left hand, I steadied myself against the sink. With my right, I held all but the first page of my speech.