Stories I Only Tell My Friends

by Rob Lowe

  * * *

  “On my mark. One. Two. Three,” the great composer W. G. “Snuffy” Walden counts off before a full orchestra on Warner Bros.’s giant dubbing stage.

  There is a timpani rumble, a cymbal clash, and the strings explode into Snuffy’s majestic and highly emotional The West Wing theme. I have snuck in to listen to this first take as the main title is recorded. The French horns play their heroic counterpoint and the violins swell. My eyes begin to eject water, like a cartoon character. I look at the technician at the mixing board. His arms are covered in gooseflesh.

  I had a vision once before. A simple wooden sign on an island in Fiji pointed out to me a then almost laughable, but wondrous, future. Now, lost in The West Wing main title theme, I’m having another. And it, too, is visceral, crystal, detailed, and unlikely enough that I almost discount it. I see us—Aaron, the cast, all of us—in a huge auditorium. We are in black tie. This song is being played by another orchestra and now we are standing and people are applauding. We leave our seats and walk to a podium and walk to another, rising and walking, and now I know this is an awards show, and so is this one and that one and the next one. We rise and walk again and again, always with music, always in black tie. And I can see Aaron, and he’s holding a statue. I see this as clearly as if watching filmed footage.

  The music soars to its crescendo. John Spencer has dropped by as well and comes to me and asks, “Well, what do you think?”

  “Johnny, I think this is walkin’ music,” I say.

  “What do you mean?” he asks, but I don’t dare share my vision. I just look at him and smile, putting my arm around him as the music fades out.

  * * *

  Somewhere in Manhattan, someone slips JFK Jr. a copy of the pilot. He loves it and makes plans for my George cover. Again, there is tremendous consternation at the idea of me representing the show in this capacity. But John Jr. is unmoved by the pressure to have me taken off his magazine’s cover. “This show is exactly what I wanted George to be,” he reportedly told his staff. And so when fate takes him just weeks later, everyone at The West Wing is proud to carry that vision, as long as we can. But to do so, we first have to face our own election. This vote is held every week by the A. C. Nielsen Company, and on September 22, 1999, it was our turn to face the nation. Most everyone thinks we have made what will prove to be a critically acclaimed but short-lived television show (a “six and out,” as they say in industry-speak). Watching with the cast and crew at a big party thrown by Aaron Sorkin and John Wells, we are all hoping conventional wisdom is wrong. We will know the verdict before the next sunrise.

  It’s 5:00 a.m. and Scott Sassa is calling me at home. When network presidents call you, it’s good news. When they call you at home, it’s great news. When they wake you out of bed, it’s fantastic news.

  “Congratulations. The ratings were great.”

  America voted us into office and, as in a real administration, I would serve for a full four-year term. I couldn’t wait to make my eighty-eight-mile drive on L.A.’s notoriously nightmarish freeways to get to work each morning, often rising at 4:30 a.m. I had never been part of a better ensemble. To watch Allison Janney receive her lines for the first time, sitting in the makeup chair, then grab a coffee, walk onto the set, and deliver a vintage C. J. Cregg press briefing was a thing of beauty all actors should have a chance to witness. To watch the late John Spencer say, “Thank you, Mr. President,” was to see a man lay down a complex subtext of meaning and emotion far exceeding four simple words. I never tired of watching him work; he could do more with less than any other actor I’ve ever seen. And like the other cast members that populated The West Wing, John had that other rare but critical component for success on our show: He could always find the humor. My new cast mates were also pound for pound the most well-read and intelligent group of actors I’ve ever known. On The West Wing a typical coffee-break chat among the cast could cover the legacy of César Chávez, the history of the New York Yankees, the shortcomings of the Electoral College, and whether or not Nelson Rockefeller and JFK would be accepted by their respective parties in today’s political climate.

  And as I had suspected, working with Martin was replete with an emotional history and an intimate shorthand I’m not sure anyone else noticed. But the results certainly showed on-screen; Sam and Bartlet were like father and son.

  As season one drew to a close, The West Wing was becoming a sensation. It was wish fulfillment for a nation looking for leaders and reviewers looking for quality. It was the right show at the right time.

  * * *

  I’m walking through the set one afternoon to the area where I’m going to be shooting a scene. As I pass the Oval Office, a production assistant shoos me away nervously.

  “Um. Sorry … you should go around the long way,” he says, his eyes shifting from side to side. I can see that something is making him uncomfortable, and I can’t imagine why he won’t let me pass through. Then my eye catches strobe flashes coming from under the Oval Office door. And now I can hear the voice of what is obviously a photographer from inside the room.

  “Great! Oooh! Looking good! You guys look fantastic,” he exclaims.

  As I pass by, I peek in. I see all my cast mates doing a photo shoot.

  “What’s everybody doing in there?” I ask.

  The PA hesitates. It’s clear he doesn’t want to answer at first.

  “Um. It’s the cover of Emmy® Magazine. It’s for all the Emmy Awards voters.”

  I watch for a moment or two, then move on to shoot my scene.

  When the Emmy nominations arrive a few weeks later, every cast member from that photo shoot gets nominated.

  The West Wing will win more Emmys than any other first-year show in history. And, during my four seasons on the show, it will win two Golden Globes, two Screen Actors Guild Awards, and four consecutive Emmys for Outstunding Dramatic Series, the only show ever to do so. The vision I had during the recording of the theme song would prove to be true on “so many levels,” as Sam would say. I would be nominated for two Golden Globes for Best Performance by an Actor in a Television Series—Drama, an Emmy, and two SAG Awards, which I would win along with my other cast mates.

  The West Wing won fans in all stations of life, but none more so than our real-life counterparts. The cast was invited to the White House numerous times. On our first visit, I’m standing near Wolf Blitzer of CNN as we clear security at the northeast gate of the White House.

  “Hey, Sam Seaborn!” says Wolf, and even the Secret Service guys laugh.

  After confirming that I have no felonies or arrest warrants and pose no threat to the government—and making me apologize for crimes against humanity perpetrated by some of my less-than-stellar performances—I am cleared to enter.

  Along with a small delegation from the show, we have taken a break from shooting to receive a special West Wing tour. We enter through the door at the top of the driveway, just past “Pebble Beach,” where the TV reporters do their live shots. It looks no different from the door I enter at Warner Bros. We pass through hallways that are much smaller and much less crowded than those on our show. And not one person in the building is walking and talking as fast as we do. (I’m told that when staffers catch themselves doing this today in the Obama administration, they high-five and say, “We just ‘West Winged.’”)

  So I find myself standing with Aaron in an extraordinarily well-appointed office, as Sorkin is pitched potential new story lines.

  “You know what you should do, lemme tell you what you should do, you oughtta write a story about how these young kids come up here to serve and then just get shit-boxed by the press when they don’t expect it,” says the forty-second president of the United States, leaning against the “Resolute” desk. “I mean some of ’em just have no clue about how tough it can get.”

  It is by now a terrific cliché to say that President Clinton is the most charismatic man you will ever meet, but it doesn’t make it any less true. He is
warm, funny, down-to-earth, interested in people of all stripes, and can speak chapter and verse on the minutiae of policy as well as any character Aaron Sorkin ever dreamed of. He could probably have been a television staff writer as well, had things played out differently.

  I am awestruck to be in this sanctum and to be greeted as if my being there is the most natural thing in the world. Aaron and I try to focus on this surreal meeting in the Oval Office, but I’m having such an out-of-body experience that the president’s voice is sounding like that of the teacher in the Peanuts cartoons.

  I’m jolted back to reality when one of the marines in full dress motions for me.

  “The national security advisor would like to see you in his office,” he whispers, with import.

  Before I know it, I’m hustled out of the Oval.

  “Why don’t you come by and watch my State of the Union here in the East Room,” offers the president.

  “Thank you, sir. That would be amazing,” I answer as I’m shown the door.

  Sandy Berger, the national security advisor, is standing in his giant corner office, waiting for me. And he doesn’t look happy.

  “Why is there no national security advisor on The West Wing?” growls Berger.

  “Um. Well, sir, I don’t really know. I’m sure at some point there will be one,” I manage, hoping this guy can’t have me audited.

  “I’m just kiddin’ ya,” he says, breaking into a wide smile. “I love the show. We all watch it around here. Everyone says, ‘I’m Leo, I’m C.J., I’m Sam,’ and it pisses me off ’cause I’m nobody!” We talk for a while as if we are killing time on the golf course instead of eating up clock on a business day in the world’s most important office complex.

  Everyone I meet in the real-life West Wing is smart, warm, and there to make a difference, and this will prove to be true through the George W. Bush era and into the current administration. Republican or Democrat, it is my experience that with a few exceptions, the men and women who serve us in Washington work almost unbearably hard and have the best intentions. It’s easy to knock the shit out of politicians from the sidelines. I do it myself sometimes, but overall, barring the crazy partisan commandos, when The West Wing made public service look cool, fun, and something to be held in esteem, we got it right.

  Some of my most treasured memories of this era are of my boys chasing Socks, the White House cat, through the basement of the White House, dragging the briefcase with nuclear coordinates, or “football,” as it’s called, across the South Lawn as the naval guard watched, laughing (this was pre 9-11), or having President Clinton advising me father to father.

  “It makes me sad that one day my kids will stop wanting to cuddle, one day those great hugs will be gone,” I tell the president during one visit.

  “If you raise ’em right, it’ll never stop,” he says, proudly showing me a photo on his desk. It’s a recent photo of him and Chelsea snuggling on a couch. Again The West Wing got it right. Presidents are fathers, just like the rest of us.

  Saying good-bye on that particular visit, the staff wants a picture. We all pose, crowded into Betty Currie’s office, just off the Oval. It’s me, Chief of Staff John Podesta, and the gang of young kids who make the place really run.

  “Wait. Wait. Whatya doin’? Let me get in there!” comes the familiar southern drawl, as the most important man in the world tries to fight his way into the photo.

  On my last visit to the Clinton White House, I’m standing on the South Lawn with Sheryl and the boys talking to the president before he hops onto Marine One. My youngest son, Johnowen, is holding his stuffed frog, Gwee Gwee, which he never lets out of his sight, under any circumstances. It has been his security blanket since he was an infant. But now, he takes it out of his mouth and hands his old, tattered frog to the president.

  “Well, look at this!” says the president. “Is this for me?” he asks.

  Johnowen nods shyly. “For you,” he says in a small voice.

  Sheryl and I look at each other in shock.

  “Wow, Johnowen!” exclaims Matthew.

  “Well, thank you, young man. I bet you didn’t know, but I collect frogs. Have since I was a boy like you. ’Cause my daddy used to tell me: ‘Son, a frog never knows how far it can jump until it’s kicked,’” says the president. “I’ll keep him nice and safe. You can come visit him at the Clinton Library someday.”

  He turns to board the sparkling marine chopper. He holds Gwee Gwee in one hand and salutes the marine guard with the other. The door closes and the rotors go up full throttle. At liftoff, the big helicopter does a slow turn, its tail turning toward those of us standing on the lawn. Sunlight glints across the fuselage illuminating the words: United States of America.

  CHAPTER 20

  On the last day of August 2001, I board my usual return flight from D.C. on American Airlines Flight 77 out of Dulles International. I’ve flown with this crew before and we chat, talking about D.C. gossip and our families. After a while I take my nap, and when it’s time to land, I am awakened with a waiting coffee. Leaving the plane, I tell the gang I’ll see them next time. But I won’t.

  Eleven days later, on September 11, American Airlines Flight 77 is flown into the Pentagon.

  Like everyone, I grieve for the innocent victims of this hateful, cowardly mass murder. I try not to think of the horror the passengers and my friends on the crew must have endured. As I have many times in my life, I also marvel at the hand of fate. What if I had been shooting in D.C. eleven days later?

  In late 2005, I receive a letter with the return address of the U.S. Attorney General’s Office in the state of Maryland. Inside is a request for me to contact them at my earliest convenience to set up a face-to-face meeting concerning Zacarias Moussaoui, who is being held as “the twentieth hijacker” in the 9-11 attacks.

  I wish it were a joke, but I know it’s not. I call my longtime lawyer, Larry Stein.

  “What the hell is this?” I ask.

  “Let me get back to you. I’ll call them right away,” says Larry, his voice tight.

  Within hours he has a horrifying update.

  “You are on Moussaoui’s list to be deposed,” he informs me.

  “Whaaaaat!”

  “Yes,” he says, incredulous himself.

  “Were you on an American Airlines flight right before September eleventh?” Larry asks.

  “Yes. On August thirty-first, why?”

  “Rob. They were all with you. Your flight was the dry run.”

  I try to comprehend what my lawyer is telling me, but it’s too unreal, like an episode of The Twilight Zone.

  “The hijackers flew with me? I was sitting with them?” I say, shocked and sickened.

  “Yeah. The Feds have the flight manifest.”

  We are both quiet for a moment, before he continues.

  “Look, Moussaoui is crazy, he’s spouting off and wants to depose you, no one knows why. The Feds want you so they can see what you know before you talk to this guy’s public defender.”

  “Okay. Okay,” I say, trying to make sense of this insanity. “Number one: If that fucking mass murderer wants to talk to me, he’ll have to get a court order and then I’m not saying shit. And two: Tell the boys at Justice I’ll be there for them any day, anytime.”

  But in the end it would all be moot, as Moussaoui fires his lawyer and defends himself. Somewhere along the way his interest in me waned; I never heard another peep. And clearly the Feds needed no help; they put him away for life without parole.

  I wouldn’t have been able to provide much new information anyhow. I remember the flight clearly. Sitting in the smaller version of a first-class cabin, three of them would have been seated within feet of me, maybe even next to me. But I will never know, because here is the horrible truth: No one that day looked like a “terrorist.” They looked like typical polo shirt–sporting, headphone-wearing, surprisingly young-looking men you might see anywhere. They looked like us.

  On September 20, 2001, P
resident Bush addressed a stunned nation before a packed joint session of Congress.

  “The course of this conflict is not known, yet its outcome is certain. Freedom and fear, justice and cruelty have always been at war and we know that God is not neutral between them,” said the president, in what is surely the most important and moving speech of his two terms.

  A week later I receive a happier surprise in the mail. This time the return address says simply: The White House. Inside the large manila envelope is the embossed program given to those in attendance in the chamber that day at the Capitol. It contains the historic speech in its entirety. On the front cover, I discover it is signed to me from the president himself. And below his signature is this, from head White House speechwriter, Mike Gerson: “To Sam—could you do this?”

  * * *

  With the massive critical and commercial success of The West Wing, it is clear that the show is big business. And so, my fellow cast members begin meeting in secret to plot an early renegotiation strategy. They don’t include Martin because he got his monster deal before season one started, and they don’t include me. I only find out because dear John Spencer can’t face me, knowing that I’m the only actor uninvited and in the dark.

  As is custom in that type of negotiation, there are threats of not showing up for work and counterthreats by the studio. The production pushes the beginning of the 2001 season back a day or two rather than take a chance the “West Wing 4,” as they are now known in the press, would be no-shows. I watch this all from the sidelines with curiosity. Within days they all get the raises they asked for.

  “Good for them!” says Bernie Brillstein. “Now you’re the only one not taken care of. Now it’s our turn.”

  This is why I love Bernie. He works on deals. I work on playing my character.

  On the set, my cast mates are giddy. For most of them this is the apex of a long time working at their craft. They’re great at it and now they’ve been rewarded. When they see me coming they keep it on the down low, but when they don’t know I’m watching, I see the high fives. I congratulate them and focus on the upcoming season, which promises to be grueling.