After that meeting I’d never heard directly from the Hun again, other than bouncy ecards “With best personal wishes” every Christmas. The security line was moving even more slowly than usual that night. The guards always pulled me aside to do a complete scan of the chair. I had this thing I always did; when they ran the metal detector up and down Cher giggled and said girlishly, “Don’t you touch me there unless you’re serious.” No one was kidding that night, though. I passed through three levels of security before being escorted to the James S. Brady Press Briefing Room in the West Wing of the White House. The press room is considerably smaller than it appears on TV. Mighty Chair just barely squeezed through the door. But a large wheelchair did have its advantages; while everybody else had to take an assigned seat, I always had mine with me. Officially I was assigned a spot in the rear, supposedly so I didn’t block the emergency exit, but no one dared complain when I eased closer to the front.

As I sat waiting there on arguably the worst day in American history, I thought about Hunter’s three raised fingers—and that line from my favorite Meat Loaf song popped into my mind: “Two out of three ain’t bad.”

That third one, though, keeping America safe—that one was a bitch.

I glanced at my watch. As usual, press secretary Kaufman was late. “Preparing to make up,” Frankie B. Goode had called it. As I’d walked in I had been handed the list of approved subjects I could ask about and several suggested questions. The briefing room was already way overcrowded, but people made way for me. Hunter had been right about one thing, most members of the Washington media knew who I was; I had never heard a single person claim they had gotten me confused with some other guy in a large, black-leather-covered wheelchair. With cool signal lights! A few people screamed greetings to me above the din. It wasn’t really going to be any kind of conference in the traditional sense of the word; that once-normal televised Q and A had ended forever with Trump. Press secretary Eunice Kaufman responded only to preapproved questions. Now it was what was more accurately described as a “media opportunity.” The only reason any of us were there was to be able to report to viewers or readers that we were there. “White House press room” made a great visual for stand-up reports and print bylines.

I’d attended my first White House press conference in 2015. Obama. Josh Earnest. I’d sat there hoping I would be called on to ask a question and terrified I would make a fool of myself if I was. Press conferences mattered then; we were doing a vitally important job, holding the administration to task for its actions. Making politicians accountable. While sometimes we failed, at least we were making an effort to represent the interests of the American people. We asked the questions that needed to be asked, admittedly not always with good manners, but there was at least a modicum of respect between the administration and the media. I’m smiling as I write this just thinking about those days. Imagine being nostalgic for organized chaos.