I bet the best part of working in the Trump White House was the drugs. We’re talking about the headquarters of the most powerful man on earth, here — the political wildlife preserve that operates with near-perfect impunity and has its own in-house unlicensed pharmacy. And we’re not talking about the Carter administration, either. 

The joint was under the rule of a geriatric, not-quite-strongman with a spray tan, who peaked in the ‘80s like some kind of John Hughes movie villain and appeared in live presidential debates with what looked like a classic snow-drip sniffle. So you gotta think: Who’s going stop you from getting ungodly high, on whatever you want, whenever you want, in a place like that? 

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D.C.’s second ward has always been a speed-fueled judicial Twilight Zone where badge-flashing gentry slither through legal-immunity loopholes from K Street to Federal Triangle while simultaneously inventing new reasons weed can’t be legal. So I’m sure those in the Beltway are wondering why any American would be shocked about the Defense Department Inspector General’s latest report. Sure, it documents how the White House Medical Unit’s pill mill was slinging premium-grade uppers, pro bono, to random staff with the festive abandon of a Cancun DJ firing a “Spring Break 2018” t-shirt cannon at a bunch of topless undergrads. But, come on. 

"Dr. [redacted] asked if I could hook up this person with some Provigil as a parting gift."

The Beltway crowd are also probably wondering the same thing you and I are: What did people think was going on in there when they saw random midnight tweets from POTUS that looked like bad English translations of Ambientoxicated nightmare scripts? How did people think a staff of about 370 kept the executive branch’s lights on 24 hours a day, while still cleaning up the constant FEMA-level aftermath created by Blunder-cane Don? 

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Besides, even those who didn’t already know about D.C. dealers got an earful in 2018 when a bunch of staffers grew sick of White House physician Ronny Jackson being called “candy man” just because he was slinging unprescribed Pez packets like everyone else. The inspector general’s new investigation confirms that earlier report, and tracks the pill trail through White House records from 2017 through 2019. And they didn’t go for the cheap stuff, either. 

“We concluded that, over a three鈥憏ear period, the White House Medical Unit spent an estimated $46,500 for brand name Ambien, which is 174 times more expensive than the generic equivalent. Over the same period, the White House Medical Unit also spent an estimated $98,000 for brand name Provigil, which is 55 times more expensive than the generic equivalent,” the report said. 

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Trump’s White House staff would not be the first to burn the midnight oil by getting lit on the mother-of-all-uppers, that premium twitch fuel called modafinil — or its brand-name version, Provigil. God knows those West Wing walk-and-talks don’t happen without a little methylphenidate magic, but the Air Force “go pill” moda’ (as its called) is the cleanest, most surreal upper you can get if you’re looking for something that stays conveniently stocked. (There’s a reason it’s prescribed for narcolepsy.)

This stuff was tested on Black Hawk helicopter and F-117 fighter pilots, and hits harder than a Shawshank prison guard. It probably didn’t help matters that, as far as the historical list of prominent names is concerned, a lot of Trump’s appointees didn’t exactly have to be Obama-grade Brain Trust material or have Air Force ASVAB scores to get a gig shuffling Don’s paperwork — so long as they kept the donors coming and the Boogaloo Boys hard. 

“Dr. [redacted] asked if I could hook up this person with some Provigil as a parting gift for leaving the White House,” said one of the 70 witnesses interviewed for the report. “I’m not sure if it was okay as far as, like, what’s medically allowed. But in the unit, it was authorized for us to do that kind of stuff.”

You’re pulling an all-nighter drafting policy notes for Small Hand Nuke ahead of his 3 a.m. phoner with Moscow? Modafinil’s got you. You’re stuck in your sweat-stained Brooks Brothers button-down for 18 hours while juggling three cell phones and getting crop-dusted by the football team who just ate a cold banquet of McDonald’s in the Oval? Modafinil for that, too. You’re spinning the latest military fiasco into publicity gold before the press gets wind of it, while schlepping a dozen boxes of classified intelligence documents into a tacky Florida condo and hoping your face isn’t recorded by the FBI? Praise the Lord, and pass the Provigil. 

Praise the Lord, and pass the Provigil.

“We would normally make these packets of Ambien and Provigil, and a lot of times they’d be in like five tablets in a zip鈥憀ock bag. And so traditionally, too, we would hand these out. ... But a lot of times the senior staff would come by or their staff representatives... would come by the residence clinic to pick it up. And it was very much a, 'hey, I’m here to pick this up for Ms. X.' And the expectation was we just go ahead and pass it out," said another witness. 

A witness? Or an angel? You decide. As far as I’m concerned, a handful of team-no-sleep interns and bureaucratic nerds are probably the only reason this country stayed running some nights. And if they hadn’t had the blessing of a tidy little Ziploc baggie and a blind-eye kindly turned, those noble few would have no doubt had to take more desperate measures. How else could anyone of conscience survive the Pennsylvania Avenue fish bowl during a four-year demolition derby of the country, which then climaxed with a literal attempted coup?

Those desperate measures would have undoubtedly been even more expensive and manic. And, sweet merciful maker, you can bet your baggies that White House cocaine hits harder than a Honduran hanger-brick hits the California coastline. But don’t take my word for it — just ask Oliver North.  

An earlier version of this article originally appeared in Salon's Lab Notes, a weekly newsletter from our Science & Health team.