(“There’s no panacea, Doctor” was a common drug rep refrain), but the idea of failure had not entered my brain when I came up with this great idea. Ten minutes postdose, however, I began to get nervous.
“Hey, Jamo!” Ed barked, using a nickname for my nickname. “I’m still sneezing over here. This drug sucks.” The sneezing had gotten so bad that the guys stopped saying “Bless you.” His eyes continued to water, and the pile of snotty Kleenex grew to resemble a papier-mâché ottoman in front of which Chauncey, oblivious to her role in this commotion, had dropped her ball so Ed could throw it to her. He did not feel like playing.
At one-twenty, he mocked me again. “Does this shit work for anybody?” I wanted to laugh at his pathetic sniffling or make a crack about his red eyes, but I couldn’t. Instead, I sat frozen on the couch, struck dumb by the realization that I would hear about this for the rest of my life. Because that was what it really came down to. In the big picture, I didn’t care about Ed’s allergies; he could have simply gone home (locking Chauncey in the basement was not an option) and felt better in an hour. No, in the big picture I had made a personal guarantee, a declaration of belief. There was nothing guys liked better than to remind a friend about a failed declaration of belief.
“Hey, Ed,” Steve snapped, rushing to my defense. “He said it’d take fifty minutes. You’ve got another half an hour, dipshit.” Ed hocked a loogie in response.
Ten minutes later, Steve challenged him. “Eddie, I don’t hear so much sniffling over there anymore.” Ed barely acknowledged the comment. At the forty-minute mark, he conceded defeat.
“Okay, Jamo, you win. I’m all dried up.” Sure enough, Ed sat symptom free with dry eyes and a dry nose. He was crushed. “Man, I was really hoping that stuff wouldn’t work,” he admitted, revealing more about men in that one sentiment than any book about Venus and Mars ever did. “You would’ve heard about it forever.”
“Never a doubt, Eddie,” I said with a smile, hoping its radiance would compensate for the relief in my voice. “Never a doubt.” We sent Ed out for beers after that.
Instant access to samples didn’t end with Pfizer’s products, however. In fact, a drug rep’s options expanded infinitely upon arriving at an office. Sample closets were like receptionists; although they ranged in size and accessibility from practice to practice, every office had at least one, containing tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of samples of every product from Aricept to Zoloft. These closets served as a pharmaceutical filling station for salespeople in need.
Managers were notorious for grabbing samples while their reps, the people the managers were supposed to be evaluating, detailed doctors. It was straight out of a movie; one bad guy created a diversion while the other heisted the jewels. A rep really found out a lot about his boss’s extended family by watching what he lifted from a sample closet: Aunt Becky had acid reflux (Prilosec), Uncle Tony had herpes (Famvir), brother Phil wouldn’t leave the house (Paxil), sister Cindy couldn’t sleep (Ambien). Ten-year-olds gave their parents less detailed Christmas lists than some Pfizer managers brought on their field rides.
Not all offices had samples of the drugs that reps needed, so creativity increased at a rate directly proportional to desperation. A friend of mine called on a dermatologist late one afternoon. Nothing out of the ordinary there, except for the fact that she was a urology and ob-gyn rep. Seemed she had broken out in a near-fatal case of acne (three pimples for this beauty was a crisis)and needed some dermatological products stat! So, this very ballsy Pfizer woman waltzed into the waiting room as if she had been there before (she hadn’t), smiled at the receptionist as if she knew her (she didn’t), and headed through the door leading to the back office, saying,
“Hey, Jamo!” Ed barked, using a nickname for my nickname. “I’m still sneezing over here. This drug sucks.” The sneezing had gotten so bad that the guys stopped saying “Bless you.” His eyes continued to water, and the pile of snotty Kleenex grew to resemble a papier-mâché ottoman in front of which Chauncey, oblivious to her role in this commotion, had dropped her ball so Ed could throw it to her. He did not feel like playing.
At one-twenty, he mocked me again. “Does this shit work for anybody?” I wanted to laugh at his pathetic sniffling or make a crack about his red eyes, but I couldn’t. Instead, I sat frozen on the couch, struck dumb by the realization that I would hear about this for the rest of my life. Because that was what it really came down to. In the big picture, I didn’t care about Ed’s allergies; he could have simply gone home (locking Chauncey in the basement was not an option) and felt better in an hour. No, in the big picture I had made a personal guarantee, a declaration of belief. There was nothing guys liked better than to remind a friend about a failed declaration of belief.
“Hey, Ed,” Steve snapped, rushing to my defense. “He said it’d take fifty minutes. You’ve got another half an hour, dipshit.” Ed hocked a loogie in response.
Ten minutes later, Steve challenged him. “Eddie, I don’t hear so much sniffling over there anymore.” Ed barely acknowledged the comment. At the forty-minute mark, he conceded defeat.
“Okay, Jamo, you win. I’m all dried up.” Sure enough, Ed sat symptom free with dry eyes and a dry nose. He was crushed. “Man, I was really hoping that stuff wouldn’t work,” he admitted, revealing more about men in that one sentiment than any book about Venus and Mars ever did. “You would’ve heard about it forever.”
“Never a doubt, Eddie,” I said with a smile, hoping its radiance would compensate for the relief in my voice. “Never a doubt.” We sent Ed out for beers after that.
Instant access to samples didn’t end with Pfizer’s products, however. In fact, a drug rep’s options expanded infinitely upon arriving at an office. Sample closets were like receptionists; although they ranged in size and accessibility from practice to practice, every office had at least one, containing tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of samples of every product from Aricept to Zoloft. These closets served as a pharmaceutical filling station for salespeople in need.
Managers were notorious for grabbing samples while their reps, the people the managers were supposed to be evaluating, detailed doctors. It was straight out of a movie; one bad guy created a diversion while the other heisted the jewels. A rep really found out a lot about his boss’s extended family by watching what he lifted from a sample closet: Aunt Becky had acid reflux (Prilosec), Uncle Tony had herpes (Famvir), brother Phil wouldn’t leave the house (Paxil), sister Cindy couldn’t sleep (Ambien). Ten-year-olds gave their parents less detailed Christmas lists than some Pfizer managers brought on their field rides.
Not all offices had samples of the drugs that reps needed, so creativity increased at a rate directly proportional to desperation. A friend of mine called on a dermatologist late one afternoon. Nothing out of the ordinary there, except for the fact that she was a urology and ob-gyn rep. Seemed she had broken out in a near-fatal case of acne (three pimples for this beauty was a crisis)and needed some dermatological products stat! So, this very ballsy Pfizer woman waltzed into the waiting room as if she had been there before (she hadn’t), smiled at the receptionist as if she knew her (she didn’t), and headed through the door leading to the back office, saying,
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