Hard Sell: The Evolution of a Viagra Salesman (9 page)

Having handed over the product information, I asked her if the doctors needed any samples. Since both Zithromax and Diflucan oral suspensions were new, the physicians wouldn’t use drugs about which they knew nothing. In training we had been told that “just about every office” would have employees taking Zoloft, Pfizer’s antidepressant, and that when in need of a “Hail Mary” to keep a sales call alive, it was worthwhile to resort to the Zoloft play. I started to do so, saying, “You know, I also have Zoloft. Perhaps some of your coworkers—”

“Zoloft! My doctors use that for some of their teenaged patients. We’ve never had samples before, though.” At this, Bruce winked at me. Pfizer based our division’s antidepressant sales quotas on past ob-gyn prescribing history (Zoloft, Prozac, and Paxil were used according to FDA indications for depression and “off label” to treat extreme PMS symptoms), not on past pediatric history, since few physicians felt comfortable using medications that were not FDA approved in children under eighteen. Amy’s comment pulled back the curtain on a potential gold mine of Zoloft sales. Excited, I asked how many samples they’d like. “As many as you can give us!” Amy had just become a Jamie fan. I turned to Bruce for guidance and he said nonchalantly, “Ah, give them a case.”

I skipped across the parking lot to the Lumina, grabbed a large box containing 144 bottles of seven pills (most physicians gave patients a bottle or two—one or two weeks’ supply—with a prescription), and raced back inside to find Amy laughing along with Bruce. Her smile grew upon seeing the case, but his vanished.

Walking to the car moments later, Bruce lagged behind with his shoulders slumped. I waited for him to catch up, and he shook his head and muttered, “Those sample cases are
way
bigger than they used to be.” It took more than a year for Amy’s doctors to work through all that Zoloft; we had given away the gold mine. Changing the subject, I asked what he and Amy had been laughing about.

Bruce perked up at this. “I just asked her to keep an eye on you, to make sure no pretty nurses take advantage of the new
single
guy.” He gave me a playful jab on the arm.

“But you know I have a serious girlfriend.” He nodded, smiling devilishly.

“Yeah, but Amy doesn’t need to know that.”

I stopped outside my car door. “What are you talking about?”

“Jamie, you need to take advantage of what you’ve got,” he explained impatiently. “You’re a young, clean-cut, good-looking, funny guy; schmoozing receptionists and nurses will be your
in
. You’ve got to play that card for all it’s worth. That’s how you’re going to make your money.”

“But what happens when they find out I’m not single, that I have a girlfriend? Won’t my credibility be shot?”

He shrugged. “There’s only one way for that to happen, man, and they’re not going to hear it from me.” He paused for a moment, eyebrows raised. “All right, are we going to sell some Zithromax today, or what?” The message was clear: Give them whatever they want and tell them whatever they want to hear; just move product.

We didn’t see many medical professionals that day, as we seemed to spend more time with our faces in a northern Indiana road map than we did inside offices. When actually in front of customers, I felt as if I was having an out-of-body experience. It was surreal to have someone follow me around all day, listening to every word I said and noticing every change in body language and speech.
“You told him that Zithromax would mean one-third less phone calls for his nurses, but you didn’t translate that into a benefit for him. Features to benefits, Jamie. Features to benefits.”

Such close monitoring made me incredibly self-aware, and I found myself paying more attention to my physical reactions to a doctor’s comments than the actual comments themselves. “Uh, Jamie? Dr. Smith just said he’d like to know how to dose Zithromax in a twenty-two-pound patient.”
Yeah, fine, but did you notice that I’m not standing with my arms crossed anymore?
This was not healthy, or productive. Predictably, Bruce gave me feedback immediately after each call, making sure to begin with a few positives—“Nice tie” or “I
really
liked the way you handed the pen to that nurse”—before pointing out instances where I could have referenced a certain study or asked for the business based on “buying signals” I had not noticed. Unpredictably, however, he never stepped in to rescue a sales call gone awry.

Pfizer instructed its managers to refrain from interfering, even if the lack of action meant a loss of business. “It’s like learning to ride without training wheels, man,” Bruce said. “If your dad never let go of the back of the bicycle seat, you never would have learned on your own. This way, you’ll fall a few times, but eventually you’ll get the hang of it. If I jumped in every time a new rep struggled, he’d never learn how to overcome that on his own.” His explanation made perfect sense, but he did little to
convince me that he actually believed it. As evidenced by his impatience in traffic, Bruce craved action, and I knew that sitting on the sideline watching the game slip away must have driven a guy like that crazy. It did.

Few places were more chaotic than the middle of a pediatric practice on a late-autumn afternoon, with kids coming home sick from school as ear infection season found its groove. Appointment schedules, already a term used loosely, became even more of a working document as at least one family would invariably arrive late, throwing everything off. Further derailing the operation, Joey’s nanny scheduled a visit for him, but brought his two siblings along, because, “They all have it.” Impatient mothers quizzed harried nurses, who nagged doctors to stay on schedule—all of it occurring in an area rarely larger than a living room.

Squarely in the eye of the storm, the same doctors attempted to collect their thoughts long enough to remember what child they had just examined, what ailed said child, and what drug to prescribe for said said child. The last thing such a scene needed was a salesman trying to impress his boss. Yet there we were, two guys in suits standing in the midst of this tumult, as out of place as pork chops at a bar mitzvah.

My every instinct screamed, “Run away!” but Bruce sensed my discomfort and motioned with his hands to stay put. With an assuring nod, he nudged me in the direction of Dr. Jones, a pediatrician in his late thirties.
Hair thinner than his runner’s build, he leaned against the countertop, poring over a patient’s chart. Of the three docs in the office, this was the guy I would have picked to approach first; weeks earlier my mentor, Jack, had tipped me off to the tendency of younger physicians to be more willing than seasoned doctors to talk with reps; the young ones were closer in age and would feel like jerks if they blew us off.

“Listen, guys, I’d love to talk, but”—he held his arms outstretched at the madness—“this isn’t a good time.” Apparently, Dr. Jones hadn’t gotten the memo re: talking to reps. “I’m sure you can understand.” I could and did understand, and I began to thank him for his, albeit brief, time, when I saw a strange gleam in my boss’s eye. We weren’t going anywhere.

Bruce was about to cross the manager–rep line. He had tried to stay out of the fray—I had to give him that. Like a medic, he did his best to remain a noncombatant, but in the end, he could not resist the urge to pick up a rifle and fight. I did not know it, but I was about to witness a master at work. Class was in session.

“I can see how busy you are, Dr. Jones,” he began, “and that’s why I’ll be brief.” As if. “I guess it’s not surprising that your office is this packed, considering that it’s prime otitis season,” he said, referring to the clinical term for an ear infection. “Let me ask you, after amoxicillin fails in those patients, do you have an algorithm for deciding which antibiotic you’ll use second or third line?”

Most reps considered directly asking a doctor what drugs he used to be a risky move under
good
conditions, let alone in the middle of a busy office when the doc had already told you he didn’t have time. The noisy swirl of sick kids and moms and nurses seemed to increase in response to this bold overture. My throat went dry, and I braced for the explosion.

None came. The pediatrician cocked his head, squinted at Bruce with a “let’s-mess-with-this-guy” kind of smirk, and said, “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do. I like Cefzil, and if that fails, Biaxin.” Amazing! He had just given up extremely valuable information that I’d be able to use to my advantage on my next call, as we would certainly be leaving now that we had overstayed our welcome. Or not. Bruce’s eyes brightened as his mouth formed a similar smirk. He had stumbled upon a worthy opponent and had no intention of passing up an opportunity to spar.

“Interesting,” Bruce continued. He turned to me. “Jamie, do you have a copy of the Block reprint?”
Of course I have a copy, Bruce. I have a thousand copies.
It occurred to me that he wanted Dr. Jones to feel unthreatened, as if they were simply engaging in a conversation, like, “Hey, Jamie, do you have the business card for that hardwood-floor guy?” I glanced apprehensively at Dr. Jones’s nurse, who was staring unhappily at Bruce and me. Perspiring, I rummaged around in my bag for a while, as though it was hard to find the reprint he’d requested.

Bruce moved to the pediatrician’s side, breaking down the spatial comfort zone most people preferred and throwing me into a near-panic state. We hadn’t been invited into the office. We hadn’t been asked to provide any information, just the opposite. Yet here we were, slowing down the entire operation. I began fidgeting like a nine-year-old during Adult Swim.

Pointing to the study he had placed on top of the patient chart the doctor had been reviewing prior to our interruption, Bruce explained, “As you can see from Dr. Block’s data, Zithromax provides the efficacy you and your mothers are looking for. …” The pediatrician actually stopped and looked at the information. After a moment or two, he objected. “Yeah, but what about the gastrointestinal side effects associated with this class of drugs?” Bruce turned to me again and asked if I happened to have a “Slim Jim,” or a pocket-size version of all the marketing pieces contained in our detail book. Like the Block studies, I had a ton of them. I quickly handed him the Slim Jim, which he used to point out Zithromax’s tolerable side-effect profile. With that, Dr. Jones offered another negative comment about Zithromax. This time, like a veteran operating-room nurse, I handed my surgeon the sales scalpel he needed before he even asked for it.

The ticking of my internal clock pounded in my brain. We had been there way too long. Yet back and forth they went, like Borg and McEnroe at Wimbledon, until the pediatrician finally blinked.

As his face reddened, Dr. Jones turned to look Bruce squarely in the eye. “When I was doing my residency at the naval hospital [although the oral suspension for children was new, Zithromax capsules had been available for adult usage for two years], Zithromax cost more than any other antibiotic, and I swore I’d never use it again!” he sputtered, pounding the countertop once for emphasis.
Game over.
Bruce looked contrite.

“You know what, Dr. Jones?” Dr. Jones did not know what. “You’re right,” Bruce said, and I don’t know who was more shocked, the doctor or me. “Pfizer overpriced Zithromax when it first came out, and we suffered for it. But we listened to the marketplace and have since cut the cost in half, so that now”—he extended his hand toward me without looking, and I smoothly gave him back the Slim Jim, which conveniently listed a pricing breakdown displaying Zithromax’s cost advantage over our competitors, including the aforementioned Cefzil and Biaxin—“Zithromax offers the lowest cost for your patients.” Dr. Jones had played his best card, and Bruce trumped it. “So, can we count on you to use Zithromax in your next ten otitis media patients?”

“All right, all right,” the frustrated pediatrician said. “I’ll use it! Now get out of here and let me see some patients.” Dr. Jones would become the fourth biggest Zithromax writer in my territory.

In just under six minutes, Bruce showed me exactly what it meant to be a closer. He created positive tension
with a physician, stood his ground in the face of disagreement, and moved in for the kill at the perfect time. It was like watching a great white shark from a steel cage, seeing it in its element: fearless, relentless, and indestructible. I should have been thrilled.

Instead, I left the office with a sweaty shirt, dry throat, and knotted stomach—physical evidence of my discomfort at interrupting a busy doctor and then practically arguing with him in front of thirty people. At that moment, I knew I’d never be able to swim with the sharks.

CHAPTER

Four

TRAINING WHEELS OFF

T
HAT PERSONAL DISCOVERY
, however, did not prompt me to seek another career, one in which I’d feel more comfortable or fulfilled. I was self-aware enough to know that I harbored no deep-rooted desire for a “career” in the traditional sense, nor did I feel a need for job fulfillment. Simply put, I just wanted to have as much fun as possible. In my short time at Pfizer, I’d been able to figure out that the company car and the expense account and the ability to sleep till ten every morning (more on the latter later) provided a solid foundation from which to pursue my stated goal of having fun.