Read Online Hard Sell: The Evolution of a Viagra Salesman by Jamie Reidy - Free Book Online
Authors: Jamie Reidy
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“Zoloft here, Diflucan over here.”
In a specific order retreating toward the back, the most commonly requested samples followed. We had three different forms of Zithromax: an oral solution for children with ear infections, capsules for adults with bronchitis, and a 1 gram powder to be taken only one time to treat chlamydia. Without thinking, I had packed the latter up front and the former in back. Bruce pointed out that this made no sense, since the majority of my customers were pediatricians and would be more likely to be treating kids who could not swallow pills, rather than promiscuous, non-condom-wearing adults. The studies touting our drugs’ effectiveness or highlighting our competitors’ weaknesses were kept in folders hanging in a plastic milk crate placed in the center of the trunk. The other items were often left in their shipping boxes with the box tops cut off for easy access.
Forty-five minutes later, I again stood with my tonsils exposed, only this time with disbelief as I realized how much stuff—how much more stuff—Bruce had been able to fit in there (I had thrown a number of boxes in the backseat). The bulky, plastic models of the respiratory system could barely be seen.
Thankfully, I hadn’t been the only “packing challenged” new hire; several fellow rookies described similar scenes via voice mail. The packing system made sense, I’d grudgingly admit weeks later. As Bruce pointed out, by setting up the trunk improperly, a salesperson doomed himself to wasting time searching for things—time that might allow a competitor to get into an office first.
My makeover was not yet complete. Bruce next turned his attention to the cumbersome, square, shiny black valise I had been trying to avoid since it arrived on my doorstep. “Dude, you gotta load up your bag.” I quickly learned that a rep’s detail bag was a smaller version of his company car, filled with studies and pens and pads and samples and, most important, the detail book with the vis aids for each of a salesperson’s drugs. Sometimes, detail books grew to more than a hundred pages. I saw doctors flee from their favorite reps after spotting the dreaded “book” on a medical counter. After Bruce finished packing my detail bag in a similar anal fashion to that which he had employed with the trunk, I cautiously hefted it, testing its weight. Taking a practice stroll in the parking lot, I came to an immediate realization: It was impossible to look cool carrying The Bag.
Having squared me away, Bruce took off to do the same with the other seven new reps in our district. I still was not ready to unleash my talents on the unsuspecting pediatric and ob-gyn communities of northern Indiana, though. Before letting me pedal on my own, Pfizer needed one last assurance that I was ready for my first solo ride.
Since Bruce was busy unpacking and packing trunks throughout Indiana, Michigan, and Ohio, he had a senior rep on our team give some of us a two-day indoctrination. In Jack, a sarcastic twenty-eight-year-old who had been with Pfizer for four years, I could not have gotten abetter mentor; we shared both a similar sense of humor and the desire to drink beer after work. Carrying less hair and a few more pounds than he had displayed on the ice, the former collegiate hockey player also assumed an “I can still go into the corner and knock you on your ass” air. Jack knew what worked and didn’t work in the field (Detroit Red Wing tickets did, tongue depressors—regardless of flavoring—did not) and he had little tolerance for corporate efforts to alter his style.
He laughed when I relayed the details of Trunk 101. “Don’t worry,” he assured me. “Nobody knows how to do it at first. But since you’re going to be spending a lot of time leaning into this fucking thing in the rain and snow, you want to make it as efficient as possible.” Jack had my complete attention.
He spent the next two days monitoring my behavior in the field,
In a specific order retreating toward the back, the most commonly requested samples followed. We had three different forms of Zithromax: an oral solution for children with ear infections, capsules for adults with bronchitis, and a 1 gram powder to be taken only one time to treat chlamydia. Without thinking, I had packed the latter up front and the former in back. Bruce pointed out that this made no sense, since the majority of my customers were pediatricians and would be more likely to be treating kids who could not swallow pills, rather than promiscuous, non-condom-wearing adults. The studies touting our drugs’ effectiveness or highlighting our competitors’ weaknesses were kept in folders hanging in a plastic milk crate placed in the center of the trunk. The other items were often left in their shipping boxes with the box tops cut off for easy access.
Forty-five minutes later, I again stood with my tonsils exposed, only this time with disbelief as I realized how much stuff—how much more stuff—Bruce had been able to fit in there (I had thrown a number of boxes in the backseat). The bulky, plastic models of the respiratory system could barely be seen.
Thankfully, I hadn’t been the only “packing challenged” new hire; several fellow rookies described similar scenes via voice mail. The packing system made sense, I’d grudgingly admit weeks later. As Bruce pointed out, by setting up the trunk improperly, a salesperson doomed himself to wasting time searching for things—time that might allow a competitor to get into an office first.
My makeover was not yet complete. Bruce next turned his attention to the cumbersome, square, shiny black valise I had been trying to avoid since it arrived on my doorstep. “Dude, you gotta load up your bag.” I quickly learned that a rep’s detail bag was a smaller version of his company car, filled with studies and pens and pads and samples and, most important, the detail book with the vis aids for each of a salesperson’s drugs. Sometimes, detail books grew to more than a hundred pages. I saw doctors flee from their favorite reps after spotting the dreaded “book” on a medical counter. After Bruce finished packing my detail bag in a similar anal fashion to that which he had employed with the trunk, I cautiously hefted it, testing its weight. Taking a practice stroll in the parking lot, I came to an immediate realization: It was impossible to look cool carrying The Bag.
Having squared me away, Bruce took off to do the same with the other seven new reps in our district. I still was not ready to unleash my talents on the unsuspecting pediatric and ob-gyn communities of northern Indiana, though. Before letting me pedal on my own, Pfizer needed one last assurance that I was ready for my first solo ride.
Since Bruce was busy unpacking and packing trunks throughout Indiana, Michigan, and Ohio, he had a senior rep on our team give some of us a two-day indoctrination. In Jack, a sarcastic twenty-eight-year-old who had been with Pfizer for four years, I could not have gotten abetter mentor; we shared both a similar sense of humor and the desire to drink beer after work. Carrying less hair and a few more pounds than he had displayed on the ice, the former collegiate hockey player also assumed an “I can still go into the corner and knock you on your ass” air. Jack knew what worked and didn’t work in the field (Detroit Red Wing tickets did, tongue depressors—regardless of flavoring—did not) and he had little tolerance for corporate efforts to alter his style.
He laughed when I relayed the details of Trunk 101. “Don’t worry,” he assured me. “Nobody knows how to do it at first. But since you’re going to be spending a lot of time leaning into this fucking thing in the rain and snow, you want to make it as efficient as possible.” Jack had my complete attention.
He spent the next two days monitoring my behavior in the field,
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