Hard Sell: The Evolution of a Viagra Salesman (15 page)

One Friday evening, I received a call from Bruce, who was checking on my confidence level after a particularly rough “failure.” Though it was a nice gesture and a great leadership move, this call troubled me because I was in a bar in Chicago when I received it at five-ten
P.M.
Fortunately, I dodged the bullet because he assumed I was in a bar in South Bend (“Man, I really needed a drink after that ENT ripped me a new one”), but the near miss taught me a good lesson: Sound bowed, not broken.

The Objection Story removed any risks associated with the Failure Story, while adding to my reputation as a team player who shared problems and issues I encountered in the field. As I mentioned earlier, an objection was anything negative a physician said in response to a point made by a rep. Whether in statement (“Zithromax gives all my patients rashes on their eyelids”) or question (“Will Zithromax give my patients rashes on their eyelids?”) form, we were supposed to report it to our
manager, who would then forward it to the rest of the team. Regardless of when I had actually been faced with the question or negative response, I’d wait to send the voice mail till late Friday afternoon, preferably from the road.
I’m a worker, boss.

On one memorable occasion, I took the phrase “from the road” to new dimensions. Europe, to be exact.

My brother, Patrick, spent the fall semester of his junior year in London, just as I had eight years earlier. My parents invited me to join them on a vacation there, Mom reminding me that during my four-month stint I had somehow managed to avoid visiting a few inconsequential tourist traps like St. Paul’s Cathedral and the National Gallery. I didn’t think I could make it. Ten months into the year, I had already burned through most of my days off, with the remainder saved for Christmastime, when it would have been fairly difficult to pretend I was working when I wasn’t. I tried to explain the situation to her, but one solid dose of maternal guilt later (“Remember that time you came home from Japan to party with your friends on the Jersey Shore, three hours from home, but failed to tell your parents you were in America?”) I was on the phone with British Airways.

A plane ticket did not alleviate my shortage of vacation time, however. I had four days left for the holidays, but had booked a trip to London that would leave the States on a Wednesday, thereby burning three days. I was in quite a pickle: disappoint Mom by either missing the
family trip or making said trip but going home for only one day at Christmas
or
get fired for being out of the country when supposed to be selling antibiotics. I decided to solve this problem the old-fashioned way: I blamed someone else. It isn’t my fault that I’m out of vacation, I reasoned. It’s Pfizer’s!

During my three years in the army, I grew accustomed to its generous “leave,” aka vacation, allotment. Each soldier, whether five-star general or brand-new private, earned thirty days paid vacation per year. Even though this included weekends (army personnel were technically on the clock 24/7), it still amounted to a lot of time off for yours truly. Imagine my shock when informed that Pfizer employees of less than five years received only two weeks of vacation per year! Faced with a family and career crisis, I decided Pfizer owed me more time off, conveniently overlooking all the days I had already taken without Bruce knowing it.

Which was how my brother and I came to be standing outside one of London’s famous red telephone booths on the Friday evening of my trip. Knowing Indiana was six hours behind England, I waited till seven-thirty
P.M.
to place a transatlantic call to Pfizer’s voice-mail system. Patrick and I were on our way to meet our parents for a show, but I would have plenty of time to check messages and leave one of my own. After pumping numerous British-pound coins into the phone, I got through and heard, “You have seven voice-mail messages.”

Unfortunately, I would have to listen to every one, because Bruce ingeniously liked to plant “surprises” within his lengthier messages to see which members of his district actually listened all the way through. For example, in the midst of droning on about increasing our number of sales calls per day, he’d casually mention, “Anyone who voice mails me back before five can treat themselves to lunch tomorrow.” Those reps who did not respond by the designated time received a call at home from Bruce that night seeking an explanation for their failure to execute. Considering that I would not be home to answer that call, or any others over the next three days, I
had
to make sure no surprises awaited me.

Watching my nineteen-year-old brother, who looked like the ultimate American college kid in his never-been-washed baseball cap with the perfectly molded brim pulled low over his eyes, make suicidal gestures expressing his boredom as he stood outside the booth, I got through the seven surprise-free voice mails. Immediately after, I began recording an objection message for Bruce. About thirty seconds into it, I heard a loud beeping noise, like a garbage truck backing up. Peeking out the door to identify the source of the annoying sound, I saw no vehicles. Patrick looked at me quizzically, and I continued speaking into the phone, tugging on my ear and opening my hands to question, What’s that noise? (Ever security conscious, I didn’t want to trigger Bruce’s spider senses by having a conversation with someone outside
a pay phone.) He shrugged his shoulders: What noise?

Then it hit me: The beeping was coming from the phone! I was running out of money! Panicked, I started talking faster as I feverishly wiggled my hands for Patrick to pull out more change. Sensing the seriousness of the situation, he thrust his hand into his pocket and ripped out a handful of … stuff: keys; Kleenex, both used and unused; crumpled balls of money; and, at last, coins filled his hand. As I continued talking above the incessant beeping, which had grown louder as my money depleted, I pulled him into the booth to insert the necessary funds. Fumbling with coins like a horror-movie victim trying to get his key in the door as the killer approaches, Patrick achieved a success/failure ratio of 1:1, good enough to keep the connection but not sufficient to stop the beeping. Out of time and options, I took a deep breath before yelling into the phone: “Sorry about that gasoline truck, Bruce! He’s been backing up forever!” I hit the # key, entered Bruce’s mailbox number, and sent it. As my brother and I ran off toward a taxi stand, he told me, “You owe me fifteen pounds.”

I dialed into Pfizer’s system again the next day, just to make sure my efforts had been successful. The first message I heard said, “Hey team, this is Bruce. Listen to the following message from Jamie. He’s sharing a new objection he got from an ob-gyn in Fort Wayne. Thanks for being a team player, Jamie.”
Yeah, that was worth fifteen pounds.

CHAPTER

Seven

PERCEPTION IS REALITY

I
T TURNS OUT THAT BEING A TEAM PLAYER
wasn’t nearly as important as
seeming
to be a team player. Obviously, everyone in pharmaceutical sales knew how easy it was to blow off work, and people routinely gossiped as to which reps were “workers” and which were slugs. So it was important for me to make sure my colleagues did not suspect me of being the good-for-nothing slacker I had worked hard to become. I had to create an image of Jamie Reidy: Worker.

Most people thought maintaining a good appearance was a critical component of sales success, but I found that such behavior was often detrimental to successfully maintaining the appearance of being a hardworking sales guy. This probably seems counterintuitive, but it’s important to remember that normal employees woke up before
ten
A.M.
and probably started their workday before lunch. Consequently, their shirts wrinkled, bags under their eyes shrank, and hair gel wore off throughout the morning. In order to blend in with these do-gooders, I had to alter my appearance to mimic theirs.

Preparation started prior to showering. If I knew I’d be leaving the house shortly after waking up (as opposed to catching the last
SportsCenter
first), I’d grab two ice cubes from the freezer and lie down on the floor with a towel under my head. Methodically, I’d rub the ice on my bags, hoping to reduce the swelling so I’d look as if I had been up for a long while.

Having iced sufficiently, I’d head to the bathroom. The last thing I wanted at noon was to smell as though I had just gotten out of the shower, which would have been a dead giveaway. Cologne was not an option. Shaving took considerably longer than normal, as I had to use extra caution to not cut myself. After all, very few nicks continue bleeding past lunchtime. Hair presentation was another area of grave importance. Rather than merely patting my head with a towel to soak up dripping water, I’d vigorously dry my hair completely. I’d use little to no gel, thereby making it seem as if I had groomed hours before.

When meeting with coworkers at lunch, I’d choose a dress shirt in need of pressing. Then at an appropriate moment in the conversation, I’d ask if anyone knew of a good dry cleaner. “I mean, they call this ‘heavy starch’?
I’ve had it on for only four hours, and it looks like I slept in the damn thing!” If I knew that I would be seeing colleagues after lunchtime, I’d grab a bottle of salsa or ketchup from the fridge and splash a bit on the front of my shirt before leaving the house. When inevitably asked what happened, I’d sheepishly shrug and say, “Had some coordination problems at lunch.” Hopefully, this gave the impression that I had, in fact, been out of the house before noon.

Showing up late to such meetings was another good way to plant the “worker” seeds. Rushing into the restaurant at twelve-ten, I’d say with exasperation, “Sorry I’m late, guys, but Dr. Johnson just would
not
shut
up
!” Using the name of a doc well known for her chattiness was key, as everyone could relate and there was no fear of a colleague mentioning to Dr. Johnson, “Oh, I heard you had a great chat with Jamie last week.” If I had gotten greedy and referenced a tough-to-see physician, he might respond to such a statement with, “Who’s Jamie?”

On the other hand, when attending district or national meetings I operated on the opposite end of the spectrum, looking sharp and arriving early. Since Pfizer’s corporate culture defined late as “not fifteen minutes early,” you had to show up
really
early for anyone important to notice. Depending on the level of my hangover, I tried to show up thirty minutes early. Sometimes I got there early enough to help my boss carry stuff in from his car or hang motivational signs and sales charts on the walls, simultaneously
allowing me to score some brownie points while cementing the impression that I was a hardworking employee who could be trusted to get out of bed before eight every morning when no one was around to monitor his behavior.
Wow, Reidy sure is dependable, but I wonder why he always has six Altoids in his mouth first thing in the morning?

Another neat little trick at big meetings was to find out which of the Big Bosses worked out in the mornings. I’d muster all my resolve and wake up at six in order to stumble down to the gym, where I’d hop on a stationary bike or treadmill near the Big Boss. Once we had exchanged greetings, I’d focus on my “workout,” as I didn’t want to seem like some sneaky ass-kisser who was only working out to make a good impression. Approximately two minutes after the Big Boss had completed his workout, I’d complete mine and try to head back to bed for a few more desperately needed z’s. Without fail, the Big Boss commented to my boss that he saw me in the gym bright and early.
Wow, that Reidy really has it together, but I don’t know how he can run on a treadmill with a mouthful of Altoids.

Receipts Are Better Than a Note from Your Mom

While I was able to fool my boss and coworkers with some fancy voice-mail and hairstyling tricks, I still had to navigate the minefield of objective measures Pfizer had laid down to safeguard against such abuses.

Pfizer relied on a paper trail of receipts for both business expenses and drug samples to keep tabs on its flock. Fortunately for me, the limits of the system allowed the company to get fleeced. Each rep received an American Express card, and we were expected to use it whenever possible. AmEx provided the company with a printed record of every transaction, meaning Big Brother knew if I overtipped a hot waitress or bought a bottle of water in addition to a tank of gas.

Obviously, not all situations were credit card friendly, and in these instances, Pfizer made us submit receipts for
every
little thing, including a 25-cent toll or a 50-cent parking fee. In addition to protecting against fraud, such stringent documentation helped verify that people were working when they said they were. For the savvy slacker, however, this requirement allowed us to verify we were working when we were
not
working.

Dissatisfied with my measly ten days of vacation, I developed a habit of tacking an extra day on the front or back end of any trips I took. As long as I left Bruce a voice mail touting my success or bemoaning my failure, I had nothing to worry about. Eventually, though, one extra day became two. On my annual trip to visit friends down the Jersey Shore, I pushed the envelope to three unauthorized vacation days.