Up until around 2009, my job was a breeze. I walked into doctor’s offices with the wind at my back, with the collective weight of the world’s largest pharmaceutical research company driving my pitch. I wasn’t Dominick Praeger, I was Xanax, I was Zoloft, I was Celebrex—and yes, I was Viagra. I was the half-dozen other unapproved miracle drugs presently in pilot studies, soon to come to market and astonish the world. My business card was an Open Sesame; my sample case was a sacred trove. I had authority. I had juice, and I had credibility to burn. Doctors would delay patients or simply ignore them for the duration of my visit. Nurses would usher me through to the staff lounge and fetch me something to drink. My meetings were always cordial, and nearly always lucrative. Occasionally I had to twist an arm or two, a couple of times a month I would have to handle objections and deliver a formal pitch. Mostly, I left samples and took orders. On a typical day I could visit six clinics and be home before five.
Then, after a long, legal skirmish with the Justice Department, Pfizer pleaded guilty to the largest health care fraud in U.S. history and received the largest criminal penalty ever levied for illegal marketing of four of its drugs. Ouch! All of a sudden, I was no longer golden. All of a sudden, my business card was toxic and my sample case was radioactive. And this all coincided with an industry-wide realization that patients resented being delayed and ignored. Physicians also realized how competitive our business truly is, and that a sales associate will jump through almost any hoop to get access to a doctor. So, virtually overnight, we had a radical shift in power. And it shifted for everyone; not just the companies paying millions in fines and drowning in negative publicity.
Some doctor’s office—purportedly in Colorado—decided that they would only entertain drug pitches during lunch. And, since the big pharma companies had deep pockets and infinite patience, the company could also buy lunch. For everyone. The nurses, the lab techs, the receptionist and the janitor all got a free meal. The Colorado policy became wildly popular, spreading to both coasts. Suddenly every sales call required a catered lunch. Every conversation I had about drug therapy protocols, about dosage and side effects transpired during mastication. I was no longer lord of the break room, I was a glorified waiter; passing out napkins, plastic sporks, and single-serving packets of mayonnaise. And because we’re not Spain, because the American lunch break lasts but a single hour, I was reduced to pitching just one clinic per day—seeing five doctors instead of thirty. My sales figures cratered. The halcyon days were over.
