Hard Sell: The Evolution of a Viagra Salesman (5 page)

Our indoctrination into the Pfizer Way began one second into our first class. The schedule stated that training would commence at eight
A.M.
Accordingly, a large number of people arrived at 7:58 and took a few minutes to fill coffee cups. Wrong.

As 150 of us wandered around looking for our assigned seats, Gina stood at the front of the room looking less than pleased. When the herd had finally settled, she spoke.

“It is now eight-oh-four. Class begins at eight. This does not mean you arrive at eight, but that you will be seated and ready to participate
before
eight. We operate
on Pfizer Time, meaning if you are not ten minutes early, you’re late.” I glanced about the room to gauge the reaction. While the military people nodded along as if to say, “Business as usual,” there were more than a few trainees with their heads on a swivel, looking around for someone to let them in on the joke. In complete possession of everyone’s full attention, Gina began our training.

Any drug rep from any company will tell you that he left initial training thinking that his drugs were the best in the industry, such was the power of pharmaceutical brainwashing. Pfizer reps departed training with a “Pass me the Kool-Aid” conviction that not only were our drugs the best in the industry, but also that our company was the best in the world. Doctors and competing reps alike routinely commented on a “Pfizer attitude,” a tangible vibe suggesting we were intrinsically better than any other salespeople. Interestingly, army trainees emerge from boot camp with a similar sense of indestructibility, an unshakable belief that there could not be a more prepared soldier on earth. The key to creating this self-confidence in both arenas was the same: an endless repetition of message and task.

In basic training, the drill sergeants sent a message that was simple, but not subtle. The U.S. Army was the pinnacle of military preparedness, and you should thank your lucky stars you were given this opportunity. You were shit, and you would always be shit, unless you got with the program. Who wouldn’t want to go from the shithouse
to the penthouse? One glance at a drill sergeant showed a recruit what a real soldier looked like: perfectly pressed uniform, boots shining like the freshly waxed hood of a black Lexus, body ready to snap off one hundred push-ups at any time. They were the living embodiment of what we were supposed to become and what we wanted to become.

Few Pfizer trainers could have dropped and given us one hundred, but there were no out-of-shape instructors, either. Former fighter pilots and army Rangers and college athletes and cheerleaders trained us. We repeatedly heard about how then-CEO Bill Steere took his family heli-skiing every winter and how a rep in California was a world-champion arm wrestler. The message was clear: There were few fat people at Pfizer. Though not all supermodels, every one of the trainers was well dressed and somewhat attractive. Universally quick on their feet, with smooth, confident deliveries, none of them appeared older than thirty-five. Each had an encyclopedic recall of the most minute product details and perfect pronunciation of complex scientific terms. Young, smart, and talented, they represented what we were supposed to become and, in many cases, what we wanted to become. “In the training department,” I responded when Bruce asked me where I wanted to be in two years.

Over beers, I grew to like the trainers even more. Away from their stage, they proved to be funny people who didn’t take themselves too seriously, willing to share
stories and buy rounds. We learned a lot about them—sometimes too much.

Two of the most popular trainers were guys in their mid-twenties, Matt and Edward. A typical Italian guy from the Northeast, Matt was a bit on the cheesy side, a weight lifter who changed his voice to a softer pitch when he talked to women, but he was a good guy nonetheless. A tall, former college pitcher, Edward drove the women
crazy
with his killer wardrobe and smooth style. With his shaven head, he resembled Michael Jordan. Drinking beers one night, we heard a story about Matt and Edward as hotel roommates at a Pfizer meeting.

Edward awakened one morning to the sound of his electric razor. He thought this was weird, seeing as how Matt shaved with a disposable razor and shaving cream. Edward got out of bed and walked toward the bathroom area, which had two sinks located just outside the shower and toilet room. Turning the corner, he stopped in his tracks. Matt did not see Edward, which was understandable: A guy really
should
be staring intently at his testicles while shaving them. Edward found Matt standing naked with one foot on the countertop and Edward’s electric razor buzzing in his hand.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Edward asked.

Matt looked up, surprised. “Shaving my balls,” he said matter-of-factly.

“I can see that! But that … that’s my razor!”

Matt nodded. “I’ll be done in a minute.”

Edward told Matt to
keep
the razor.

Fortunately for Matt and us, Pfizer didn’t select its trainers based on their personal grooming habits or adherence to etiquette; sales success, personality, and career ambition stood out as prerequisites. We as trainees were fortunate also because Matt was a great trainer. He brought a real world perspective to training, rolling his eyes at some of the things the company required him to teach us, and people listened to him because of it. In front of a crowd, he, like all the trainers, was impressive.

Apparently, we were an impressive group ourselves. From Day One, people told us how great we were. “Pat yourselves on the back,” our first speaker said, “because you are the cream of the crop.” I had already noticed that our class did not lack confidence, and the knowing grins on people’s faces confirmed my perception. The speaker went on anyway. “We interviewed ten people for each one of your jobs.” This sparked some surprised looks. “You are a mature group. The vast majority of you have previous sales experience, or at least have been in the workplace for a few years.”

I didn’t grasp the significance of that comment, but it was later explained to me that most pharmaceutical companies hire recent college graduates. Pfizer being Pfizer, however, it didn’t have to resort to trolling college campuses; Pfizer could pick and choose its sales force from candidates who got their start at other companies. (This changed in the late 1990s as several expansions
inside and outside Pfizer thinned the talent pool, forcing the company to hire twenty-two- and twenty-three- year-olds. The difference in maturity and talent was quite evident to veteran reps.) “So, you
are
the best, and now you
work
for the best. Congratulations.” Wild applause and cheering followed.
I could really get used to someone telling me I’m as great as I already think I am,
I remember thinking.

The brainwashing was not limited to our view of ourselves, however. Rather, the Pfizer training staff instilled within us indelibly negative impressions of our competitors, creating a hatred for people we had yet to compete against, let alone meet. The swiftness and lasting effect of their mental manipulation reminded me of an experience at Notre Dame.

During the first week of my freshman year, in 1988, a guy in a neighboring dorm hung a bedsheet out his window, reading,
BEAT THE RUSH; HATE MIAMI NOW
. Two seasons prior, the Miami Hurricanes had humiliated the Fighting Irish on national television by running a reverse for a last-second touchdown, despite their 40-plus point lead. During the 1987 contest, Miami dominated 24–0, again on national TV. The losses hurt ND fans, but it was the cockiness of the Hurricane players and coaches that sparked a blood feud. Those games had had little impact on me while I was a high school student, but within days of reading that bedsheet, I had worked up a powerful hatred of Miami. Likewise, after two days of
training, I absolutely despised the Biaxin (an antibiotic from Abbott Labs) and Prozac (Eli Lilly & Co.) reps.

They lied. They cheated. Their women dressed slutty. They bought physicians’ love with extravagant dinners and golf at Pebble Beach, instead of earning it through ethical practices. (I later learned that
every
company told its reps that they did things the “right way,” while the other companies cheated.) What would you expect, though, from reps who sold substandard drugs for substandard companies? Their headquarters were in the
Midwest,
for crying out loud, as opposed to midtown Manhattan, two blocks from the United Nations. With our white hats firmly in place, we would ride off to victory, both moral and financial.

Accordingly, at least once a week another big shot—a sharply dressed, in shape, well-spoken big shot—would come in and tell us how great Pfizer was. Having heard over and over about our strong stock performance, unparalleled drug pipeline, and ethical superiority, I began to understand why my dad had “encouraged” me to take this job.

Having pumped us up, the trainers pumped us full of everything we needed to know in order to keep Pfizer at the top. The first week of initial training covered the basics of anatomy and pharmacology (how drugs affect the body), and we were given exams daily. I wasn’t crazy about taking a test every day, but my mood brightened considerably after learning that 80 percent was a passing
grade. Other than naming an honor grad—the trainee with the highest GPA got a gift certificate (I think) and an attaboy—there was no significance placed on excelling academically. Or maybe I just didn’t pay attention when any significance was applied. Faced with the option of studying to become number one or doing the bare minimum to get by, I headed to the bar. I wasn’t alone.

There was something refreshing about entering a hotel bar to find friends with their feet up, textbooks strewn among beer bottles. Refreshing, or
concerning,
as Bruce described the scene. “Okay, all right,” he told Steve, a district teammate, and myself, nodding excitedly. “I see how it’s going to be with you guys.” We exchanged “Oh shit, here comes the big speech” looks. Bruce’s eyes narrowed as he continued. “If you guys want to do it this way, fine. Can’t wait to see how you do on the exam.” He definitely scared us a bit, and we buckled down to do some studying. Then the game came back on and somebody bought us another round, and we kinda lost momentum. When Steve and I both scored 90s the next day, Bruce had mixed emotions. We, on the other hand, did not.
Uh, two Bud Lights, please.

The next fortnight consisted of intense instruction on the drugs we would be selling to pediatricians, ENTs (ear, nose, and throat docs), and ob-gyns. The level of difficulty of the exams increased dramatically, as the trainers drove home the point that we had to be the experts on our products. In essence, we had to know
everything. God forbid a tough-to-see doctor asked us a question we couldn’t answer; we may never again have the opportunity to see that particular doctor. We also had to have a firm grasp on our competing products. Frequently referencing Sun Tzu’s
The Art of War,
our instructors urged us to know our enemies better than we knew ourselves. Consequently, we memorized dosing schedules, side-effect profiles, and efficacy rates, searching for weaknesses. At first, I struggled to adjust to the elevated intensity and sweated out a few scores in the low 80s. This embarrassed the hell out of me because, for all the stroking the trainers did in telling us how smart and successful we were, it wasn’t as though Pfizer had raided NASA’s recruiting pool. Sufficiently motivated to step it up a notch, I started studying more and sat in on a few study groups. I had never seen so many flashcards. “What’s the dose of Zithromax for chlamydia?” Flip. “One gram, one time!” By the end of the first three-week session, I felt very confident about my product knowledge.

Phase II bore no resemblance to Phase I. Sayonara, Dockers and golf shirts; hello, suits and ties. Training took place not at the Marriott, but at IBM’s corporate training site in Palisades, New York, where Pfizer had leased space prior to building its own training center. The new site, an impressive facility that screamed of professionalism, alerted us to the fact that our collegiate atmosphere was over. Business had begun.

Whereas Phase I provided us with the knowledge the job required, the second three-week session was designed to turn us into walking, talking Pfizer sales reps, armed and dangerous. In the first two weeks, the trainers taught us our sales pitches—known as “details”—for each of the three drugs we would be selling: Zithromax (ear infections), Zoloft (depression), and Diflucan (oral thrush in babies, yeast infections in women). We then rehearsed the details intensely, repeating them over and over in front of trainers and among peers. For the finale, Week Three introduced us to the dreaded video recorder, and we were videotaped “detailing” trainers pretending to be doctors, and not always friendly ones. We heard so many horror stories about Week Three that the Hell Week of SEAL training infamy practically paled in comparison.

From the start of Week One, it was obvious that the trainers’ attitudes mirrored that of our new training site: serious and focused. Immediately, two of them—playing the roles of sales rep and doctor—demonstrated what a successful call was like. The rep was impressive, confidently delivering his sales pitch while smoothly flipping through the twenty-plus pages of his visual aid, aka “vis aid.” When he finished, we applauded enthusiastically. The trainer who played the doctor provided commentary. “Did you see the way he started out with an attention grabbing IBS [Initial Benefit Statement], then gave me a trial close halfway through, then handled my objection, and, finally, closed me for a specific number of patients?”
People all around me nodded, signifying that they had, in fact, noticed all those things. I, on the other hand, had not. My main takeaway from the scene was: “I wonder where he bought that shirt.”

We were taught all we needed to know about Initial Benefit Statements, trial closes, and so on. In fact, we were instructed to detail doctors
exactly
the way the trainer had, leaving me feeling as though I had seen this movie before.