The Sales Pitch
I let out a soft breeze of relief as I guided my jalopy into the doctor’s parking lot: another harrowing trip on the crash-test roadway known as my route to work had come to an end without me being extracted feet first by the jaws of life. I don’t intentionally wish to impugn my fellow commuters, but when I see little old ladies diving into mailboxes to get out of harm’s way, and emergency vehicles illuminating the highway like strings of carnival lights, I begin to wonder if folks are truly paying attention to the road. Most mornings by the time I reach the hospital my right leg looks like it came from a Mr. Universe contest from continuously pumping the brakes. This is not an inspiring way to start a long day at a job requiring patience, concentration and a lapidary expression of optimism.
Hey, let’s face it - there are some days when all I want to do is sneak in the back door, quietly see a few patients, peruse the latest antics of some of my fellow med-bloggers while nursing a quick cuppa, and get the heck out of town. On that morning as I trudged into the office my secretary turned and gave me the kind of smile usually found in medieval paintings on the queen’s lips as the king is trundled off to the scaffold.
“We’re having lunch brought in today from Xanthoma Subs and Grinders - would you like to order something?” She cautiously offered me a smudged black-and-white menu. Before I could decipher the ingredients of a sandwich called “The Elvis” my mind began to thaw out. Wait a minute! Food from the outside world on a Tuesday can mean only one thing - a pharmaceutical representative was coming. I was going to be “detailed” by Big Pharma today! Big Pharma? Ay Carumba!
It’s not that I don’t appreciate receiving information about a drug company’s new treatment, but in the field of medical oncology I feel the product sells itself. No matter what spin is put on it, the drug either stops cancer from growing or just sits there in dumb admiration as the silent hordes ravage the host. A promising new cancer treatment doesn’t suddenly become more effective just because a fleet of zeppelins bearing its logo are released across the country. I had already reviewed the drug and looked forward to this sales pitch with as much gusto as Richard III looked forward to a picnic on Bosworth Field.
Tables were set up in the back and around noon a man wearing a pink and green shirt waltzed in through the rear entrance and delivered several greasy bags. My staff hovered over the delectables, creating a tableau vivant that could have been immortalized by Titian, if he had remembered to bring his brushes. Lacking the necessary enthusiasm for appreciation of the feast, I started to sneak out until I heard the voice of my secretary, warbling with kissy-face small talk, coming down the hall toward me.
Too late - the sales pitch was about to begin. I elevated my jowls into a smile and prepared a face to meet the face I was to meet.
Next: The Sales Pitch: Part 2, or What Kind of Fool Am I?
