Strong Medicine by Arthur Hailey
Beyond the company, in terms of history, 1959 was not a spectacular year. Alaska became a state in January, Hawaii in July. To the north, during April, the St. Lawrence Seaway opened. In May, Israel’s Premier David Ben-Gurion promised the world that his country would seek peace with its Arab neighbors. Later the same month two monkeys made a 300-mile-high space flight aboard a U.S. army missile, and survived. It was hoped that humans might someday do the same.
One outside event which aroused Celia’s attention was a series of hearings, begun during December, by a U.S. Senate subcommittee chaired by Senator Estes Kefauver. During earlier hearings about crime the senator, a Tennessee democrat with presidential ambitions, had gained wide attention and was hungry for more of the same. The target at the new hearings was the pharmaceutical industry.
Most industry officials dismissed Kefauver as a nuisance, but unimportant. The industry’s Washington lobby was strong; no long-term effect was expected. Celia, though confiding her opinion only to Andrew, disagreed.
Finally, late in the year, Celia resumed her duties as a detail woman, again with her sales territory in New Jersey. Through contacts at St. Bede’s she had found an elderly retired nurse who came to the house daily and took care of Lisa. Typically, Celia tested the arrangement, by going on an out-of-town trip with Andrew and leaving the older woman in charge. It worked well.
Celia’s mother, Mildred, occasionally visited from Philadelphia and enjoyed filling in, and getting to know her granddaughter, when the daily nurse was away.
Mildred and Andrew were on excellent terms, and Celia became closer to her mother as time went by, sharing an intimacy they had rarely known in earlier years. One reason, perhaps, was that Celia’s younger sister, Janet, was far away—in the Trucial Sheikdoms—having married an oil company geologist, now busy overseas.
Thus, with support from several sources Celia and Andrew were once more able to take pleasure in their separate careers.
In the case of Andrew’s career, only one thing marred it slightly, and just how important that worry was, Andrew himself was uncertain. It concerned Noah Townsend.
Andrew’s senior partner had, over a handful of widely separated occasions, exhibited what could have been signs of emotional instability. Or perhaps, when Andrew thought about it, bizarre behavior was a more accurate description. What puzzled Andrew was that both characteristics were alien to the nature of the older, dignified physician as Andrew had observed it day by day.
There were three incidents that Andrew knew of.
One was when Noah, during a conversation in his office with Andrew, became impatient because of a telephone call that interrupted him. After a brusque response to the call, he yanked the telephone cord from the wall and hurled the instrument across the office where it hit a file cabinet and broke. Then Noah continued talking as if nothing had happened.
Next day a replacement telephone was on Noah’s desk; the fate of the old one was never mentioned.
Some six weeks later Andrew was in Noah’s car, with Noah driving. Suddenly, to Andrew’s horror, they were hurtling through Morris-town with the accelerator floored, skidding around corners, and going through a red light. Andrew shouted a warning, but Noah appeared not to hear. Through extraordinary luck, no accident occurred, and they raced into St. Bede’s parking lot, then slid to a halt with a screech of tires. While Andrew was protesting, Noah just shrugged—and the next time Andrew observed Noah driving, it was at a safe speed with normal caution.
A third incident, again widely separated from the others, but the most distressing, involved their office receptionist-secretary, Mrs. Parsons, who had worked for Noah for many years, long before Andrew’s arrival. True, Violet Parsons in her mid-sixties was slowing down and was occasionally forgetful. But it was seldom about anything important, and she was good with patients, who liked her. She and Andrew got along well, and her devotion to Noah—close to adoration—was an in-house joke.
Until an incident about a check.
In preparing one for payment of office supplies, Violet made an error. The invoice was for forty-five dollars. She reversed the figures, made out the check for fifty-four dollars, and left it on Noah’s desk for him to sign. In practical terms it didn’t matter, since the extra amount would have appeared as a credit on the following month’s bill.
But Noah stormed into the reception area with the check in his hand and shouted at Violet Parsons, “You stupid bitch! Are you trying to ruin me by giving away my money?”
Andrew, who happened to be entering the office at that moment, could hardly believe what he was hearing. Nor, it seemed, could Violet, who stood up and replied with dignity, “Dr. Townsend, I have never been spoken to in that manner before, and do not intend to have it happen again. I am leaving now and will not be back.”
When Andrew tried to intervene, Noah snapped, “Stay out of this!” And Violet said, “Thank you Dr. Jordan, but I no longer work here.”
Next day Andrew tried to bring up the subject with Noah, but the older man merely growled, “She wasn’t doing her job. I’ve hired someone else; she starts tomorrow.”
If the incidents had been less isolated or more frequent, Andrew might have had greater concern. But, he reasoned, as everyone grew older the pressures of work and daily living could cause tensions to erupt and tempers fray. It was, after all, a human characteristic. Andrew himself felt those pressures at times, with a resultant edginess which he contained. Noah, it seemed, had not contained his.
Still, the incidents troubled Andrew.
Celia’s career activities were more upbeat.
In February I960, on a day when she had left her sales territory to transact some business at Felding-Roth headquarters, Sam Hawthorne summoned her to his office. Sam was in a relaxed mood and greeted Celia cordially. His new responsibilities in national sales did not appear to be wearing him down, she thought—a good sign. Also, in view of her own long-term plans, an optimistic one. Sam’s hair, though, was noticeably thinner; by his fortieth birthday, now a year away, he would probably be bald, though the look seemed to suit him.
“I wanted to see you about the national sales meeting,” he announced.
Celia already knew that Felding-Roth’s biennial sales convention would be held at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York in April. While private and closed to outsiders, the affair was attended by all company sales people in the United States, plus officers of Felding-Roth subsidiaries abroad. As well, the chairman, president and other senior executives would be present during the three-day proceedings.
“I’m expecting to be there,” Celia said. “I hope you’re not going to tell me it’s for men only.”
“Not only is it not men only, but the top brass want you to be one of the speakers.”
“I’ll do it,” Celia said.
Sam observed dryly, “I was sure of that. Now, about the subject. I’ve talked to Eli Camperdown and what he and others would like is for you to describe some of your selling experiences—from a feminine point of view. There’s a suggested title: ‘A Woman Looks at Pharmaceutical Detailing.’”
“I can’t see it on a movie marquee,” Celia said, “but it’ll do.”
“You should keep your talk light, possibly humorous,” Sam continued. “Nothing heavy or serious. Nothing controversial. And ten to fifteen minutes should be enough.”
Celia said thoughtfully, “… I see.”
“If you like, you can submit a draft. Then I’ll go over it and make suggestions.”
“I’ll remember that offer,” said Celia, who already had ideas about her speech and had no intention of submitting anything.
“Sales in your territory have been excellent,” Sam complimented her. “Keep it up!”
“I intend to,” she acknowledged, “though some new products would help. By the way, what happened to the one Mr. Camperdown talked about a year ago—Thalidomide?”
“We dropped it. Gave it back to Chemie-Grünenthal. Said thanks but no thanks.”
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“According to our research people,” Sam explained, “it wasn’t a good drug. They tried it out in those old people’s homes, as you arranged. As a sleep aid it didn’t seem to work.”
“And that’s the end?”
“So far as Felding-Roth is concerned. I just heard, though, that the Merrell Company has taken Thalidomide on. They’re calling it Kevadon and they plan a big launching here and in Canada.” He added, “With all the success Thalidomide has had in Europe, that’s not surprising.”
“You sound unhappy,” Celia said. “Do you think our company made a mistake?”
Sam shrugged. “Maybe. But we can only sell what our research department approves, and this is one they didn’t.” He hesitated, then said, “I may as well tell you, Celia, there are a few people around here who are criticizing you because our testing of Thalidomide was limited to old people and wasn’t more widespread—as Vincent Lord originally wanted.”
“Are you one of the critics?”
“No. At the time, if you remember, I agreed with you.”
“I do remember.” Celia considered, then she asked, “Is the other criticism important?”
“To you?” Sam shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
At home, during the evenings and weekends which followed, Celia worked on her sales meeting speech. In the quiet, comfortable studyden she and Andrew enjoyed sharing, she surrounded herself with papers and notes.
Watching her one Sunday, Andrew observed, “You’re cooking up something, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she admitted, “I am.”
“Will you tell me?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Celia said. “If I tell you now, you’ll try to talk me out of it.”
Andrew smiled and was wise enough to leave it there.
7
“I know that most of you are married,” Celia said, looking out over the sea of male faces that confronted her, “so you know how it is with us women. We’re often vague, we get mixed up, and sometimes forget things altogether.”
“Not you, sharp girl,” someone near the front said softly, and Celia smiled swiftly, but continued.
“One of the things I’ve forgotten is how long I’m supposed to speak today. I’ve a vague notion of someone mentioning ten to fifteen minutes, but that couldn’t possibly be right, could it? After all, what woman could make herself intimately known to five hundred men in that short time?”
There was laughter and, from the back of the convention hall, a broad Midwestern voice. “You can have as much of my time as you want, baby!” This was followed by more laughter, wolf whistles, and cries of, “Same here!”, “Take all you need, kiddo!”
Leaning closer to the microphone in front of her on the speakers’ platform, Celia responded, “Thank you! I was hoping someone would say that.” She avoided meeting the eyes of Sam Hawthorne, watching her intently from a few seats away.
It was Sam who, earlier that day, had told Celia, “At the opening of a sales meeting everybody feels their oats. That’s why the first day is mostly hype. We try to get all the guys worked up—tell those who are in from the field how great they are, what a topnotch outfit Felding-Roth is, and how happy we are to have them on the team. After that, for the next two days, we get down to more serious business.”
“Am I part of the hype?” Celia had asked, having observed from the program that she would be speaking during the afternoon of the first convention day.
“Sure, and why not? You’re the only female we have actively selling, a lot of the guys have heard about you, and all of them want to see and hear something different.”
Celia said, “I must try not to disappoint them.”
At the time, she and Sam had been walking on Park Avenue, shortly after breakfasting at the Waldorf with several others from the company. In an hour the sales convention would begin. Meanwhile they were enjoying the mild and sunny April morning. Clear fresh breezes were sweeping through Manhattan and springtime proclaimed itself in massed tulips and daffodils on Park Avenue’s central malls. On either side, as always, were noisy, never ceasing streams of multilane traffic. On sidewalks a tide of hurrying inbound office workers swirled around Sam and Celia as they strolled.
Celia, who had driven in from New Jersey early that morning and would stay for the next two nights at the Waldorf, had dressed carefully for this occasion. She had on a new tailored jacket and skirt of navy blue, with a white ruffled blouse. Celia knew that she looked good and that the combination was a happy blend of business crispness and femininity. She was also glad to have shed the glasses which she had always disliked; contact lenses, suggested by Andrew on their honeymoon, were now a permanent part of her life.
Sam said suddenly, “You decided not to show me a draft of your speech.”
“Oh dear!” she acknowledged. “It seems I forgot.”
Sam raised his voice to be heard above the traffic. “It might seem that way to others. But not to me, because I know there’s almost nothing you forget.”
As Celia was about to reply, he silenced her with a gesture. “You don’t need to answer that. I know you’re different from others who work for me, which means you do things your own way, and so far you’ve mostly done them right. But I’ll offer just a word of warning, Celia—don’t overreach. Don’t leave caution too far behind. Don’t spoil a damn good record by trying to do too much, or move too fast. That’s all.”
Celia had been silent and thoughtful as they turned, crossed Park Avenue on a green light, and headed back toward the Waldorf. She wondered: would what she had in mind for this afternoon be overreaching?
Now, with the sales convention under way, and as she faced the entire sales force of Felding-Roth in the Waldorf’s Astor Room, she realized she was about to find out.
Her audience was mostly salesmen—detail men—plus supervisors and district managers, all from outposts of the company as far apart as Alaska, Florida, Hawaii, California, the Dakotas, Texas, New Mexico, Maine and places in between. For many it was their only direct contact, every other year, with their superiors at company headquarters. It was a time for camaraderie, the reviving of enthusiasm, the implantation of new ideas and products, and even—for some—a renewal of idealism or dedication. There were also some boisterous high spirits directed toward womanizing and drinking—ingredients found at any sales convention of any industry anywhere.
“When I was invited to speak to you,” Celia told her audience, “it was suggested that I describe some of my experiences as a detail woman, and I intend to do that. I was also cautioned not to say anything serious or controversial. Well, I find that impossible. We all know this is a serious business. We are part of a great company marketing important, life-giving products. So we ought to be serious, and I intend to be. Something else I believe is that we who are working on the firing line of sales should be able to be frank, honest and, when necessary, critical with each other.”
As she spoke, Celia was conscious not only of the large audience of salesmen, but of a smaller one which occupied reserved seats in the front two rows: Felding-Roth’s senior executives—the chairman of the board, president, executive vice president, vice president of sales, a dozen others. Sam Hawthorne, his near-bald head standing out like a beacon, was among the others.
Eli Camperdown, as befitted the president and CEO, sat front and center. Beside him was the board chairman, Floyd VanHouten, now elderly and frail, but who had led and shaped the company a decade earlier. Nowadays VanHouten’s duties were mainly limited to presiding at directors’ meetings, though his influence remained strong.
“I used the word ‘critical,’” Celia said into the microphone, “and that—though some of you may not like it—is what I intend to be. The reason is simple. I want to make a positive contribution to this occasion and not be merely ornamental. Also, everything I shall say is within the limits of the title I was handed, which is in the program: ‘A Woman Looks at Pharmaceutical Detailing.’”
That had been her worry earlier—whether she could hold this audience. Coming off Park Avenue this morning and entering the crowded, smoky, noisy anteroom where the sales force was assembling, Celia had experienced nervousness for the first time since agreeing to be a convention speaker. Even to herself she admitted the Felding-Roth sales convention was, at least for the time being, essentially a male exercise with its backslapping bonhomie, crude jokes, inane loud laughter, all to a background of unoriginal conversation. Celia lost count of the number of times today she had heard, “Long time, no see!” mouthed as if a novel, just-invented line.
“Just as you do,” she went on, “I care very much about this company we work for and the pharmaceutical industry of which we are a part. Both have done fine things in the past and will do more. But there also are things that are wrong, seriously wrong, especially with detailing. I would like to tell you what, in my opinion, these things are and how we could do better.”
Glancing down at the two executive rows, Celia detected unease on several faces; one or two people were fidgeting. Quite clearly, what she had said already was not what had been expected. She looked away and gave her attention to other portions of the hall.
“Before we came in here this morning, and again this afternoon, we all saw the banners and the booth which feature Lotromycin. It’s a magnificent drug, one of the great breakthroughs in medicine and I, for one, am proud to be selling it.”
There was applause and cheers, and Celia paused. Displays in the anteroom outside featured a dozen or so of Felding-Roth’s important products, but she had homed in on Lotromycin because of its personal associations.