The Portable Veblen

13 THE ANIMAL RULE

While Veblen was on her way to Paso Robles with the squirrel, Paul and James Shalev were on their way to San Jose to attend the opening night of DeviceCON, the leading North American medical and pharmaceutical drug sector trade show. Hutmacher was a major sponsor, and Paul was booked to meet and greet for an hour as a “Key Innovator.”

“Heard about the attack,” Shalev mentioned.

The traffic was thick even in the carpool lane. “What attack?”

“You had a situation with some aggression down in the ward. Bruce Johnson had to intervene.”

Not wanting to lionize the male nurse Bruce Johnson or sound like a helpless wimp, Paul said, “No big deal. Things like that happen all the time.”

“Oh, sure,” said Shalev. “I’m sure Oliver Sacks has been attacked by a patient or two.”

“What are you trying to say?” Paul asked.

“Just that it can happen to the best,” Shalev said. Paul had to slam on his brakes to avoid a Prius that had abruptly changed lanes. He suddenly flashed on what Veblen told him that Thorstein Veblen once said: “No one travelling on a business trip would be missed if he failed to arrive.”

The two men fell into another silence. Paul was feeling uneasy about Veblen’s attitude toward the chicken Veronica, the beef en croûte, and the gift registry. And annoyed by her attitude toward the Sea Ray and any kind of material gain. Could it signify a deeper dissatisfaction? She even sounded pissed about the trial he’d arranged for her freaky mother. He couldn’t win! And why was she reading that hideously titled book, Marriage: Dead or Alive? Was that what a happy, excited woman read before her wedding?

“You going to the Pre-Wounded summit?” Shalev asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“Pre-Wounded?” Paul asked, absently.

“Here’s what I got about it,” Shalev said, reading from his phone:

While post-wound management is a well-established field, coordination of the pre-wounded is an emerging market with strong potential.

Spouses of the pre-wounded often need to know just what to expect. The summit will explore ways for these spouses to be successful after wounding. “We aim to help pre-wounded service members and their families understand the large number of unfamiliar programs and benefits that will be available to them upon wounding. We don’t want them to be overwhelmed when the time comes.”

“The Pre-Wounding workshops helped us be creative and the support networks were all in place once we were in the post-wounding phase,” said Mary Parrot, wife of Staff Sergeant John Parrot, who transitioned from pre- to post-wounded in Afghanistan in July.

“Says Hutmacher’s a major sponsor, so I figured you’d be going,” Shalev said.

“Is there any limit to the marketing of warfare?” Paul blurted out. “I mean, that’s over the top. Am I alone in thinking that?”

“Well, we all take part in the parasitic continuum,” Shalev remarked. “You’ve got to admit, it’s nature’s way.”

“Is man’s way nature’s way?” Paul asked, wondering if that pithy question lay at the crux of some notable philosophical debate, and made a mental note to ask Veblen.

“I can’t make it to this one. I’m going to Arkansas to see my folks for their thirty-fifth. Can you picture thirty-five years with someone?”

“My parents have been married forty. But sometimes I get the feeling they don’t know anything about each other.”

“That’s probably what makes it work,” Shalev said.

Paul agreed.

• • •

DEVICECON FILLED THE San Jose Convention Center, spilling out into the vast lobby, where three to four thousand rowdy, pent-up medical product developers, service providers, inspectors, contractors, and salespeople, all desperate for a few days away from home, were jostling to grab their DeviceCON tote bags and ID cards and lanyards to string around their necks in order to get on with the wine-tasting event inside. A disproportionate thrill, Paul felt, was in the air. Yet he was among the elite here, he was a Key Innovator! He wondered if anybody had circled his name on the program to remind themselves of his time slot, and imagined a band of executives, scientists, and headhunters surrounding him like groupies, trying to determine if he could be lured away from Hutmacher.

Paul and Shalev crawled through the crowd. Vendors, row after row of them, hawked their wares with the gusto of the cheese mongers and oyster brokers of medieval bazaars. Each booth was done up with a dramatic backdrop and various three-dimensional installations, with endless pamphlets and brochures available to hoard. Shalev took off to find the wine.

In the “Product Theater” another “Key Expert” was giving a talk on “Speed to Market for Medical Devices.” Paul gazed around at the banners and booths: Abbott and Pfizer and Pharma Logistics and Cephalon and Rees and Lilly USA and Zogenix and Baxter and, there it was, Hutmacher. He made his way over. A large monitor displayed continuous feed of the senior Boris Hutmacher at a dais before a high-minded crowd, while vistas of Gothic buildings were spliced in, maybe of Yale or Duke or the University of Chicago:

“… our most remarkable year in our distinguished history because we have launched eleven new products, each with benefits that raise the bar dramatically in virtually every field of medicine.

“We have launched Merthaspore, a combination antifungal broad-spectrum antipathogen for use in tropical hospitals. We have introduced Diablostolic, the first beta-blocker that not only reduces blood pressure with selective vasodilating but cleans plaque from the arteries. We have launched Vivacity, the only SSRI on the market that simultaneously lowers depression in adults and brings no risk of sexual dysfunction.

“I tell you, all of this did not happen overnight! Far from it! Hutmacher has dedicated itself, since my father founded the company in 1952, to rigorous research and partnerships with the top scientists in the world.”

Now came an aerial view of the Hutmacher campus in Delaware, lush and green and sparkling like a self-contained biosphere. Beautiful women in white lab coats smiled seductively at handsome men in white lab coats as they passed one another on paths glinting like diamonds.

“At our state-of-the-art research campus, we work with the best from MIT, Harvard, Stanford, the University of California, keeping ourselves on the cutting edge. Our product and device lines have established us at the forefront, and our scientific and marketing divisions are second to none. Our nose for acquisitions is second to none!”

Paul listened in thrall, vibrating with the man’s power and self-possession, imagining himself walking those glimmering paths. His already inflated stock in Cloris soared. You were made of platinum if you had genes from a man like that. You could slay dragons and command armies. The destiny of the world could be shaped in your hands like putty. Music swelled and applause brought the loop back to the start, and he realized he’d been holding a hand to his heart.

An exec in gray sharkskin approached, arm outstretched with golden company cuff links. “Dr. Vreeland? I’m Carter Locke, VP Sales with Hutmacher. We want some photos with you by the product, and we’ve got a reporter here from Channel Eight, then we hope you’ll join us for our red carpet after-party in the Bonfire Room.”

“Bring it on,” Paul said.

“Here’s a list of your talking points. Focus on the breakout success of your product overseas and how favorable your dealings have been with Hutmacher.” He slapped a sheet of paper into Paul’s hands.

“Wait, um, there’s been a mistake. The device isn’t on the market yet.”

“Hello?” said Locke, indicating a pyramid of toaster-sized boxes. “Wake up and smell the roses, Dr. Vreeland.”

** Pneumatic TURBO Skull Punch **

Versatile Pneumatic TURBO Skull Punch well suited to a range of hole-punching operations.

Features: * Automatically adjusted depth control * Automatic plug ejection * Two-hand pneumatic activation * Quick-change base * Centering plate with shield * Quick-shaving razor * Hypodermic syringe

Pneumatic TURBO Skull Punch is a safe and versatile solution to field craniectomy and TBI prevention!

Paul approached the heap, grabbed a box, tore it down the middle.

If they had finished the trial and gotten FDA approval, this would have been a moment to celebrate, a moment to jump and shout. But there was no FDA approval. He had not finished the trial. Obtaining FDA approval was the goal he had been working toward, approval in general something he yearned for because, well, because it would finally be based on all the hard work approval is supposed to be based on. Not on hurried, coaxed, prettified, or accidental results that stood in for the real thing because the real thing had not come in a timely fashion, like other results Paul had turned in. What had Hutmacher done?

The Channel 8 reporter was on him all at once, the cameraman’s light blinding him.

[Never-seen clip from Channel 8 news archives]:

Reporter: Dr. Vreeland is currently directing clinical trials at Greenslopes, the VA in Menlo Park, and is the mind behind what Hutmacher and other industry insiders are calling the greatest contribution to warfighter injuries in years. Tell us about the Pneumatic Turbo Skull Punch, Dr. Vreeland.

Paul: (Paul is holding his hands up, blocking the camera.) I’m not doing this.

Reporter: We know this is huge in the military arena. Are there any nonmilitary uses planned for the PTSP? Will paramedics be carrying the Pneumatic Turbo Skull Punch in every ambulance in the future?

Paul: I’m going to walk away now.

Reporter: What’s wrong with this guy?

When Paul found Carter Locke, “Are you kidding me?” was all Carter Locke could say. “Jesus, get a grip!” He was trying to tell Carter Locke the truth, but Carter Locke put his hands down on the device, Carter Locke told him to shut the fuck up, Carter Locke was treating him like a heckler, Carter Locke asked some other Hutmacher flunky to take him outside, Paul was telling the flunky to get his hands off of him, Paul was then surrounded by two flunkies, one on each arm, escorting him past the entry point, stripping him of his lanyard, telling the door people he was not to be allowed back in, shoving him into the lobby, making him spin.

At that moment he heard his name. Stepping off the top of the escalator was Cloris Hutmacher. The boy he’d seen months before on Cloris’s monitor, with his round, freckly face, appeared behind her.

“Cloris.”

“Paul! What luck finding you right away. This is my son, Morris, Paul. He’s been so eager to meet you.”

“I know all about your experiment and the simulator room,” Morris said. “Ask me what I know!”

The boy’s face radiated so much admiration, Paul was forced to speak with a civil tongue. “What do you know?” he managed.

“It’s so awesome! It’s like a city, with buildings and windows for snipers, and there’s a road going by with IEDs all over. There’s a box in the control booth to set off sniper fire or explode the IEDs and let out smoke, and there’s a switch to change the lighting to make it night, or make shadows like it’s sunset, and the sound system can make traffic noises or helicopter noises, and Robbie’s going to let me try it.”

“Who’s Robbie?” Paul asked, confused.

“Robbie’s a sound technician from THX. THX is part of Lucasfilm. It’s awesome!”

“He’s going to let you play with a multimillion-dollar simulator belonging to the military. That’s great. Cloris? We need to talk.”

Morris promptly sat on the floor, battling cyborgs on his phone. They stood aside.

“It’s about my device,” Paul whispered.

“For men it always is.” She smiled.

Oh, he could strangle her. “My device is packaged, Cloris. I’ve just been told it’s out there, that it’s already being shipped. Tell me this is a mistake. Please.”

“I have some very exciting news, Paul.” She placed a finger on his lips. “Shhh. Shhh.” And she whispered that a purchase order from the Department of Defense was obviously the biggest prize in the business. In addition to licensing in the developing countries, Hutmacher had successfully placed the Pneumatic Turbo Skull Punch on every current DOD purchase order in the system.

“I haven’t finished the trial,” Paul said hoarsely.

“Paul. Listen to me.” She glanced across the space at Morris, who was now standing by the entrance. He yelled, “I’m tired of waiting,” and ran into the conference hall. “Bradley Richter. You met Bradley in Washington. Do you remember Bradley Richter?”

“What about him?”

Cloris spoke quietly, but her eyes sparkled. “Bradley is retiring next month, after thirty years of service to the Department of Defense and the USAMMA.”

“So?”

“Paul. You’re not thinking straight. We’re not talking about the difference of a few hundred units. Do you understand?”

“No, I don’t. We have not performed the final step in the trial on live subjects. It’s crucial.”

“Paul, it’s all taken care of. You have nothing to worry about. We were able to use the Animal Rule.”

Paul’s head began to throb. The Animal Rule was a post-9/11 countermeasure for getting FDA approval fast, forgoing trials on humans, as with the snap approval of antidotes for anthrax poisoning. Using it this way was beyond a stretch.

“No way. It’s not necessary.”

“But it was, Paul.”

“We’re all set up to test! There’s no emergency, there’s no justification—”

“I dare you to tell the troops who are receiving brain injuries every day that there’s no emergency.”

He asked, “When did you submit it? Did you use my research from Stanford?”

“What else? Of course we did. It’s brilliant research. You presented it to us, everything we needed was there.”

“What about the simulator, what about the volunteers?”

“Paul, the volunteers can go home now. Nobody’s going to complain.”

“We have to make sure it works!”

“We’ve ended up exactly where we want to end up. Now let’s go inside and show it off and make everybody crazy with envy that it’s ours!”

“I can’t go along with this. We have to test the blade on live subjects. I’ve added a new sensor that needs to be integrated into the design. Cloris!”

At that moment, Morris ran out of the cavernous hall, wielding a unit of Paul’s device, aiming it at them like a pistol.

“Put that down!” Paul yelled. “Take that away from him, it’s very dangerous.”

“Paul,” she said, looking back at him. “The world keeps spinning. Hold on, or you might fall off.”

She took Morris by the shoulder, and proceeded into the marketplace.