Floy's anality would have impressed even Sigmund Freud
Michael Estabrook
My boss, when I worked
a year and a half at Ives Laboratories
was Floy Estes, and he loved The Company,
was so grateful for the opportunity
to wear a suit and tie to work,
and proud of his professional status in
the Medical Community.
He had worked hard
making his way up through the ranks
from Detailman to
Hospital Rep and finally to District
Sales Manager, and he did it all because
he was so organized. ('Organization
is the key to success I always say.')
His company car was
neat and clean, trunk spotless,
boxes of product 'literature' and samples
of Synalgos, Isordil,
and Cyclospasmol arranged in nice,
tidy rows, and wedged-in
so they wouldn't move around as
the car moved around. His street maps were
neatly folded in the glove compartment,
doctor's offices marked with little red X's,
pharmacies in green and hospitals
in blue. Floy
had a folder for everything
you could imagine (even a folder to keep
empty folders in), each with a neatly
typed label. And to illustrate
everything he said he told an incredibly
long-winded story in his completely
monotonal voice about
his old Uncle Clyde going senile
down on the family farm.
But he didn't have a folder ready,
and neither he nor his bonehead Uncle Clyde
knew what to say the time
I met him
for lunch at the Esquire Diner
over on Route 4 in Middletown, New York,
and told him in a rather breathless voice
that I was quitting The Company
to go paint houses
with my brother Todd.
