Less Than Hero Read online

  When the train pulls into the Essex Street station, Cue Ball’s skin has turned bright red and blotchy, and he’s covered in hives. No one offers him any comfort or sympathy, not even Cornrows or Soul Patch, who have retreated to the other end of the subway car as if their buddy is a nuclear bomb.

  The doors slide open and all the passengers scramble out of the car as fast as they can, including Randy and me. Even Cornrows and Soul Patch make themselves scarce in a hurry, leaving Cue Ball behind to deal with his own shit.

  “Hey!” he shouts. “Hey, man! Someone fuckin’ help me!”

  As we head for the exit, Randy says, “What the hell do you think happened to him?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, checking my hands and arms. “Whatever it is, I hope it’s not contagious.”

  “No doubt,” Randy says. “Hey, speaking of contagious, did I tell you about the receptionist at the med-lab facility in Brooklyn?”

  I’m a professional guinea pig.

  I take generic painkillers, heart medications, antidepressants, and other experimental drugs being developed and tested for consumer use.

  Drugs for ADHD, insomnia, and urinary tract infections.

  Drugs for schizophrenia, impotence, and Parkinson’s disease.

  Drugs with names like clonazepam and naproxen and Adderall.

  Not exactly something you go to college for, or intern at a prestigious law firm to gain experience as, or dream of being when you’re a kid.

  “What do you want to be when you grow up, Lloyd?”

  “I want to test drugs that might make me vomit or experience uncontrollable flatulence.”

  This is why they have high school guidance counselors. Someone to give you direction and a sense of purpose. Someone to help you come up with a plan for a future that doesn’t involve selling yourself for medical research or starring in bad porn. Not that I’ve ever had sex for money, but sometimes you do what you have to do in order to make ends meet.

  And sometimes you end up doing it for so long that you can’t figure out how to stop.

  Most prescription drugs go through three trial phases before they hit the market. In Phase I, experimental drugs and treatments are tested on more or less healthy subjects in order to determine efficacy and study possible side effects. Phase II clinical trials deal with dosing requirements and effectiveness, while Phase III trials involve test subjects who suffer from the condition the new drug intends to treat.

  I’m in the first category.

  Over the last five years, I’ve participated in over 150 clinical trials. During that time, I’ve consumed chemically enhanced sports drinks, been given pills laced with radioactive tracers, had extensive X-rays, worn a twenty-four-hour catheter, and taken a medication that turned my sweat and urine a bright, fluorescent orange.

  I was like a human highlighter pen.

  While test subjects in Phase III trials often enroll in a study in order to gain access to a new drug that might help them, healthy guinea pigs in Phase I trials can’t expect any medical benefits from the drugs we’re testing. And every time we volunteer, we take a risk that something might go wrong.

  I suppose no matter what you do for a living, there’s always a chance something might go wrong. You could get hit by a bus. Or suffer a brain aneurysm. Or have a gas main blow up beneath your cubicle.

  You never know what wonderful surprises life has in store.

  But chances are, when most people go to work, they don’t have to worry that their jobs might lead to multiple organ failure. Or cause permanent damage to their immune systems. Or result in the amputation of their fingers and toes.

  These aren’t hypothetical worst-case scenarios. This is what happened to half a dozen guinea pigs who participated in a study for a prospective treatment for rheumatoid arthritis and leukemia.

  So yeah, shit happens. But sometimes life provides options you never thought you’d have to take, so you take them in spite of the risks. Plus it’s not like I’m volunteering just to accumulate a bunch of karmic brownie points.

  In a typical month I make over $3,000, sometimes twice that, but I’ve never made less than $2,000. Generic testing studies usually take place over a couple of weekends and pay anywhere from $600 to $2,000. One time I took home $5,000 for a study on a new prostate drug, but I had to spend two weeks in a research dorm getting prodded by lubricated index fingers. Another time I was paid $4,500 for a twenty-eight-day sleep deprivation study. While I only received $500 for a one-week Paleolithic diet study, it didn’t require a washout, which is the thirty-day waiting period required between some studies to make sure you don’t have any drugs in your system that might impact test results.

  This is presuming guinea pigs tell the truth about the drugs we’ve tested. Since there’s no shared database among all of the various research companies to keep track of who’s volunteering how many times a year, most of us bounce from one research facility to another to maximize our earnings.

  While honesty may be the best policy, it doesn’t always help to pay the rent.

  The best-paying studies are lockdowns: inpatient trials that require volunteers to check into a research facility for several days or weeks. That way, researchers can control diet, check blood and urine on a regular basis, and monitor medical status around the clock.

  I’m not a big fan of lockdowns. One, I can’t stand institutional food. And two, you usually end up rooming with other guinea pigs, not all of whom are people you want to be around for two weeks in a row, 24/7.

  But the money is hard to turn down.

  A few weeks ago, Randy and I and five other guinea pigs we know each earned a $3,300 paycheck for taking part in a twenty-two-day lockdown in which we were tested to see how multiple drugs interacted with one another. The drugs, which have already been approved by the FDA, are used to treat schizophrenia, depression, and bipolar disorder.

  A lot of these drugs I’ve tested—the ones that have already passed the final stage of clinical trials and are now legally available by prescription and advertised on television—come with a host of common side effects in addition to their advertised health benefits.

  Diarrhea. Nausea. Vomiting.

  These are the less serious side effects. The ones that don’t require you to call your doctor or make you wonder if it’s too late to take out life insurance.

  But then there are the more serious side effects, the ones you hear rattled off on a commercial like a contest disclaimer.

  May cause seizures. May cause loss of consciousness. May cause severe or persistent cramps. Only one entry per household. Must be eighteen or over to be eligible. Residents of California and Arizona must pay sales tax.

  Then there are the drugs that actually cause the very problem they’re supposed to be treating.

  Drugs to treat diarrhea that can cause diarrhea. Drugs for sleep disorders that can cause insomnia. Drugs to combat depression that can cause suicidal thoughts.

  One drug—an anti-inflammatory taken for arthritis, tendinitis, bursitis, gout, and menstrual cramps—suggests that you stop taking the medication and seek immediate medical attention if you experience any of the following:

  Slurred speech.

  Blistering or peeling of the skin.

  Coughing up blood or vomit that looks like coffee grounds.

  There’s more, including jaundice, bloody stool, numbness, and chills. But if I’m having trouble speaking and my skin is blistering and I’m throwing up something that has the consistency of Starbucks Breakfast Blend, I’m thinking maybe this drug needs to be taken off the shelves.

  It makes you wonder how something like this gets approved by the FDA while the federal government continues to debate the benefits of medical marijuana.

  Still, the safety of these drugs is dependent upon a pool of willing volunteers who have a lot of time to spare. This isn’t something computer engineers or college professors or lawyers or CEOs or members of Congress do. This is something the poor, uneducated, and desperate do,
so that others who can afford it get new and improved drugs.

  We’re like pharmaceutical soldiers, fighting on the front lines of medical science to defend your right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of antidepressants.

  Anyone else sign up for the lidocaine spray trial?” I ask.

  I’m at Caffe Reggio with Randy, Frank, Charlie, and Vic. We get together once every month or so to share information on clinical trials and the companies who run them. Guinea-pigging can be a lonely existence, so it’s nice to have a support group of your peers to help navigate the waters of clinical trials. We’re kind of like our own little brood. A family of professional slackers living on the fringe of acceptable employment.

  “Is that the study on premature ejaculation?” Charlie asks. “The one where they numb your penis?”

  “Don’t say penis,” Vic says. “It makes you sound like my mother.”

  Charlie is a twenty-four-year-old high-school dropout with freckles and red hair that has never met a hairbrush, while Vic is a former middle-school math teacher with a shaved head and black Ray-Ban prescription glasses that make him look like the offspring of Mr. Clean and Buddy Holly.

  “What should I say instead of penis?” Charlie asks.

  “I don’t know,” Vic says. “How about cock or dick?”

  “Okay,” Charlie says. “Then you’re a dick.”

  Charlie and Vic are like a married couple who are always getting on each other’s nerves. It would make sense if they were gay, but they’re not. At least not openly. Still, sometimes I wish they’d go to couples counseling.

  “Maybe you should sign up for the trial,” Vic says. “Give them some pointers on premature ejaculation.”

  “I don’t have a problem with premature ejaculation,” Charlie says, without much conviction.

  Charlie dropped out of high school after his junior year to take care of his father and stepmother, both of whom had developed lung cancer. His father lasted another year, leaving his estate to Charlie’s stepmother, who died before she could update her will, so everything passed on to Charlie’s stepsister, leaving him with nothing. After flipping burgers and delivering pizzas for a few months, Charlie volunteered for a one-week study on antiseizure medication for $1,500 and has been guinea-pigging ever since.

  “Who’s behind the lidocaine spray trial?” Randy asks.

  “Covance,” I say.

  Trials for new drugs used to be held at universities, which tended to conduct their research in a deliberate fashion. When the universities couldn’t keep pace with the growing financial pressures to bring drugs to market faster, pharmaceutical companies moved most of their clinical trials to the private sector, creating contract research organizations that specialize in drug studies. And they’re always looking for healthy test subjects—more than ten million in any given year.

  “I got disqualified from one of their trials,” Charlie says. “They told me my cholesterol count was too high.”

  “What was your diet like the week before the test?” Frank asks. “Did you eat a lot of foods high in salt or saturated fats?”

  “I don’t know,” Charlie says. “I don’t remember.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Frank takes a bite of his cannoli. “You either know or you don’t. Jesus, Charlie. Don’t you keep track of what you’re eating?”

  Frank, our stocky guinea pig patriarch with a receding hairline and a fluctuating waistline, is always telling us to pay attention to everything we put into our bodies, since it can have an impact on our livelihood. He takes being a guinea pig very seriously.

  “I try to keep track,” Charlie says, looking like a scolded puppy. “But sometimes I get distracted.”

  “Excuses are the currency of the weak-willed,” Frank says. “Take responsibility for your actions, Charlie. No one owns them but you.”

  Frank had a business with his former wife selling her artwork out of their home in Queens. When she filed for divorce, she kept the business and the house and Frank got a severance package. Out of a job, a home, and a marriage, Frank took a ride on the depression train from Burger King to Dunkin’ Donuts to the Aqueduct Racetrack, where he lost his entire divorce settlement. Facing homelessness, he signed up for a four-week gastrointestinal disorder study that gave him room and board for a month and paid him $3,200. The rest, as they say, is history.

  “Have you gained weight?” asks Vic.

  “What the hell does my weight have to do with Charlie’s inability to keep track of what he’s eating?” Frank says.

  While Frank’s always been a little on the before side when it comes to his weight, he does look like he’s packed on a few extra pounds.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be so hard on Charlie,” Randy says.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t bother to take pride in what you do.” Frank stuffs another bite of cannoli into his mouth.

  Frank seems to be a little more irritable than usual, although he’s not the only one who runs low on a sense of humor every now and then. When you spend your existence taking experimental prescription drugs that give you headaches and constipation and insomnia, irritability is just a comment away.

  “So is Frank being more of a dick or a cock?” I ask.

  “It’s a matter of semantics,” Vic says. “A personal choice, really. It just depends on what you’re comfortable with.”

  “Yeah, well,” Frank says, “I’m comfortable with the both of you kissing my ass.”

  “Speaking of kissing asses,” Randy says. “I hooked up with that hot phlebotomist from the research facility over by Murray Hill.”

  “You mean Megan?” I ask. “The redhead?”

  “That’s the one.” Randy leans back in his chair with his hands behind his head, the proud purveyor of promiscuity. “I ran into her at Billymark’s West and we started talking and drinking and doing shots of Jägermeister. The next thing I know, we’re back at her place and she totally lets me Led Zeppelin her.”

  “What does that mean?” Charlie asks.

  “You know,” Randy says. “In through the out door.”

  Frank throws his fork down on the table. “Great. Now I can’t eat the rest of my cannoli.”

  “You can also call it the Pink Floyd,” Randy says.

  “Because you’re comfortably numb?” I ask.

  Randy rolls his eyes. “No. Because you’re going to the dark side of the moon.”

  “Of course,” I say.

  Charlie looks around the table. “What’s in through the out door?”

  “That reminds me,” Vic says, adjusting his glasses. “The Bauer Research Facility in Newark has a serious issue with fecal matter.”

  And the conversation turns back to business.

  Vic taught math in middle school for seven years until he got fed up with a bunch of bureaucratic policies that handcuffed his ability to actually teach, so he offered to beat some sense into his new principal. It didn’t matter that Vic never physically touched anyone. The fact that he threatened his boss was enough to get him fired. While criminal assault charges were eventually dismissed, none of the school districts in New York or New Jersey wanted anything to do with him. Eventually Vic discovered the glamorous life of guinea-pigging.

  I met him a few years ago during a one-week lockdown to study the effects of several different antibiotics. Once the study was over, we went out for drinks to celebrate our payday. Vic brought along Randy, whom he’d known for about a year. Not long after that, Charlie and Frank joined the club.

  Sometimes Blaine and Isaac show up, expanding our number to seven, though they usually only make it to poker nights. More often than not, when we’re talking business, it’s just the five of us.

  “When’s the next poker game?” Charlie asks.

  “We’ll get to that in a minute,” Frank says, the patient father, his earlier rancor about Charlie’s lack of attention to detail forgotten. Or more likely shelved. Frank’s never far from his anger. He likes to keep it handy.

  All o
f us have been guinea pigs for at least five years, and over the past three we’ve met on a semi-regular basis to talk about recent and upcoming trials, comparing notes and grading clinics, factoring in variables such as the friendliness of the staff, how much they pay, and whether or not the receptionist and venipuncturist are hot. At least that’s one of Randy’s criteria.

  Randy blew out his knee playing pickup basketball six years ago. Since his injury wasn’t on the clock, neither of his part-time jobs—as a bouncer and working the counter at a liquor store—paid health insurance or unemployment. While he received some temporary disability payments, they weren’t enough to cover his rent. When his medical bills piled up and forced him to file for bankruptcy, one of his former coworkers told him there was easy money to be made volunteering for a testosterone study. After that, he was hooked.

  Once the business portion of the meeting is over, talk turns to poker night, which Charlie volunteers to host as Frank orders another cannoli.

  “You planning on leaving any for the rest of us?” Vic asks.

  Charlie laughs through a mouthful of cappuccino, which he sprays across the table.

  “Goddamn it, Charlie!” Frank says, wiping Charlie’s cappuccino off his face.

  “Don’t blame Charlie,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Vic says. “He’s not the one eating all the cannoli.”

  “Fine,” Frank shoves the plate away from him. “You want my cannoli? You can have my goddamned cannoli.”

  “I don’t want your cannoli,” Vic says.

  Charlie raises his hand. “Can I have your cannoli?”

  “Sure,” Frank says. “Have it all.”

  “Thanks!” Charlie says.

  While being a professional guinea pig wasn’t on my short list of dream jobs—which included professional golfer, travel writer, general manager of the Mets or Yankees, and Playboy photographer—it does offer a low-stress work environment and a flexible schedule with a minimum amount of responsibility. Plus I get to enjoy hanging out with a group of misfits like me and sharing moments like this.

  “Totally Simon and Garfunkel right now,” Randy says.