Robbie had arranged with his supervisor to take the morning off so he could keep his appointment with the Oregon Research Center. They had asked him a dozen questions over the phone: “What is your blood pressure?” “Have you ever tried to kill yourself?” “Do you use illegal drugs?” He smoked pot every once in a while, but it had been weeks since the last time and they didn’t need to know about it. This morning he had another screening.
The research center was on 20th Avenue and Willamette, so it was an easy bike ride from his apartment near the University of Oregon campus. It drizzled lightly on the way, but he had rain gear and didn’t mind. If the weather got worse while he was in the clinic, he’d strap his bike to the front of a city bus and get to work from there. He liked to ride, but he wasn’t a martyr about it the way some people were.
The small two-story building looked new and Robbie didn’t recall seeing it before. Gray and uninviting with minimal windows. He locked his bike to a sturdy metal rack and went inside. The interior looked like a cross between a dentist’s office and the unemployment division: Plush carpeting and soft tones in the front and counseling cubes in the rear. He approached the receptionist and told her he had an appointment.
“For the depression trial? Excellent. Do you have a referring physician?” She had a friendly smile and didn’t sound like she grew up in Eugene. Robbie couldn’t place the accent.
“No. I work at Prolabs and saw a flyer in the lunchroom.”
“Excellent. One of the company’s own.” She handed him a clipboard with a thick stack of papers. “I need you to fill out this questionnaire. Then we’ll analyze your qualifications and let you know if you’re eligible. If you are, Dr. Lucent will give you a complete physical. Also, there’s a consent form in the back. Please read through it, but it isn’t necessary to sign it yet.”
“Okay.” Robbie wondered what would make him eligible or not. Did he have to be despondent? Or too poor to afford medication?
The paperwork took forty-five minutes. After completing a health history, the next section detailed the symptoms of depression: sadness or irritability, low energy, difficulty concentrating, insomnia, low self-esteem, loss of interest in social or physical activities. For each, he had to indicate how often he experienced the symptoms and how long the feelings lasted. Then the questions became more specific: Have you ever taken medicine for depression? Yep. He listed the other drug he’d taken and noted that he was using Zoloft now.
Have you ever had thoughts of killing yourself? Didn’t everybody? He had never acted on those feelings, so he hesitated to check yes. He figured this was one of the important questions that would determine eligibility. Were they looking for people with serious depression or were they screening out the extremes? He decided to be honest and checked yes. For frequency, he indicated occasionally. He finally flipped to the consent form, which went on for pages about side effects and liability. Robbie skimmed over it. They wouldn’t give people the drug if it wasn’t safe.
He returned the clipboard to the receptionist. She smiled. “If you’d like to wait, one of our clinicians will review this now to determine your eligibility.”
“If you’re going to run a credit check, I might as well leave now.”
She gave him a hearty laugh, which cheered him up considerably.
While he waited, Robbie stepped outside and smoked a cigarette. He’d picked up the habit in high school, and even though he had come to hate it as much as his parents did, he couldn’t quit. Every time he tried, he ended up too depressed to function. So he limited himself to five or so a day most of the time. Nicotine had a direct effect on brain chemicals, and his brain needed all the stimulus it could get.
It began to rain, so he tossed the butt into the wet bark and went back inside to wait. In a few minutes, a pretty woman in a white coat came out and called his name.
“Hi. I’m Dr. Lucent. I believe you’re eligible for this trial. Would you like to proceed?” She had nearly black hair, an easy smile, and reminded him a little bit of his mother.
“Sure.”
“Great. Let’s go back to my office and go over some information.”
Robbie followed her back to a small room that looked somewhat like a doctor’s examining area. She motioned him to sit and they spend about twenty minutes going over his answers to the depression questions. Dr. Lucent kept asking him to rate his feelings on a scale of one to ten. She jotted down his responses and, at the end, performed a calculation.
After a moment, she said, “The good news is that this is not a placebo trial. The sponsor is testing its investigational therapy, Nexapra, against the currently marketed therapy, Prozac. You will be taking one of the two, but you won’t know which one. Did you read the consent form?
“Yes.”
“Do you feel you have a thorough understanding of the possible side effects?”
“I’m familiar with antidepressants.”
“Do you have any questions about the medication or the trial?”
“When do I start the new drug?”
“In a few days. First, you need to sign the consent form, then I’ll give you a complete physical, including an electrocardiogram to make sure your heart is healthy. I’ll also draw some blood. We’ll test for illegal drug use, anemia, mineral imbalances, and such.”
The doctor crossed her legs and leaned forward. Robbie got a glimpse of cleavage and his blood responded.
“You’ll take home a two-week supply of therapy today,” she continued. “But you must stop taking your other medication for two days before you start. I’ll give you a journal to jot down your experiences every day. Please note your emotional feelings as well as any changes in physical health. Any questions?”
“No.” Robbie had barely been listening. Dr. Lucent was quite attractive.
The doctor handed him the clipboard with the final page of the consent form on top. Robbie signed it and handed it back. Dr. Lucent smiled brightly.
The blood pressure and heart rate check took five minutes, and the touch of Dr. Lucent’s hands made his heart pound a bit. The electrocardiogram took longer and made him appreciate how careful the researchers were to ensure the clinical trial didn’t harm anyone.
In the end, Dr. Lucent announced he was in fine health and retrieved a pharmacy bottle from a locked cabinet. The plain white container had a bar code and a lot number and nothing else.
“Be sure to come back for a new supply before your current supply runs out. It’s important not to miss a day.” She peered over her glasses to emphasize her point. “If you experience anything unusual or concerning, please call me right away.”
“I live on campus, I experience unusual things every day.”
Dr. Lucent smiled. “Seriously. Call me if you experience any mental or physical problems.”
“All right. See you in two weeks.”
It wasn’t raining when he left so Robbie rode his bike out West 18th toward Prolabs. The ride energized him. In fact, he felt pretty damn good. For a moment, he had second thoughts about changing medications. Then he remembered how excited his father had been about this drug when Prolabs’ scientists first started to test it. That was years ago, when Robbie still lived at home and his parents were still together. He had never seen his father look so happy, so sure of something. He might as well give the drug a try.
As he was pedaling down Prolabs’ driveway, a car came up beside him and slowed. Sula, the company’s PR person, stopped and chatted with him for a moment. He’d gotten to know her a little and liked her a lot. She was too old for him as a girl friend, plus she had a kid. Still, she seemed like someone he could count on as a friend.
Cricket stood outside the entrance to the city council meeting holding a big sign that read No Exceptions! on one side and Water Quality First! on the other. He’d arrived at city hall at six in the evening, and every person entering the special session had seen his message.
The land Prolabs wanted to build a new factory on was within the city limits and was designated wetlands. He knew the state land-use codes, and the property could not be developed by any party other than the city. Even the city was required to apply to the land-use commission for a re-designation. The rules were clear, but as usual, big business was trying to go around them.
Cricket accepted that he and his group might not be able to stop the Prolabs/JB Pharma expansion, but at least they could keep it from being too easy. Sometimes, if they threw up enough roadblocks, the corporate money suckers backed off and went looking for another opportunity.
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Cricket was enjoying himself. He smiled at everyone who had come out on this bright but cool evening to speak their minds. Groups of college students, middle-aged couples in matching Birkenstocks and sweaters, sweet old couples, who sometimes turned out to be not so sweet when they stood up and started expressing their views. And others like him, with dreadlocks and hemp clothes. He knew most of the natural folks – as he thought of them-from Saturday Market where he sold his handmade bongo drums and copper jewelry. Only three people from his Love the Earth group were here tonight. The rest had gone to Florence to protest a plan to build a Costco on ocean front property.
Most people smiled back. Some gave him thumbs-up gestures or peace signs. Ten minutes before the meeting was scheduled to start, Cricket moved down the steps, so he had a better view of passing traffic and they had a better view of him. He hoped to catch the attention of a TV reporter. A little news coverage could rally a lot of support.
Two men coming up the sidewalk caught his eye. They wore denim work shirts sporting political buttons that said: Jobs first! Cricket smiled and held out a pamphlet that outlined the environmental impact of chemical factories on wetlands. One man started to reach for it, then caught the words on Cricket’s sign. He abruptly pulled back.
“If you drink city water, you should read this.” Cricket spoke softly. He never preached and he never raised his voice in non-confrontational situations.
“No thanks.” They looked at him with disgust, then walked past. At least they hadn’t swore or spit at him, which happened sometimes.
A few minutes later, a white KRSL TV van pulled up in front of the wide steps. Trina Waterman, his favorite TV reporter, stepped out, followed by a cameraman. Cricket couldn’t believe his luck. He moved into the center of the steps. The young blond reporter and the camera guy both looked at him, then at each other, then shrugged. Trina, particularly pretty in a pale blue suit, motioned him to come down.
Cricket practiced what he would say as they set up for the shot. Then Trina asked his name.
“Cricket.”
“Just Cricket?”
“Yep. I’m with Love the Earth, a Eugene-based environmental group dedicated to keeping the water supply clean.”
Speaking toward the camera, Trina gave a brief background about Prolabs’ plans and the special council meeting. Then she gave Cricket’s name and affiliation before asking, “Why do you oppose this development?” She held the microphone out to him.
Cricket was ready. “First, it’s illegal. The land is zoned for preservation and only the city can change that. Second, Prolabs wants to build a chemical factory. Yes, they call them pharmaceuticals, but they’re still chemicals. And those chemicals leech into our water supply during the manufacturing process. They also enter our water supply through human use. In some places, there’s so much estrogen and progestin in the water from discarded birth control that the fish and frogs are all becoming one sex and can no longer reproduce. In fact-”
Trina abruptly pulled the microphone away. “Thank you.” She and the cameraman picked up their goods, then went around him and up the stairs. Cricket was so happy he would have done a little dance had he not been holding a heavy sign. She would probably edit out half of what he said, but that was okay. People who watched the news at eleven would think about the water supply. That made his day worthwhile.
It was only the beginning though. His group planned to fight Prolabs’ development with everything they had. To be effective, they had to act now. They also had to get the attention of the media every time they staged a protest.