She gazes at her shoes. “I couldn’t decide between the Prada leather loafers or the Fendi Black Zucchinos.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about. I only know she’s late. “Really? Well, that kind of indecisiveness will cost you in business.”
“That’s okay. I’m not looking for business. I’m looking for a husband. Do you know what kind of MBAs hang in libraries? The kind who like Pradas or Fendis? Or should I be wearing Cole Haan?”
“I wouldn’t have a clue.”
“That sucks. I thought I was going to learn something from you. The way Osaka raves about you, you’d think you were Card Captor Sakura or something.”
“Who?”
“Whatever.”
“Here’s something to learn, Eve. I don’t get caught up in appearances and I’m not obsessed by…stuff. We’re here to enhance life by creating products, services and experiences, not fill it with competitive junk.”
“Are you saying my Mac lipstick is junk?”
“Let’s just say, I don’t need it.”
She glances at me in my khaki pants, white T-shirt, baseball cap and running shoes, and blurts, “Well, for someone who fits all the requirements of a modern-day woman, you sure do make a horrible consumer.”
“Yes, I know. Now come on, I’ve got an assignment for you to do.”
“Assignment? I thought I was supposed to watch you do your thing.”
“I’m of the constructivist school of thought—learn by experience, experience by doing. Come on.” I start for the library when Eve plants her Pradas or Fendis or whatever they are in the ground.
“I need a latte first,” she whines. “Starbucks only. Besides, that’s where all the smart guys go…isn’t it? Or do they go to the Coffee Bean…or is it Caribou?”
I sigh. “Do you know how much lattes cost over time? Like, five lattes a week in the course of a month?”
Eve looks at me disdainfully. “Excuse me, but math is not my major.”
“You’ve got statistics to pass, don’t you?” She swallows hard and nods. I continue. “One latte a day, five days a week is approximately eighty dollars a month, which comes to $960 a year. In your world, that’s two-point-five pairs of Prada shoes a year or fifty Prada shoes every twenty years.”
“No way,” she says, impressed.
“Yes, way. Of course, in my world, with dollar-cost averaging in the stock market, that’s nearly one million dollars over twenty years, the equivalent of two thousand pairs of Prada shoes.”
Eve’s jaw drops in astonishment. Any moment and I think she’s going to start to salivate with Prada envy. Now that I’ve got her full attention, I head inside the library, and this time she follows in silence as her student card opens the door for all my immediate needs. I find two empty computers next to each other. I sit down and start typing while Eve scopes the place.
“How are you supposed to meet guys here if you can’t talk?” she whispers.
I roll my eyes. “You meet them in class after saying something intelligent from what you learned in here.”
She looks dubiously at me. “Really?”
“Do you mind? I’m trying to put together an industry map. I need to gather information,” I whisper. “So I can attract VC money.”
“What’s VC?”
“Venture capitalist.”
“That sounds sexy.” She peers at our surroundings. “Well, you won’t get much help from the librarian. She’s rubbing her temples. It’s either a migraine or a hangover. I’d say hangover, because she definitely looks dehydrated.”
“Eve. How badly do you need those credits?” I ask.
She sighs and sits down, crossing her arms and legs. “Okay.”
“I need you to find information about funerals.”
She gives me a strange look. “They’re boring and it’s impossible to wear all black and stand out in a crowd that’s wearing the same thing. And…it’s a challenge not to mess up your makeup. Those tears get in the way. Someone should invent funeral mascara. What else do you need to know?”
“Facts and figures, please, not a treatise on funeral fashion. Find out everything you can about funeral homes—how many are in the U.S., the average number of funeral services per year, their average cost, anything with numbers attached to it.”
“You just had to throw in statistics, didn’t you.” She sighs and takes a notebook out of her Prada knapsack, gets online and starts typing, one finger at a time.
While Eve gets to work I do my own digging. I quickly discover the difference between an “at time of need” client and a “pre-need” client. “Time of need” clients are people who have just lost a loved one and are in need of funeral arrangements on an immediate basis. Pre-need clients are people who wish to plan in advance. Based on this information it’s clear to me that Lights Out Enterprises needs to be designed primarily around the affluent pre-need client.
In addition, the numbers point to an increase in preplanning and prepayment of funerals with a huge increase in cremation, which in turn results in less usage of funeral homes to conduct a service, because for the most part, people opting-in on cremation are tending to opt-out on any accompanying services. That’s where I come in. As with my rollerskating shows at the age of six and the elaborate pranks I designed in college, I realize what I have to offer are creative experiences.
And if I can design customized funeral events that can be reproduced and still maintain personalization, then I’ll have something marketable and meaningful. The goal is to shift the pain of grief into the context of a life celebration while honoring the memory of the departed. I break down the elements to include event planning and life bio videos with a list of strategic partners and outside vendors.
Strategic Partners
Funeral Homes, Cemeteries/Green Burial Grounds
Strategic Alliances
Anthropologist-Mythologist
Technicians
TelePrompTers
Caterers & Restaurants = Designer Chefs
Digital Photographers
Fabric Associations
Floral Arrangers
Gravestone Companies
Graphic Designers
Lighting Designers
Music Production Libraries/Soundtrack
Libraries/Composers
Party Stores Prop & Costume Stores
Signage-Banner Companies
Specialty Transportation Services
Tent Companies
Travel Agencies
Video-DVD production companies
Web Designers
Eve announces, “I’m done.”
“You’re done?” I’m afraid to find out what she’s possibly retrieved in such a short time. “Okay, what have you got?”
She rattles off her findings with aplomb. “There are approximately twenty-eight thousand funeral homes in the United States with an average of two hundred services per year. Most are multigenerational family-owned businesses with a handful of major corporations who own consortiums of funeral homes and graveside cemeteries that are publicly traded on the stock market. Also, in the year 2000, there were approximately two-point-five million deaths in the United States with an average burial cost of five thousand dollars for an adult funeral.”
I am impressed. “How did you memorize all that?”
“I’m an actress,” she replies. She says it as fact.
“Then why are you in business school?”
“My father doesn’t believe in the arts. And I believe in husbands as patrons.”
“You seem very clear on your goals.”
“Very,” she says. “Would you like to hear more?”
“Please. Orate away.”
She clears her throat and with dramatic flair continues. “According to a central advocacy organization for funeral directors nationwide, not only is there an increase in women and minorities entering the funeral service profession but immigration trends point to an increasing variety of funeral customs.”
I make a mental note to research diversified funeral customs. “Anything else?”
“No. But I can’t believe there’s actually a convention for funeral home directors. Can you believe that?”
“There are conventions for everything, from consumer electronics, to book fairs, to plant growers. When is it?”
“In two weeks. In Las Vegas.”
I smile. For once my timing is perfect. “Excellent,” I say. I pull a sheet of paper from my briefcase.
“Am I allowed to ask questions?”
“Not at this time,” I say. “Now I need you to sign this NDA. And next time we meet, I want a one-page mission statement from you, worth five points, depending on how clear and concise it’s written.”
She whines, “You’re giving me homework?”
I nod and hand her the paper. She stares at it.
“What’s that?”
“My insurance policy, so you won’t share this information with anyone. Not even Professor Osaka.” She gives me a funny look. “NDA is an acronym for Nondisclosure Agreement. That means everything between us is confidential.” She looks it over, purposely vacillating, her pen in the air. “So that you can eventually get those internship credits,” I add. She smiles and signs. “Great.” I take back the signed paper. “E-mail me that research and I’ll e-mail you when and where we’ll meet next. Good job, Eve. You surprised me.”
“If that’s all it takes, you should see me on stage.”
“Yes, well, in the meantime, instead of studying lines, I want you to study the Financial Street Journal, every day.”
“What’s that?”
I roll my eyes. “Oy” is all I can say, and I hand her my copy.
I feel the pressure of a ticking clock—one I devised for myself out of desperation to become a successful member of America’s capitalist society. Even more so, because I’m determined to pay Uncle Sam back as soon as possible with interest.
I stand in line at the deli for take-out that’ll last two days. There isn’t a moment to spare.
Two elderly gentlemen converse in a nearby booth. Their wrinkles are tanned and they both wear white tennis garb. Corned beef sandwiches and bowls of matzo ball soup sit on the tabletop between them.
“Which one you going to do?” asks the fellow wearing glasses.
“Ah, come on, Walter. Do I have to think about that now? I’d rather eat in peace and schedule our next game,” replies his tennis partner.
“What? You think you’re going to age backwards?”
“Okay, okay, what are you doing?”
“Cremation.”
“Cremation? That’s against Judaism.”
“Yeah? Well, Judaism ain’t paying for a casket. And they aren’t cheap, let me tell you. I’ve been looking into it. And I’d rather have my money go to my kids than four slabs of finished mahogany that’s gonna rot underground.”
“You’re not sick, are you?”
“Clean bill of health. But they’ve got enough to deal with. Between my autistic grandchild and paying their rent, the last thing they need is to deal with my death, may it be years from now. Besides, it’s done. I already paid for it.”
“You prepaid? Why?”
“To beat inflation, and I found a good deal. A thousand dollars covers it all, including the paperwork and the urn.”
“Paperwork? I thought we got to leave that behind.”
“Death certificates. Believe me—they get you any which way they can.” He chuckles. “Death may come, but taxes never die. On the other hand, the dead never age.”
His friend chuckles. “You’re too much. What about a service?”
Before I can hear his response I am interrupted by the white-hat-headed deli guy. “What will it be young lady?”
“Oh, um, one quart of matzo ball soup, three pieces of noodle kugel and a lemonade to go, please,” I reply, then quickly turn back, hoping to catch the rest of the conversation.
“Maddy! Maddy Banks!”
I look over and see Jonny Bright across the room, the venture capitalist whom I had approached with Artists International. He’s still as skinny, taut and wired as when I met him six months ago. He smiles at me, but something feels funny. I can’t quite put my finger on it. He rapidly motions for me to come over to where he’s sitting with a few good-looking guys.
I oblige. “Hi, Jonny.”
“How are you?” he exclaims, appearing to be genuinely happy to see me. “Everyone, this is Maddy Banks, entrepreneur on the rise. Maddy, these are some of my buddies from the firm, Bobby Garelik and Victor Winston. Maddy’s always got home-run ideas. She’s quite the efficient one.” Victor politely nods hello, while Bobby glances up between inhaling bites.
“Nice to meet you both,” I say. “I’m not just efficient, I’m also effective,” I add with a grin.
“Yeah, right. What’s the difference?” asks Jonny as a platitude, while cocking his mouth to load it with slices of brisket.
“Efficiency is about doing the thing right, effectiveness is about doing the right thing,” interjects Victor, the only one eating at a natural pace. Everything about him seems methodical and deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world. He adds,“It’s a pleasure meeting you, too. Did you study with Peter Drucker?”
“I couldn’t afford to, but I’ve read every one of his books.”
Victor casually glances at my hands.
“What about his credo,” Victor asks, “does it apply to all aspects of your life?”
“Professional for now. My mission statement is to get one business off the ground, then roll out the plan for my personal pursuits.”
“Interesting strategy,” Victor says.
“Hey, Mad. I saw what happened with your last endeavor. I’m really sorry about that art thing. You were so on the money, too,” says Jonny.
“Yeah, well, timing,” I utter. It’s all I can say without getting choked up.
“So when are you coming to pitch us some more of your ideas?” Jonny asks.
“Not for a while. I’m in stealth mode right now.”
“What sector are you in?” he asks, a little too eager and keen for my taste.
There’s a slight shift in his energy and I feel myself clam up in defense of something, but I’m not sure what. “Well, I’d rather not say at this time. I’m still in an embryonic position.”
“Wise move,” pipes in Bobby. “The girl certainly knows how to play the intrigue card,” he tosses out, unaware of the dollops of ketchup and mustard around his mouth.
Victor looks me over with a perspicacious glance and then quietly adds, “Something tells me this woman’s not playing at all.”
I look back at him, the weight of his words capturing my attention. The replacement of “girl” with “woman” is no accident. And there is, no doubt, a high dose of integrity attached to what he says, far surpassing the verbiage from his colleagues. “Well, when you hit your trimester, be sure to give me a call,” instructs Jonny. “I want first dibs on delivery. Promise me, Maddy.”
“Okay, I promise.” Then I pop the big question, because the serendipity of ideas crossing camps is too high for me to ignore. “Hey, Jonny, you don’t happen to know Derek Rogers, do you?”
He covers a sudden cough and wipes his hands clean on his napkin before answering. “In passing. Why? You think he pulled a copycat on you?”
I shrug. “I can’t help but wonder, you know.”
“It’s always like that,” says Bobby. “I get the same ten pitches on the same concept in the same week…without fail.”
“I wouldn’t sweat it, Banks,” adds Jonny.
“I guess you’re right. So, enjoy your lunch. See ya.” I walk over to the counter to collect my food. I glance back at the group. Jonny easily dominates the picture with his animated kinetics. I can still feel something amiss inside from talking with him. I wonder what it was that made me clam up, even though I don’t have time to figure that out right now as I cast my eyes around the deli, eag
er to find the two elderly tennis buddies. But they are clean gone; the booth they sat in has new occupants. As I pick up my take-out, I am left to wonder what kind of funeral service the man named Walter had planned, if any.
I sit in my apartment sipping lemonade and surfing the Web for a start-up deal for my new business. There’s a bundle for a DBA, Federal and state tax ID, business license, seller’s permit and domain name—which I buy. I set up an accounting system, open a bank account and obtain a company credit card. Next, I need a Web site and a hip, cool logo to breathe life into Lights Out. There’s only one person I trust for the job. I pull a business card from my wallet, remembering how White Mondays’ logo sparked a legend.
I call and a young lady answers,“Candelabra Productions, may I help you?”
“Sierra D’Asanti,” I say. “It’s Madison Banks from Los Angeles.”
In a moment, I hear a sweet, gentle voice ask, “Are you okay? Do you need to talk about Tara?” Concern dominates Sierra’s tone.
“No, no, it’s not that,” I reply, touched by her immediate concern. “I’m okay. I want to know if I can talk to you about becoming a strategic partner on a new business venture.”
“I’d be honored to.”
“But I haven’t even told you what it is.”
“Anything you do, I want in on.”
“Really?”
“You’re so funny, Madison. You’re the last one to see your potential. But I’ve always known it’s just a matter of time before you pop into entrepreneurial stardom. I’d like to be there when it happens. So whatever you’ve got going, count me in. Now, what’s the next step?”
“I need you to meet me in Vegas.”
“For?”
“A funeral convention.”
“When?” she asks, nonplussed by the topic.
“December first. I booked a room at the Hilton. I’m in major start-up mode, so are you okay sharing a room with me?”
“What do you think?”
“Okay. Can I reimburse you on your airfare in two months?”
“Of course. Just one question—are we paying homage to Tara with this new venture?”
The Funeral Planner Page 5
