“Let’s just say the lack of meaning at her funeral was a catalyst.”
A long pause follows as we both take a moment.
Sierra quietly adds,“I’m looking forward to this, Maddy.”
“Me, too.”
One hour later I’m standing in the empty lobby of a law firm in Santa Monica. I look at my watch. She’s late again. Impatient, I pull out my FSJ. There’s an article on gender-swapping roles in wedding parties. Apparently, the title of bridesmaid is expanding to bridesfriend and best man to best woman, making room for brides and grooms who wish to include close friends of opposite gender in the gig.
I hear a succession of clomping heels followed by the sulky voice of Eve. “This better be good. Sales at Nordstrom don’t come around that often.”
I put the paper down and look at her, decked out in a potpourri of the latest fashion brands. “Do you have your mission statement?”
“It took a back seat to The Tempest.”
“Then let’s start with a quiz, shall we? Inspired by today’s FSJ.”
Her face sours. “Since when do internships include tests?”
I ignore the minipout. “For two points, what would the analogous role of best man in a wedding ceremony be to a funeral ritual?”
She scrunches up her lip, stumped. “This is totally irrelevant.”
“Come on, Eve, try to think in analogous terms.”
She sighs. “The florist, no—the undertaker. I don’t know, the pallbearer.”
“Excellent. Now find out if pallbearers are traditionally men only or open to gender swaps.” I hand her a manila folder. “And please proofread this and prepare the graphs and charts per my instructions inside. Thanks.” I start heading toward the elevator.
“Where are you going?”
“My attorney’s office. Todd Lake.”
“Like that?”
I look at my army pants, vintage Nikes, white blouse and baseball hat. “What’s wrong? I’m in L.A., the everything-goes place.”
“Everything,” she says. “Look, you may know content, but I know presentation. I’m sure you’re going up there to engage in some form of tit-for-tat, so why not use appeal to do some of the work for you. At least let me fix your hair and makeup.”
I did need something from Todd—legal advice on the cheap. I check out Eve; she has a point. “Okay.”
“That will be for three points,” she tells me, dangling her Prada makeup bag in front of me.
“Nice,” I say.
Eve performs a quick makeover on me in the lobby restroom and I’m good to go.
Todd Lake, lawyer, husband, father of four, greets me in his office. He is handsome, kind, stable, and the only guy I trust in the city.
“You look great, Maddy. Really great. What’s different? New hairdo?”
“More like new intern.”
“So what can I do for you?”
“I need to register a trademark for my new company and find out if I should incorporate in California or elsewhere, since the business will operate on a national level.”
“Your accountant can tell you the best place to incorporate and we have a division here that can take care of the trademark paperwork for you—”
“Can we do it on a percentage basis, Todd?” I nervously ask. “There’s no way I can afford your hourly rate.”
“Don’t worry about it, Maddy. Just keep me posted on the details of your project every once in a while and we’ll call it even.”
“It’s a deal.” I hand over the paperwork for Lights Out Enterprises.
“Are you going to tell me what your new venture is about?”
“After I finalize the business plan in Vegas.”
“Vegas? You’re not opening a casino, are you?”
“Me? I’ve never touched a slot machine. Besides, you know me better than that—I gamble with concepts, not cash.” I offer a wry smile. “By the way, what’s the thing you like least about funerals?”
“No food. No water. And they’re gloomy.”
“And your positive slant? If there is one?”
“Connecting with friends and family…and it’s a reminder to appreciate my family more.” He pauses, suspiciously. “What are you up to, Maddy?”
My face is bright and eager. “I’ll keep you posted…and, Todd, thanks.”
I dash through traffic to my accountant’s office. A tall, thin, intense Stephen Picard leans across his desk, addressing me in his thick Australian accent. “I advise you to set this up as an LLC, Maddy, in Nevada. But we can look after it from here.” He stops and leans back in his chair, with a dubious expression on his face. “Maddy, what makes you so sure this is going to work?”
“I’ve got good instincts, Picard. So get ready. Because when it flies, I’m going to ask you to incorporate it into your clients’ estate planning.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” he says, studying me. “I like your determination. I hope it really works out for you…this time.”
I stare at him, frozen in place. I’m sick of trying so hard, sick of trying to convince others. “Please, drop the pity. I’m going to make it. Sometimes it takes longer for some of us than for others. If you don’t believe in me, tell me now so I can find an accountant who does.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says softly. “I have great respect for you, Madison. I’ve never seen anyone persevere more. But I do hate seeing you get hurt.”
“So do I, but I’ll just have to practice better risk management.” I gather my briefcase and notebook and walk out. Halfway down the hall, I stop to close my eyes, swallowing the tears of humiliation.
The funeral convention in Vegas resembles every other trade show with exhibitors displaying their wares from inside branded booths all crammed together in a large open space. Only, this one has a stable of high-end hearses and an endless variety of caskets ranging in color and price equivalent to the imagined distance between heaven and hell. If people are willing to spend twenty thousand on a casket, surely they’ll be willing to spend that much or more on the funeral experience itself.
My phone rings, so I flip it open. “This is Madison Banks.”
“Hi, my plane got in early. Where are you?”
I look over my surroundings. “Between a casket and a hearse.”
“Cute. I can tell this is going to be fun. Okay, I’ll find you in twenty.”
I hang up and graze the aisles, soaking up all the knowledge I can and keeping my eyes peeled for opportunities to enhance Lights Out. I come across rows of booths selling urns in all shapes and colors. One booth has a brick wall on display.
“You look perplexed, young lady,” says a thin, elderly gentleman standing behind a brochure-laden table.
“I’m not sure why you’re exhibiting a wall,” I remark.
He offers a knowing smile. “New to the funeral business?”
“Aside from limited funeral attendance, you’re it.”
“Let me guess. You’re the prodigal daughter returning home to take over the family business but know nothing of it because you’ve been studying abroad in…Europe. Am I right?”
Eager to validate his assessment, I reply, “Close enough.”
“Well, I’m glad to oblige you.” He hands me brochures and a business card. “These are columbariums. They’re pre-manufactured spaces inside of walls for standard-size urns.”
I’m fascinated by the multitude of choices in the funeral market. Who knew? I think. Another customer stops by and I skip over to the next aisle, wondering what other surprises are in store. There’s a booth displaying Memorial Comforters. A sweet salt-and-pepper-haired woman sits underneath the sign.
“Hi, I’m Madison Banks,” I say, reaching out to shake the woman’s hand. “These comforters are stunning.”
“They’re individually personalized, hand-woven ornamental cloths used during a ceremony of remembrance. They’re for decorating a casket or an urn. Or they can be used as a memorial gift.”
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�Would you be interested in a strategic alliance with my company?” I ask her. “I’ll need to know your product services and costs.”
She beams back excitedly. “Why, yes. Please sit down.”
We iron out a nonexclusive arrangement.
I walk the floor again, discovering a whole side market for pet funerals. Four aisles are solely designated for pet urns, pet caskets, different-size stones and rocks engraved with memorials to cats and dogs, and pet condolence cards.
Brilliant, I think, to capitalize on the thirty-billion-dollar pet industry.
I find a minibooth inside a larger booth arranged for the sole function of casket selling. Instead of showcasing full-length caskets, this company features multiple miniature caskets on show.
A vibrant sun-tanned man in his forties, dressed in a slick Armani suit, approaches me. “Can I help you?”
“Why is your casket display different from the others?”
“We want to minimize the discomfort and intimidation associated with average casket buying. Instead of offering customers a large room at a funeral home filled with imposing full-size caskets, we’ve strategically designed this booth. Here, the buyer is invited to explore the merchandise and know exactly what the cost options are. Go ahead, touch them all you want.”
I touch the displays like a kid in Lego Land. The more expensive model clearly has the highest quality of combed cotton inside. All in all, they look like little toy coffins, shiny and rich in texture. I realize it’s kind of fun and weird to stroke the finish and tug on the drawers where one’s private items go, like medals, jewelry and cell phones.
“How does the pricing work in relation to the display?” I ask.
“Take a look at the wall,” he explains. “Which quarter casket looks most expensive?”
I point to the one in the upper left corner.
“And which one looks least expensive?”
I point to the one in the lower right corner.
“That’s retail 101,” he explains. “Designing displays around the psychology of perception. We’ve integrated it into the casket-buying experience by offering funeral homes these movable casket display centers and movable gift shop centers where customers can buy condolence cards, guest book registries and memory boards. We also include a line of books and pamphlets on grieving and bereavement. Over here—”
He guides me to the movable gift shop before leaving to accommodate another prospective client.
“Hello, Maddy.”
I turn. Sierra stands there in her reliable serene repose, bearing a sly smile. She cocks her head toward the displays. “Casket choosing by skin tone?”
“Very funny. But I believe skin tone has a tendency to fade when you, uh, go.”
“Perhaps, but I believe the EnLighten Thee Makeup booth next door will fix that in a jiff. So what have you surmised so far?”
“That it won’t be long before it’s common practice to buy a casket at your local Costco or Wal-Mart. Only to be followed up with a line of designer caskets at Target. Can’t you see it? Architects and designers like Frank Gehry and Philippe Starck designing caskets. And if you want to take it further, I don’t think it’s too far-fetched to imagine Michael Jordan designing a line of afterlife running shoes for Nike. Worn by the deceased when their metaphorically speaking ‘soles’ take flight. What do you think a shoe designed for encounters of the afterlife-kind might look like?”
Sierra cannot stop laughing.
“You know what you are, Maddy? You’re a futurist. I’m looking forward to seeing what happens when the future catches up with you.”
“But then, wouldn’t I be on to the next future?”
“Perhaps, but one day you’re actually going to stop and enjoy it, which would put you in the present. I hope I’m there for it.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ll see. Come on, let’s go build your enterprise.” She smiles.
We stumble upon a booth showing a series of CDs of original funeral scores.
I turn to her. “Know what I’m thinking? We make a strategic alliance with music production libraries and sound-effects libraries.”
“How do sound effects fit in?”
“Say someone loves thunderstorms and rain.”
“Like you.”
“Yes, like me. So maybe I want those sounds at the closing of the service as people leave the premises. Or we use them in the biographical videos. Clapping sounds as a transition between the chapters in someone’s life.”
Sierra nods. “Okay, I’m starting to get this.”
We pass a booth providing services for slide shows. One section features customized engraved casket lids, another displays fifteen varieties of leg hose. We share a look and smile. “Who’s going to see the hose?” We move on.
Another area boasts headrests embroidered with phrases promoting peaceful rest. I think of Daniel. Maybe this could be a lucrative market for poets, offering their talents to the bereaved with personalized tributes to the departed. Moving on, we notice companies selling embalming paraphernalia.
“Shall we explore this?” asks Sierra.
“Let’s skip this one if you don’t mind.” I discover my curiosity has its limits.
A company sells fabrics with beautiful wall-size tapestries hanging above caskets. A photo of the loved one is silkscreened onto a giant tapestry with overnight delivery guaranteed. I pocket a business card for future reference.
We find the heart of the organization that’s behind the event. Their association commands a wide booth providing valuable educational information to its twenty-one thousand members, funeral home directors, including the latest information about their lobbying efforts in Washington, D.C., a monthly magazine on current funeral-related topics, public relations tips, programs plus information on everything from mortuary sciences to new compliance laws affecting safe, legal and compassionate operations of funeral homes and ways to help their members enhance quality of service.
I collect packets of their information, facts and figures gathered by organizations like the U.S. Census Bureau, the Cremation Association of North America and the Casket & Funeral Supply Association of America.
I turn to Sierra. “Think you’ve got enough visual stimuli here to come up with a great logo?”
“Oh, I’m buzzing with ideas…for the logo and the Web site.”
“I can’t wait, but we’ve got to hit the workshops now.”
“Shall we divide and conquer?” asks Sierra.
“Good idea.” I open my program and point. “Which one do you want?”
Sierra reads the options aloud. “‘Business Transformation Trends,’ ‘Strategies for Independent Funeral Homes,’ ‘Civil Celebrants versus Traditional Clergy,’ ‘Everyday Ethics & Etiquette,’ ‘The Pre-Need Market,’ and ‘The Psychology of a Funeral.’ I’ll take ‘Psychology of a Funeral.’”
“I’ll skip between the ‘Civil Celebrants’ lecture and ‘The Pre-Need Market.’ See you back in the room at eighteen hundred hours.” I smile.
“Aye, aye.” She gives me a wink.
I slip in and out of workshops the rest of the afternoon, fascinated to learn about the growing number of “Civil Celebrants,” a fairly new profession in the funeral field catering to clients without religious ties who want to ritualize the death of a loved one by hiring not your everyday clergy, but civil celebrants to conduct the rituals. Civil celebrants can be anyone from your local grocery store clerk to your neighborhood photographer to your personal trainer to your therapist.
I skip to the next workshop to learn more about the growing discussion on “pre-need” versus “time of need” markets. More funeral homes are using outside vendors to help with more complex funeral arrangements. I’m right on target.
Back to the room, I decide. I’m laden with brochures and pamphlets. The muscles in my arms have formed into complicated knots. Thoughts of Seth creep into my mind. One thing he excelled at was the soothing of twisted muscles. I miss his touch
. I could call, but what for? We were not a good fit.
I take new action inside the hotel room and luxuriate inside a big bubble-filled hot tub. I leaf through the brochures to digest the information of the day. Sierra enters the room unloading her own accumulated handouts.
She eyes me enveloped in gyrating bubbles. “Now that looks relaxing,” she says. “Would it be presumptuous of me to join you?”
“Only if you fail to bring a washcloth.”
“Done deal,” she replies, plucking a washcloth off the towel rack and tossing it to me. She removes her clothes and slips inside the tub, releasing a sigh of relief. “Ah…the joy of the bath.” She smiles. “So, what exactly is a civil celebrant? Sounds like someone stuck in 1865 on the side of the Union.”
“You’re ice cold.”
“Then it sounds like a Miss Manners course on how to celebrate with civility.”
“Getting warmer.”
“Well, how about I wash your back while you enlighten me?”
“You’re on.” I turn and she glides a warm, wet, soapy washcloth across my back.
“You’ve got great skin. It hasn’t changed at all, so silky and smooth—but these knots!”
I moan as Sierra kneads one out. “Wow. That feels great.” And I actually relax for a moment. “What about you? Any revelations on the psychology of the funeral?”
“Plenty. Did you know an obituary is really a plea for help? A plea from the survivors to the community to be there and support their transition.”
“I thought it was the deceased who was transiting.”
“Nope. The result of their departure leaves the survivors to figure out a whole new social order. Funerals help survivors reconstruct a new social order inside their families and the community.”
“I never thought of it that way.” I turn around. “Here, let me do your back now.” I take the washcloth from her.
Sierra releases a small noise of appreciation. I get the signal and drop the cloth to knead her muscles. “Hmm. That’s the airplane ride, huh?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she replies. “So are you seeing anyone right now?”
“Was…but I’m playing the results.”
The Funeral Planner Page 6
