The Funeral Planner

by Lynn Isenberg

  “Don’t worry,” she says, as if reading my mind. “The right person will fit naturally into your plans. And if it’s any consolation, I think you’re very hot, Madison Banks.”

  Her comment mollifies me. “Thanks, Sierra. Are you seeing anyone?”

  “I lived with a woman but it didn’t work. Lately, I’ve been dating men again.”

  “Anyone special?”

  “Well…there is this one guy…Milton.”

  “Milton?”

  “Yeah. What do you think? Could I marry a guy with the name Milton?”

  “I would be suspect, unless he pleases you to no end.” I smile.

  “Not there yet… I’m taking it slow. But he does make me laugh.”

  “That’s huge. Seth and I didn’t laugh enough,” I reflect.

  “I’ll make you laugh.” A mischievous twinkle appears in her eye as she suddenly splashes water in my face. I reflexively splash back. A miniwater fight ensues.

  “Okay, okay, you win,” I say, my mouth filled with water and laughter.

  We laugh some more and sink inside the water to rinse ourselves off.

  Sierra gently runs her hand through wet hair. “It’s pretty interesting, isn’t it?” she asks rhetorically. “That the funeral, aside from being a socially acceptable place to weep and mourn in public, provides the last chance to learn.”

  “Learn what?” I ask, reaching for a towel.

  “That the dead are really dead.”

  I freeze.

  Sierra turns around. “What is it, Maddy?”

  “I don’t want the dead to be dead,” I whisper.

  She holds me in her arms. “Oh, Maddy…you know if it wasn’t for Tara’s death we wouldn’t be sitting in a hot tub in the heart of Las Vegas right now.”

  “No, I don’t imagine we would be.”

  “If Tara were here, what would she think?”

  “She wouldn’t be thinking at all. She would be out dancing.”

  “Then let’s go dancing, Mad. For Tara. Let’s keep her alive.”

  Couples and singles weave around the dance floor to a loud techno beat. Sierra’s hair is down and wild, and she moves with fluidity and grace, hips shifting to the rhythm of the music as if the vibrations emanate from her bones, not the speakers.

  I, on the other hand, can’t hold a beat to save my life. My hips swing out in fierce gestures. I shake my head and roll my shoulders with pronounced vigor. I catch myself in the mirror fumbling to the beat, arms awkwardly gyrating, legs swinging out as if trying to land on undiscovered planets in the solar system. I watch Sierra’s liquid-smooth moves. I stop dancing, shaking my head in defeat.

  Sierra glides over. “What’s wrong?”

  “I suck. What happened to me? I used to win every single dance contest growing up. Now I can’t even find the beat.”

  “That’s because you’re out of touch with the rhythm of life, from working too hard,” says Sierra, through the din of the drums. “Keep your feet on the ground at all times,” she instructs. “And switch your center of gravity from one hip to the other. Like this.”

  Her body moves fluidly. I attempt to duplicate her motions but to no avail. “I think I’m missing some vital hip coordination,” I say.

  “I can cure that,” Sierra offers. Undeterred, she places my hands on the back of her hips. “Feel it and follow along.”

  I face her back, trying to own the beat. She patiently presses my hands on her hips, maintaining a slow, methodical pace until I start to catch on. In minutes, I’m moving to the music, mastering it.

  Sierra leans close to my ear. “You want to take a break and get some water?”

  I keep moving and shake my head. “Can’t stop now. I may never get it back.”

  “I see.” Sierra smiles. “Did you stop to think it might be like riding a bike?”

  I shake my head again, still moving to the beat. “Oh, no. This is much harder.”

  “Okay, marathon woman. I’ll get us both some water.” She smiles.

  Sierra heads toward the bar. A couple of guys approach her like magnets. Meanwhile, I keep moving, wondering yet again how long I can feed my ambition to pursue my goals in order to reach the life I think I ought to be living.

  Executive Summary: The Plan for Lights Out Enterprises

  One week later in my apartment, I hit the print button and punch the sky with victory fists. “Yes!” I shout with glee. “By George, I think I’ve got it!” I stare at my hard work in its paperform, with color coordinated graphs by Eve. I announce, “Lights Out Enterprises.” I playfully turn the light on and off, screaming, “Lights Out! Lights Out! Okay, enough.” I smile and dial a number. An answering machine picks up. Uncle Sam’s prerecorded whistle of “Fishing Free” flows into my ear, followed by his trademark line “Have a beee-utiful day.”

  I hear the beep and take my cue. “Hi, Uncle Sam. I finished the business plan, with a mission statement, executive summary, company strategy, financial review, etcetera, etcetera. And I lined up a VC meeting. I’ll keep you posted on the chain of results. Oh, and I promise to do those girlie things you insisted I do before my meeting. Love you! Mad.”

  I’m approaching the front doors of the famous Bali High Spa, known for its one-stop-shop spa circuit, when my cell rings. “Maddy Banks here.”

  “Hey, it’s Sierra. I’m e-mailing you the final revisions on the logo today.”

  “Awesome! I can’t wait…” I pant as I struggle to open the heavy mahogany doors while juggling the phone close to my ear.

  “What are you doing?” asks Sierra.

  “Oh, I have to get a manicure, pedicure, facial, massage, brow wax, bikini wax…”

  “Have to? You make it sound like it’s torture?”

  “Believe me, I’d rather be putting together my advisory board.”

  “Maddy, you have issues. Do yourself a favor, will you?”

  “What?”

  “Enjoy it! Let go! Pamper yourself and—”

  “Okay, okay,” I say. “I, uh, promise to try to enjoy it.” I take a deep breath and pass through the monster doors, which just added to the stress I’d come to erase.

  I close in on the front desk and hand a woman my full-package gift certificate from Uncle Sam. “Hi, there, um, I’m here for all of this…stuff,” I say, pointing to the list of prepaid items on the certificate.

  “Okay, let me see what you’ve got here,” she says.

  While she reads the list, I immediately rummage through ten different business magazines and newspapers in my briefcase. I find my trusty Financial Street Journal and pull it out, tapping my foot while reading. I can’t help but laugh out loud when I spot a headline “Companionship in Prayer Extends to Four-legged Friends.”

  Traditional clergy are creating separate services for petowning congregants, so that together, they can attend religious ceremonies. I smile to myself and wonder what’s next, doggie wafers and doggie wine? Then my eye lands on another article.

  “It’s scandalous! I can’t take it anymore.” I’m unaware I’ve spoken out loud.

  The woman behind the desk offers an odd look and then politely interrupts me. “Excuse me, would you like your treatments in any particular order, Ms. Banks?”

  Oblivious, the article about Derek Rogers’s success has me engrossed. “This is unbelievable,” I murmur. “Unbelievable.”

  The woman looks at me. “What’s unbelievable?”

  I toss my arms in the air. “Palette Enterprises stock just split. I just don’t get it. How can someone so evil keep landing on top? I mean, really…”

  “Do you ever unwind, sweetie?”

  I squint at her. “Are you talking to me?”

  “How long have you been carrying around these feelings?”

  “What feelings?”

  “Resentment and anger and betrayal. Those feelings.”

  “I don’t have that,” I say. “But I do have feelings of…desire…for, uh, retribution. That’s right. Feelings of retribution.�
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  “Honey, I think you need some serious unwinding. I’m starting you out with a massage first and I’m having Hans give it to you.” Before I can utter a sound, she picks up an internal house phone and declares, “Hans, I need you bigtime at the front desk, baby.”

  A hallway door breezes open and a brawny six-foot-five giant lumbers toward me. “Hello, my name is Hans,” he says, with a distinct twang. “How can I help you?”

  “This young lady needs to release some—how shall we say it?—emotional plaque that’s clogging the pores of her soul.”

  I give her a look.

  “Yes, it’s that bad, honey. Go to it, Hans. Honey, when you’re done today, you’re going to be mush,” she tells me, all the while maintaining her smile.

  “Mush? I can’t be mushy. That is so bad for business. I have to be strong!”

  “Before strength, comes mush,” pipes in Hans.

  Hans flips me and spins me all over the massage table, releasing years of tension and frustration. I, in turn, release a continual stream of oohs, ahhs and ouches. By the time I get through the rest of the program, I am a complete mush-ball, euphorically melting in the hands of my pamperers.

  Lying in a eucalyptus-scented steam shower for my finale, I smile, alas at peace with myself, though it is momentary. Uncle Sam was right. I feel great, and ready to put my plan into action. Well, almost ready. I need one more thing, something I can’t do, but Eve Gardner can.

  “Yuck. Those make your nose look like an elephant’s,” Eve tells my image in the mirror.

  I remove the pair of sunglasses from my face only to swap them for another pair that she hands me.

  “Here, try these,” she says, refusing to give up after twenty tries. “Oliver Peoples has great lens colors. I think the lilac will complement your skin tone.”

  I begrudgingly put them on. “Why can’t a simple pair of Ray-Bans do?” I ask.

  “Oh, my God, what planet are you on?” she exclaims, then carefully looks me over. “That color’s nice, but the shape is way too oval for your face.”

  “How about yellow frames? To go with my uncle’s nickname for me—Sunshine.”

  “Rule number one, fashion never follows sentiment. Unless you have a perverse desire to look like a geek or you’re intending to make a blatant statement. Otherwise, you just have to wait until yellow comes in—right now the rave is sage and lilac.”

  I take the glasses off as she hands me yet another pair. “You don’t find this whole process exhausting, Eve?”

  “Gee, I don’t know.” She smiles sarcastically. “You don’t find the whole process of writing a business plan exhausting? Not to say borrr-ing! What’s the difference?”

  “The difference is that I create trends…or try to.”

  “And I live them. Without me, you don’t exist,” she argues, trying on a pair of sunglasses for herself now.

  “You have a point there.”

  “Try the Guess glasses,” she says, handing them to me. I slip them on. “Perfect, absolutely perfect.” She confidently turns to the saleslady. “She’ll take those.”

  “Hold it,” I exclaim, seeing the price tag dangle in my peripheral view. “These are a hundred and twenty dollars!”

  “That’s a bargain. Besides, don’t worry, it will balance out at the Shoe Pavilion.” She checks sunglasses off a list, leaving shoes, pantsuit, handbag, hair and makeup to follow.

  We hit the shoe store where I’m amazed to find discounted designer shoes on sale for the cost of a meal at Soup Plantation. Eve knows immediately where to go. I follow.

  She abruptly pulls a pair off the shelf. “Let’s see these on you.”

  “What do you have, Eve, a homing device for the perfect style and perfect fit?” I ask, as she hands me a sleek black pair of Anne Klein business pumps with a trace of white stitching across the top for a little flair.

  “I scoped out locations and items after you called yesterday. It goes a lot faster this way.”

  “You’re much better at research than I thought,” I say.

  “The process is not so bad if you know where to go and what you’re doing.”

  “Same goes for a business plan, Eve.” I try the shoes on. Even I’m impressed at how good they look. And the price is even better: a mere thirty-two dollars. “How does this place stay in business?”

  “Volume. And do-it-yourself shoppers.”

  “What if you’re not a do-it-yourself shopper?”

  “You pay the premium,” she quips.

  Eve’s black Audi TT transports us to Banana Republic, where she immediately addresses a salesgirl, “Hi, I’m here for the size-two pantsuit I put on hold under ‘Eve,’ please.”

  I duck inside a dressing room to try it on while Eve stands outside the door lecturing me. “It’s about following basic double-C guidelines. For example, a tight top goes with baggy pants, and a baggy top means tight pants. Oh, and always have splashes of matching color. Like if you have blue flip-flops, wear a blue shirt or blue earrings.”

  “What are double-C guidelines?”

  “Contrast and coordination,” she replied. I step outside the dressing room in the pantsuit. Eve stares at me with pride. “Much easier on my eyes.”

  Ten minutes later, I walk out the door with another purchase at a modest price.

  “What you need now is a really good handbag,” she says as we climb inside her vehicle. “As long as you’ve got great shoes and a hot handbag, you’re golden.”

  “Great. But I am not spending eight hundred dollars on a Prada bag.”

  “Who said you had to spend eight hundred?” She smiles, maneuvering the car up some steep hills into the canyons.

  “There are stores up here?”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘store,’ but it’s definitely a business.”

  Inside a small house neatly tucked away inside the Hollywood Hills, a young girl sells Prada. Eve insists I get a wallet and a slick matching purse. I insist that it be large enough for legal-size papers. She has me try several to make sure the proportions are right. They all look great, but I’m sweating to think how much it’s going to cost.

  “I think you should get that purse, the wallet and the sporty knapsack,” concludes Eve. She turns to the girl and asks, “How much for all three, Denise?”

  “I can give you a deal. Sixty-five dollars for them,” she answers.

  Eve smiles at me. “I told you.”

  Something’s not right. “Why are they so inexpensive?”

  “They’re knock-offs, until you can afford the real deal.”

  “Knock-offs? I can’t buy these,” I say, putting the items back in place. Eve and Denise look at me astonished. “It’s not right. How would you like it if you designed something and knock-offs came along to undermine your intellectual property?”

  “It’s not illegal to buy them,” says Eve.

  “It may not be. But it’s not right. I wouldn’t want someone ripping off my ideas and selling them for less.”

  Eve huffs out the door. “You’re being silly.”

  “Think what you’d like, Eve. But sometimes, being true to one’s moral compass isn’t about convenience and money.” I think about where Uncle Sam would be if there had been knock-off fishing lures, and stride outside.

  Next to her car, Eve asks, “What are you going to take to the meeting?” I hold up my battered briefcase. “Over my dead body! You’ll borrow my Prada bag instead.”

  I realize I’ve become Eve’s personal makeover project. “Is it real?” I ask.

  Her eyes narrow with indignation. “My father’s high school graduation gift to me. It’s as real as it gets.”

  “You don’t have to take it personally. I can’t tell the difference between the real one and the knock-off, anyway.”

  She stamps her foot in annoyance. “Then what difference does it make if you get the knock-off ?”

  “Because I’ll know I undermined the designer.”

  “Then they shouldn’t charge so much
,” complains Eve. “It’s the same reason why everyone downloads music off the Net.”

  “Did you ever think that maybe it’s because they charge so much that everyone wants it, Eve? They’re investing in perceived value.”

  “Why does everything have to be a lesson with you?”

  “Because life is one big internship. And by the way, you still owe me a mission statement.”

  The next morning, I’m fresh out of the shower doing my routine one hundred sit-ups and twenty-five push-ups when my doorbell rings. I check the clock: 7:00 a.m. “Not possible,” I say. I throw a towel around myself and open the door, surprised to see Eve on time with her empty Prada bag and a case of makeup.

  “Did we discuss bonus points for ungodly hours?” She yawns.

  “Four points. And that includes your unexpected promptness.”

  “Okay. Let the games begin.”

  I laugh. “What is this? Trials for the Olympic Makeover Event?”

  Eve enters, zeroing in on the coffeepot in the kitchen. “That’s for amateurs. I’m a professional,” she says, pouring herself a cup. She takes a sip and comes to life. “Ooooh, I think there’s a reality TV show in that idea.” She perks up at the thought. I look at her, and for a brief moment she reminds me of…me.

  We sit down in front of my bathroom mirror as she pulls out her makeover accoutrements. “By the way, where’s my mission statement?” I ask.

  “You’re looking at it.” She lifts a comb and a tube of mascara. “Shall we?” And then she gets to work.

  At Shepherd Venture Capital in the heart of Century City, I sit quietly in a large conference room that has a view extending to the ocean. I wear my new outfit, a classy pinstriped pantsuit with a button-down white silk blouse. My hair is pulled back to accentuate my features. My nails are perfect and my makeup just right, compliments of Eve Gardner. I anxiously lay my business plan on the table beside my laptop computer.

  Jonny Bright, Bobby Garelik and Victor Winston saunter into the room with notepads and pens in hand. I nervously stand up to greet them. One look at me and Jonny and Bobby stumble in their tracks. My overall appearance and demeanor are undeniable. Victor remains poker-faced.