The Funeral Planner

by Lynn Isenberg

  I can’t seem to make sense of it. “Well, um, where did he go?”

  “He didn’t leave us with any forwarding information. It was all very sudden…and very weird,” she adds.

  I stand there punctured and then repair myself with a shot of hope. “Okay…is Bobby Garelik in?”

  “He’s out of town.”

  My energy takes another deflated dive. I suck in a deep breath. “Well, um, is anyone here?”

  “I’m here,” says a calm, steady voice.

  I turn around to face Victor Winston, who is standing across from me at the other end of the lobby.

  “Oh. Hi. Do you know where Jonny Bright went?”

  Victor shrugs. “Not a clue. But, if I can be so blunt, I don’t think he’s a mystery worth solving. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “I have proof of concept,” I say, feebly holding up Eve’s Prada bag.

  “And I have some interesting statistics I’ve been gathering on the funeral industry,” he replies. “A feasibility analysis, if you will.”

  I perk up as this kind of news and its implications sink in. “Really?”

  “Let’s just say you left me more intrigued than my counterparts,” says Victor. He glances at my bag and smiles. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

  “Um, sure. Okay,” I say. I feel a grin emerge on my face. I follow Victor to the conference room and gently pat my purse. Glancing down at it I whisper,“Good going, Uncle Sam!”

  Victor and I sit in the conference room. He reaches over to the intercom and hits the button. “Karina, can you please bring Ms. Banks a cup of hot black tea.” He pauses to glance at me. “That is what you like, right?” I nod.

  “Anything for you, Mr. Winston?” asks Karina.

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  I show Victor all three versions of the Uncle Sam Prototype for Lights Out Enterprises. My business plan lies open on the table in front of him. Victor watches intently, affected, and I realize I, too, am not immune to the emotional reactions the video elicits. Uncle Sam’s death wallops me in the heart again.

  As the final shot closes, Victor swivels in his chair to look directly at me. He remains quiet, contemplative, statuesque. I sit there watching him, not sure if I should speak. More time passes and I become more nervous. I clear my throat. This does nothing. Victor sits there in a deep trance. I begin fidgeting coyly. I cross my legs, uncross them, and then cross them again. I clear my throat again, louder this time. Still nothing. Finally, I wipe my hand in front of him like a window washer.

  “Yoo-hoo? Anyone in there?”

  Victor blinks. “Sorry. I was thinking.”

  “That’s good cuz I thought maybe your lights went out.”

  He pauses. “First, let me say that I’m truly sorry about your uncle. He was…quite a man.”

  “Thank you,” I say, realizing that I wish Victor had met Uncle Sam.

  “What are you in it for?” Victor asks.

  It’s a key question, my answer a do-or-die one.

  He continues, “You want to be a CEO? Or are you capable of seeing your idea evolve outside of your control and then let it go?”

  I wait a beat. “I’m an entrepreneur,” I say. “I give birth to ideas and guide them into becoming capital-producing entities and from there let them become what they’re meant to. I just…for once…want one of my ideas to make it to adulthood—even puberty would be nice.”

  He smiles. “What’s the exit strategy for Lights Out? So to speak,” he adds, realizing the unintended pun.

  “A private sale of the majority interest, a public offering or a leveraged buyout. I’m open to any of the above.”

  He stands, picks up a Magic Marker and starts writing on a white chalkboard. “Do you know how many people work in funeral homes in the United States?” he asks.

  Before he can finish writing the number down, I beat him to it. “210,000,” I say.

  He stops and looks at me.

  I continue. “And an increasing number are women and people of diversified ethnicities. Creating an opportunity flush for nontraditional funeral services.”

  He nods at me. “Exactly. And do you realize that cremation is rising annually by…” He turns back to the chalkboard to write the answer.

  “Approximately ten percent,” I say, beating him to it. “Creating a greater savings on funeral costs, which can then be leveraged into more dollars spent on more unique tributes.”

  “Yes. Precisely. And eighty percent of funerals use a casket,” he adds, this time not turning around to face the chalkboard but keeping his eyes trained on me in anticipation of my interjection.

  “Which invariably includes a ceremony or some form of ritual, which Lights Out will be primed and ready to offer,” I say.

  He drops the Magic Marker and faces me. “What makes you so sure baby boomers will go for this?”

  “Because baby boomers want to validate the meaning of their lives by giving meaning to their death,” I answer. “That…and my gut.”

  “Okay,” says Victor. “I believe you. But…from a client’s perspective, why would I hire you?”

  “Because I’m not privy to the funeral paradigm.”

  “How is that a plus?” he asks, perplexed.

  “Most of the 210,000 people who work in the funeral industry are generational to it. In fact, most go back three and four generations. Funeral home directors are used to thinking in very traditional terms. I haven’t been raised in that world so I’m able to think…outside the box. And to create customized funeral experiences at the level that Lights Out intends to, I believe that coming from outside the box is rather an advantageous way to get it in, pardon the puns.”

  Victor’s thinking again; he sits down and faces me. “How much do you need?” he asks laconically.

  My mouth drops open. “You mean…you want to invest in Lights Out?”

  “Would $250,000 be enough to get you started? In return for a twenty-five-percent ownership position and I’ll take an active advisory role.”

  I feel my eyes widen. I catch myself and quickly feign a clearing of the throat, to play it cool. “Well, uh, what exactly does taking an active advisory role mean?”

  “I want you to think big. Zero limitations. I’ll help you articulate your vision. I’ll advise you on the finances and administration so you can concentrate on creative content and business development.”

  Without Uncle Sam to guide me, I know I need someone like Victor, someone with a steady hand to counsel me through every phase of the process.

  “What about Bobby Garelik?”

  “I’m going solo on this one,” he states. “And he’s going to regret it.”

  “That’s a lot of faith.”

  “Faith is what I’m good at,” he says. “So what do you say? I’ll keep the lights on while you turn the lights out?” He smiles.

  “I think I can manage on $250,000 for a first round.”

  “Great. I’ll draw up the paperwork for your attorney. In the meantime, you’re going to need a front bowling-pin customer. Any ideas?”

  “Some.” I nod, camouflaging deep concern for this next crucial step. It was one thing to beta-test my product with Uncle Sam. It is quite another to acquire a high-profile client in the world of big business willing to have a cocktail party with the Grim Reaper.

  Convincing corporate executives who often believe unequivocally in their immortality would be the key in flipping the lights on at Lights Out. I had hoped Uncle Sam would provide the finesse needed to effectively persuade that person to commit to a pre-need extravaganza. Now, suddenly, I had Victor Winston’s faith. I feel validated, a long sought-after recognition I hadn’t known in years, if ever. The unfamiliarity of it left me feeling unsure. I had become accustomed to relentlessly digging myself out of a hole (interesting and ironic metaphor for my new business, I think). Now I feel a mound of solid dirt beneath my feet, and because even an inkling of stability feels alien to me, it carries with it an el
ement of fear. The stakes are climbing and I don’t want to let one more investor down nor the greatest opportunity in years that at last, seems to bring me closer to my dreams.

  I sit in my parked car on a street in Beverly Hills, taking in what I’ve just agreed to. I pull out my cell phone and dial Sierra.

  “What’s the verdict?” she asks.

  “Jonny Bright is history, but Victor Winston gave me a green light for an initial round of $250,000!”

  “Oh my God, Maddy! Congratulations! I knew you could do it!”

  “I couldn’t have done it without your help, Sierra.”

  “But it was your concept. Don’t undermine what you’ve done. I am so proud of you! Keep me posted on the next step!”

  We hang up. I call Eve, who asks for a photocopy of the check to add as proof to her visual essay. “The outfit didn’t close the deal, Eve.”

  “No?” she says, on the phone. “It certainly played a part. I have marketing research that can prove that. Shall I e-mail it to you?”

  “Okay, you don’t have to play me anymore, Miss Academy Award-winning actress on the rise. Jeez, I’d hate to be on the other side of a negotiating table with you.”

  “Well, you are my mentor,” she says, and clicks off.

  I smile.

  “So, we did it, Uncle Sam. Without you, I couldn’t have made it this far.” I sigh, engulfed by a hasty transition into sadness. I turn the ignition on. “I wish you could have seen this.” I pull away from the curb and turn my attention to the traffic in front of me, trying hard to ignore a thick layer of dark cloud overhead.

  Later, I’m sitting alone in the bar of the Bel Age Hotel on the Sunset Strip nursing a grapefruit juice. A rather handsome guy bedecked in gold jewelry tries to make eye contact. I pay no attention. I’m too busy strategizing on how to acquire a front bowling-pin customer.

  Minutes pass, and the bartender brings me another tall glass of grapefruit juice. “Compliments of the gentleman at the other end,” he says.

  “Oh, no, thanks. Really, can you just take it…” I blunder, but the bartender’s long gone. “…back,” I finish, sighing. I don’t have to wait long.

  The gold guy swaggers over and begins, “Hi, there. Anyone ever tell you how beautiful you are?”

  I quickly shake my head. “Um, sorry but I can’t talk right now. I’m in mourning.” I point to the black ribbon pinned to my shirt.

  “Oh. Well, hey. Sorry about that. I’ve never had anyone close to me die,” he says, still trying to make conversation. “Maybe I can comfort you. Was it someone very close to you?” he asks, inching closer in.

  “Yes. He’s still very close to me. In fact, he’s right here.” I pull the Ziploc bag out of my briefcase. “Uncle Sam.”

  The guy freaks, swallowing really hard. “That is…gross.”

  “No,” I say matter-of-factly. “That is…dust…”

  “Well. I, uh, have to go meet someone,” he mumbles.

  “Okay,” I say, holding up the bag. “Say, bye-bye, Uncle Sam.”

  The guy sprints from the bar. I slip the bag back inside my briefcase.

  Three grapefruit juices later, Todd Lake shows up. “I’m sorry I’m late and I’m sorry about your uncle. Are you all right?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say, burying my pain. “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “Never been busier. I’m handling two giant acquisition deals between four major entertainment companies. But I can’t complain,” he says. “So what’s your new news?”

  “Well, you can expect some paperwork on your desk this week because I just secured $250,000 in an initial round for Lights Out Enterprises.”

  “That’s great!” exclaims Todd. “You deserve it.” He pauses with a sly smile. “So are you going to tell me what the business is?”

  I take a breath and let it rip. “Customized life celebration experiences for the affluent pre-need client.”

  Todd stares at me. “Like I said before, I have no imagination, so what exactly does that mean?”

  “Basically, its pre-planning prepaid funeral services…with a twist, in that they’re highly personalized and hence much more meaningful.”

  “And who’s going to buy this product or service?”

  “It’s an experience. And affluent baby boomers in corporate America will want it…which is where you come in.”

  Todd looks dubiously at me.

  “I need just one little, itsy-bitsy, tiny, weeny, eeny…front bowling-pin customer. Someone who’s got a really high profile. I thought maybe you could introduce me to some of those clients of yours….”

  “I don’t think discussing expansion opportunities is the appropriate place to discuss…going under,” he says.

  “I was referring to your estate planning department. It could be an extra added value that—”

  “Sorry, Maddy, but our firm has a strict policy not to solicit anything, for anyone, even our own clients. But it’s a great place to start looking. What’s the business called?”

  “Lights Out Enter—” Before I can finish, Todd’s cell phone interrupts. He answers, mouths excuse me, and I know my time’s up with him. I’m going to have to find another way.

  I begin the task of calling estate planning attorneys at one law firm after another to set up meetings to describe my offering. But they insist on knowing what it is before setting a meeting and then, well, once the topic is mentioned it becomes a dead issue.

  The conversation usually ends thus: “No, sir. I was not suggesting that you’re mortal. I said life celebration, not a cocktail party with the grim reaper!”

  I meet with my cousin Laura, who thinks it’s an awesome idea, but instead of helping me find high-profile entertainment people, she encourages me to develop the concept as a reality TV show. I try Adam Berman at Ubiquitous Music, but he declines claiming it’s a conflict of interest. I cold-call high-profile corporations featured in the Financial Street Journal, but the young assistants who play gatekeeper to upper management simply don’t get it, thinking I’m some sort of quack.

  After ten days of nonstop dead-ends, I throw my pen and notepad down and head over to the Bel Age Hotel for a real drink.

  I sit at the bar nursing a grapefruit juice, but this time with a shot of vodka in it.

  “I’ve never seen you come in here for a drink drink before,” says the bartender.

  “Me, neither,” I reply.

  “What’s got you so down?”

  “The search for that which doth not exist,” I say, slightly slurring my words.

  “Maybe you’re just looking in the wrong places. What are you seeking?”

  “Oh, just a high-profile corporate executive willing to share his life in the context of death.”

  “That’s easy,” he says, cocking his head toward the bar. “People like that hang out right here, in bars. Traveling CEOs looking to share and connect. Bars are where they bide their time, trust me.” He winks.

  The guy with the gold enters. I glance at him, and then back at the bartender.

  “Not him,” says the bartender flatly.

  Gold Guy sees me but I’ve got my black ribbon on, so he keeps his distance, every so often casting discreet glances my way.

  Meanwhile, I sit there stumped. The Financial Street Journal lies by my side next to the New York Times obituary page. A large loquacious crowd of suits pass the bar on the way to what must be several ballrooms.

  “What’s up with crowd central?” I ask the bartender.

  “Another convention, real estate or something,” he replies.

  I nod. “Hey, maybe I should hit the trade show industry,” I tell him. “You know, traipse around the country going to conventions seeking clients looking to book their own funeral gigs.”

  I shake my head. When I glance up I notice Arthur Pintock standing alone at the end of the bar, rubbing his temples, looking tired and worn out. I get an idea.

  Moments later, the bartender brings Arthur Pintock a hot cup of cappuccino, compli
ments of Madison Banks. Arthur looks up, recognizes me and nods thanks.

  Mr. Pintock moves from his end of the bar to mine. “Hi, Mr. Pintock,” I say. “Madison Banks. How are you?” I see the pain on his face that my connection brings, leaving him absent of words. “I’m sorry to hear about you and Mrs. Pintock,” I say, providing discreet filler for him until he can regain his composure.

  He nods, and then notices the black ribbon on my shirt. “What’s that ribbon for?”

  “My uncle Sam passed away last week,” I say. “He was like a father to me.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “May I join you?”

  “Yes, of course,” I say, moving my papers over and quickly stuffing the obit page in my briefcase. He sits next to me.

  “And call me Arthur. How about a couple of martinis?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Arthur.”

  Arthur and I drink up. The more we drink, the more we cut loose about our feelings of loss.

  “The thing about it,” says Arthur,“is if people haven’t experienced death, they have no idea what you’re feeling. It makes them uncomfortable to be around you. They don’t know what to say. You don’t know what to say. So they ignore you, as if you were some stain that might rub off on them and…inflict them with your grief.”

  “Yeah, as if grief were contagious,” I concur, swilling my drink. “I don’t understand why schools and universities don’t teach practical classes on dealing with grief and bereavement. It should be mandatory. Don’t you think?” I bury the rest of my drink down the hatch and slur on. “Especially with an aging baby boomer population. How is a nation of grievers going to cope?”

  “That’s a good point,” says Arthur. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “You know what else I wonder? How come there are no eternally, internally-lit caskets?”

  “Hadn’t thought of that, either,” says Arthur. “Interesting proposition, though.” He pauses again. “So what are you doing now, Maddy? Why are you sitting alone in a bar?” he asks.

  “I’m grieving.”

  “Oh, right.”

  Both of us are a little tipsy—okay, more than a little tipsy—okay, a lot tipsy.