“Actually, I’m grieving a death and a celebration.”
“How’s that work?” asks Arthur.
“I finally secured an initial round of VC money for my new business but without a front bowling-pin client, I’m afraid it’s going to flat-line.”
“What’s the business? Maybe I can help you.”
“I’d rather not say.” He gives me an odd look. “I think it would be…inappropriate,” I add. “Truly.”
He guffaws. “You think I haven’t heard the most outrageous ideas in my time? If you don’t tell me, I’ll be insulted.”
I size him up, then slowly and apprehensively let it out. “Customized funeral experiences for the pre-need market, strategically targeting those who want to bring value to their lives by doing the same in preparation for their death.” I finish my martini. “With all due respect, Arthur, I want to make those experiences about celebrating a life, as opposed to mourning a death. I just didn’t think so many people would be so put off by it.”
Arthur stares at me, coming to a slow realization. “I see. And when did you come up with this concept?”
I look at him, starting to sober up. “Well, sir, the idea-generation process was initiated at Tara’s funeral.”
He nods. Silence follows before he turns to me. “I’m not afraid. After what I’ve been through, I’m not afraid of anything. Especially death. I’ll be your front bowling-pin customer, Madison Banks. Just tell me what I need to do and how much I need to pay.”
I’m stunned. “But, Arthur, I’m not sure you realize what you would be getting into…” I say, protesting. “The process requires some introspection and…”
“And you think I haven’t been doing that? Nonstop since Tara’s death?”
Hanging on to the edge of the bar, I look him over. He’s not fooling around. “It would require a serious time commitment,” I whisper.
“Keeping busy to fill the void would be a, uh…welcome relief,” he says quietly. “Please.”
“Okay, okay,” I say. “You’re in. I’ll tell you what you need to do.”
He extends his hand and I shake it.
“Can I ask you a question?” he asks.
“Sure.”
“Do you think Tara would have really made it as a songwriter?”
“I have no doubt, Arthur. No doubt at all.”
He grins. “Me, too.”
“Would you like to see some photos of her? I recently downloaded them.”
“Yes,” he says. “I would love that.”
I pull out my PDA-cell phone-camera and bring Tara back to life. “See here—this is the time we were at the library studying for an Ethics test and Tara started creating lyrics out of random sentences in our text books….”
He recognizes the oh-so-mischievous smile of his daughter and lights up. “She made everything fun, didn’t she.”
“That was Tara,” I say. “Oh, and check out this one.” I click to another photo. “This was when Tara, Sierra and I…”
My words and sentiments seem to create solace we both desperately needed.
Arthur Pintock becomes my primary focus for the next month. I fly back and forth between Los Angeles and Ann Arbor coordinating pre-production of the life bio video, and finalizing the paperwork with Winston Capital. I coordinate with Sierra to take over the video. I have extensive conversations with Arthur Pintock about what he’s gotten out of life to date, what he hopes for in the future, how he wants to be remembered, what he wants to say to those who survive him, what kind of music he likes, whom he would like to speak about him and what valuable wisdom he could impart to friends, family and colleagues.
In the midst of the Pintock Project, I receive an e-mail from Eve with an attached pdf file. It’s her visual essay for Professor Osaka. I’m impressed, not so much with her content, but with her visual style. Eve clearly has a talent for graphic arts and research, information I neatly tuck away in my memory bank.
Sierra and I interview Arthur at work and in his hotel room where he now lives separated from his wife. Arthur realizes he has no hobbies in his life because he never made time for any; he realizes he has no musical preferences because he never took the time to listen to any; he realizes there are no clergy who he’d want to speak on his behalf because he never took the time to know any.
I interview his colleagues at the office, but no friends, because Arthur comes to realize he has no real friends since he never took the time to make any of those, either. His overachieving, workaholic nature is what took him to the top CEO position of the world’s most powerful mortgage-lending business, not a well-rounded, well-balanced social life, nor a well-rounded, well-balanced home life.
I interview Grace Pintock, who decides to take this opportunity to tell her husband on video all the feelings she’s had to unwillingly hoard inside her heart because he was never willing, ready or able to hear them for the last thirtytwo years of their marriage, highlighted and microscopically emphasized in the months following Tara’s passing.
Arthur flies Sierra and me on the company’s private jet to film him in action and continue the questionnaire process while he conducts business in New York, London and Shanghai.
I try to discover something about Arthur during these trips that might reflect a dimension other than his need to control, manage and expand the empire he’s created. I hunt for anything that might resemble a hobby or a passion we can use. But aside from his staunch discipline for exercise—he jogs a ten-mile treadmill run every day at 5:00 a.m.—the closest I get is his undying interest in building companies.
“So…building…is a big thing for you. That’s a good start,” I coax. “You like the art of erecting and assembling. Did you ever want to be an architect?”
“No. The closest I’ve ever come to architecture is my desire to reconfigure commercial space so it’s conducive to labor performing better.”
“So have you done that?”
“No, but I placate that desire by making contributions on a smaller scale.”
“Can you give me an example?” I ask, digging for more.
“Well, I suppose office chairs are a good example,” he says. “I believe they’re as valuable as good sleeping mattresses.”
“How is that?”
“In order to have a good day you need to have a good night’s rest, and in order to have a good night’s rest, you need to have a good chair at the office. That’s why I only use Aeron chairs by Herman Miller. The ergonomic features provide aeration and adjustable mobility—and they are top quality. Makes you feel invincible at work.”
“Sort of a self-esteem booster for you.”
“Not just for me. I know it’s considered a luxury item for executives. But I consider it a necessity for high performance in the workplace, which is why every one of my employees has one.”
“Any examples aside from the chair?”
“Office systems,” he says. “How spatial configurations of office furniture affect productivity.”
The closest thing I can find to a hobby for Arthur is his penchant for driving to the warehouses of Herman Miller’s corporate headquarters in Zeeland, Michigan, to stay up-to-date with innovations in office systems.
I am beginning to think that to do justice to Arthur Pintock, his tribute should take place in an office with Aeron chairs for all to mourn in; only they wouldn’t really be mourning, they would be celebrating his life in comfort with high-performance memory…thanks to the, er, chairs.
While Arthur Pintock’s life bio video gets cut in the editing room, rumors spread that he’s planning a video roast for himself in preparation of a tendered resignation. The board thinks the naming of a successor is imminent. They assume he’s finally acquiesced to address the issue and they quit harping at him on the matter.
Eventually, however, the rumor finds its way to Arthur, who immediately calls his board together and informs them once again, that he has no intention of resigning or naming a successor.
“The vi
deo is not a roast but a life bio video as part of my pre-need estate planning,” he says.
A member of the board asks,“Does this mean you have a health issue?”
“I assure everyone that I am in excellent health and more than capable of steering the company toward its ongoing expansion plans. I advise everyone to stop spending their time scrutinizing me and focus on your own personal affairs, or I will have a health issue,” he says, fuming under his breath.
While Sierra works on the post-production of the Pintock Project, I fly back to Los Angeles to work on the product offerings, finalize the advisory board and schedule a meeting with Victor Winston. He e-mails me an address where to meet him, but when I get there all I see is a run-down bowling alley.
I am standing next to my car, checking the address again on my PDA, when Victor swings into the parking lot driving a grey-green Saab convertible. His face is pleasantly tan and his cropped hair is slightly askew for the first time since I met him. It’s nice to see him looking less than perfect, I think.
“Welcome back to the West Coast,” he says, pulling up next to me.
“Thanks.”
“You look tired,” he says, noticing the bags under my eyes.
“Yes, well, globe-trotting across hemispheres might have something to do with it. So…why are we meeting at a bowling alley?”
“I thought it would be an appropriate place to celebrate the acquisition of your front bowling-pin client.” He smiles. “Do you mind? They’ve got great burgers.”
I shake my head. “I don’t mind.”
“Kind of goes with your whole raison d’être, don’t you think?” he asks, sliding out of his car.
“I think I’m missing something,” I say as we head toward the bowling alley.
“You know, customized funeral experiences. I thought I’d make it a customized meeting experience…to go along with the front bowling-pin client theme.” He winks at me and opens the door to the entrance.
“Cute.”
“You know what, Banks? You need to have more fun. I think we should bowl over lunch. You can show me how you nailed a kingpin like Arthur Pintock, and how you’re going to hook all the other lucky pins to follow. Did you use a spinner release or a helicopter strike?” he asks playfully.
“Are you throwing bowling jargon at me?”
Victor nods.
“But I don’t bowl.”
“Sure you do. I’ll teach you.”
“I thought you were my adviser, not my teacher.”
“What do you think an adviser is, Maddy?”
At the bowling alley, over burgers and lemonade, I fumble with my form, producing a series of slow-rolling gutter balls. Victor’s form, on the other hand, is graceful, elegant, powerful and balanced, and he produces one strike after another.
“Good thing I’m on your team.” He grins. “So tell me. What’s been your greatest obstacle so far?”
I think about it, and then answer, “Finding a way to bundle the product offerings. It would help if I could categorize people and create life-celebration templates for the Workaholic, the Retiree, the Student, the Nomad, the Dreamer, the Musician, and so on and so forth…but then I would compromise the personalization aspect, and, well, that’s not an option.”
“Keep working on it,” he says, grabbing the ball and readying himself for another shot down the alley.
I shrug and quip sarcastically, “Now that’s some sound advice.”
Victor approaches the lane with a five-step technique. He pushes away, releases and follows through to roll another strike. He looks back at me. “What’s the status of the advisory board?”
“All done and gift-wrapped to go. I have domain expertise in all the designated categories I want representation in—music, catering, event planning, lighting, funeral homes…”
“And the Web site? Your turn.”
I pick up my bowling ball. “Sierra’s working on it, but she’s also editing Arthur Pintock’s life bio video. I’m hoping to launch in a month. We’re including streaming media samples from both Uncle Sam and Arthur Pintock’s videos.”
“Is the logo done?”
“It’s awesome. I’ll show you on the PDA.” I toss the ball right into the gutter.
Victor is oblivious to my gutter ball as his single-mindedness has him now solely focused on the topic of Lights Out. “Have you thought about your marketing campaign?”
“I’m doing it on the low-down. My strategy is to rely on buzz marketing and establish a sales pipeline as an exhibitor at the next funeral industry trade show.”
He stares at me. “You just generated $35,000 in revenue from your first client. Why don’t you want to spend a portion of it on marketing?”
“You never know what you might need reserves for,” I say. “That and I believe buzz will tip it into early adoption.”
“Maddy. Are you giving yourself a salary?” he asks pointedly.
I look away. “It’s your turn.”
“Hey. I want you to start giving yourself a salary,” he says as he generates another strike. “It will make your job easier. Trust me on that one.”
“Trust you? What happened to advising me on bowling?”
He picks up my ball and hands it to me. “Breathe. Keep your eye on the pin…not the ball. Or if it’s easier, you can use the spot technique.”
“What am I spotting?”
“Pick a spot. Focus on the middle of the lane a third of the way down.”
“It’s that simple, huh?”
“Remember to move your arm like a pendulum and follow through on your swing to eye level, keeping your focus in alignment.”
“Anything else?”
“Try to hit as many pins as you can.”
I grin, then stand before the ten pins and for once try to follow someone else’s directions. I take in a deep breath, forcing myself to slow down. I line up the front bowling pin with a spot fifteen feet in front of me and roll the ball right toward it. Strike!
I look at Victor in disbelief. “Hey! I just got one!”
He shrugs and smiles. “Good thing you’re on my team.”
The balls roll back to me as the pins automatically realign. I wonder if that’s been my problem all along. Had I always been looking at the ball, rather than the destination and the market it was supposed to serve? Was that all I needed to create a flow of success, a paradigm shift in my focus?
“Yoo-hoo… Anyone in there?” asks Victor.
I come out of my trance to see Victor waving his hands in front of me. I wonder how long he’s been at it. “Sorry. I was thinking. Where were we?”
“You were going to unveil the first of your intellectual property to me?”
“Oh, the logo.” I reach for my briefcase and my Ziploc bag with Uncle Sam inside falls to the floor. I quickly fetch it.
“Do you always carry bags of dirt in your purse?” asks Victor.
“It’s not dirt. It’s dust.”
“Okay…do you always carry around bags of dust in your purse?”
“It’s, um…magic dust,” I say. “Uncle Sam left it for me.”
Victor looks oddly at me. “Was he a magician? Because if he was, you missed that on the life bio video altogether.”
“Well, that’s because it was a sample video and we didn’t have time to get everything in there. And besides, he was very private about his, uh, magic.”
“Why do you carry it around with you?”
“It’s for, um, ceremonies and rituals. Whenever I need to bless a situation, or a person, or an idea, I just, um, sprinkle a little…on my shoes,” I say, trying to make it sound logical and perfectly sane.
Victor looks me over. “Your shoes?”
“Yes. Because it’s your, um, feet that take you where you want to go and usually you have shoes on, so you sprinkle a little on your shoes and it, um, blesses the journey and the destination in one. It’s some eastern philosophy thing. And I’m into rituals—not cults or anything, mind you, just ritu
als now and again that symbolize the interpretation of the…uh, hard-to-explain kind.”
“Like the black ribbon on your shirt?”
“Exactly. Jewish custom. It symbolizes that I’m in mourning.”
Victor leans closer to me. “Well, for integrity’s sake, wouldn’t you say now that you’re in a state of extended celebration over your uncle’s life?”
I stop, realizing the importance of his perspective. “That’s really beautiful.”
“How long are you supposed to wear it?”
“A month.”
“It’s been three, hasn’t it?”
“Mmm.” I nod. “So it has.” My phone rings. I see it’s my mother calling and answer. “Hey, Mom, I’m in a meeting. Can I call you back?” I listen, and then say,“What?… Why?… Yes. I’ll be back soon.” I hang up.
“Red flag on the home front?” asks Victor.
“I don’t believe it. My brother and sister-in-law just decided to kick their personal merger in the bucket.”
“Any speculations as to why?”
“My assessment would be poor financial management, creating a rut, and then a disbanding in order to create some sort of necessary action,” I say, thinking out loud.
“Any solutions in sight?”
“Not according to my mom,” I answer, reeling from the news. “It’s unbelievable. Tara, Uncle Sam, now this.” I look at him. “Do you have brothers or sisters?”
“No. No sibling rivalries here.”
“What about your parents?”
“They’re together in Boston.” He pauses. “Look, why don’t you take care of your family business, Maddy. You can e-mail me the logo later.”
“Yeah. Okay. Thanks,” I say, in a daze. “What do you do?” I ask, shaking my head.
“Sprinkle their shoes…and let them walk where they will,” says Victor.
I have plenty of time to think on the red-eye back to Ann Arbor. I lean back in my seat fondling the black ribbon on my shirt. I think about Uncle Sam. I think about Tara. I think about the death of a marriage.
I pat my purse on my lap and murmur, “Oh, Uncle Sam, what are we going to do about Daniel and Rebecca?”
Death, I think, strikes not only living human beings but living entities like marriages, states of being, concepts, beliefs, even prototypes. I shake the thought off, not wanting to feel grief, anguish or regret. Instead, I leaf through my newspaper.
The Funeral Planner Page 14
