“And Arthur Pintock wasn’t?”
“I wasn’t sure if that was beginner’s luck.”
“What happened to ‘faith’?”
“Faith is staying in the game when the luck wears thin.”
“I’ll have to remember that. In the meantime, he’s wiring the money tomorrow. I think half should be allocated into an account never to be touched until his time of need. And the other half towards operating expenses. What do you think?”
“I’d like to invest his funds in General Obligation Bonds. They’re safe, double-A rating, and exempt from state, federal and local tax. It will give you a leg up in case vendors retrade you by hiking their fees during a time of need.”
“All that gobbledygook sounds good to me. I just want to make sure that any gains on the principal go to the estate of the client.”
“Agreed and duly noted,” says Victor.
We hang up, and I contact Sierra asking her to handle the life bio video for Project Haggerty. And I put a plan in place for her to train other videographers in case we get too busy for her to handle it all.
Norm Pearl, Commercial Developer-Entrepreneur
Famed commercial developer Norm Pearl calls upon my services. He’s a visionary who twenty years ago built large loftstyle work-live spaces throughout Manhattan and Chicago, which made him a wealthy sought-after urban developer.
To prepare for his pre-need tribute, Mr. Pearl pays extra for me to meet with him in various urban dwellings such as Philadelphia and Cleveland, where he’s considering his next mega-development. While checking out urban landscapes with Mr. Pearl, I learn that he is a very young sixty-five who gives all of his projects in development code names based on constellations. Besides loving his lifestyle as an entrepreneur and developer, the next and only thing Mr. Pearl loves is the game of golf.
Between teeing up and driving the ball from one hole to the next, Mr. Pearl does his most creative thinking, and the course is where he figures people out.
“Everything you need to know about a person can be summed up in one game of golf,” Mr. Pearl tells me on more than one occasion. “It’s how you play the game.”
He also insists on teaching me to play. He buys me a Taylor Made golf package featuring their R500 series and Miscela club. I’ve never played golf before, but soon learn why the sport carries so much weight in corporate America. Where else can you take a stroll in the woods with your buddies and play a brain game that requires not only physical prowess but strategic thinking in terms of isolating the best weapons (i.e., clubs) for the particular situation (i.e., driving, putting, et cetera.). It’s like playing chess on a giant, green canvas.
While playing one particular golf course in Philadelphia, I ask Mr. Pearl, “So what are your favorite charities?”
He steadily focuses on a putt and replies, “I don’t believe in giving to charities.”
“Really? Not even for tax write-offs?”
Mr. Pearl hits the ball. It drops in the hole. “I just tell my accountant to make donations where he sees I need to. But truthfully, I don’t trust any of them because I have no idea where that money is really going.”
“What if I could start a charitable organization for you? It would be part of your trust and it would activate upon…”
“Expiration?” laughs Mr. Pearl. “The trouble is, I don’t see myself making a difference when it comes to big charitable organizations. And I’m about making a difference. But I’m open to hearing any ideas you come up with, Madison.”
“What about food? What’s your favorite food that you might like to have served at the tribute?”
Mr. Pearl thinks for a moment. “I want everything I can’t have now. Donuts, Ding Dongs, corned beef sandwiches, apple martinis…the works.”
I go to the drawing board and prepare a strategy for Mr. Pearl’s life tribute. Once again, thanks to Eve’s graphic design contribution and twelve points toward her internship, I present my ideas to him in storyboard format on a golf course in Cleveland.
“I suggest your tribute be held at a golf course for a night game but limited to nine holes due to time and for a…ninelives metaphor. Your guests will each receive a package of glow-in-the-dark golf balls with your name engraved on them.” I present the graphic depiction.
“I love that!” exclaims Mr. Pearl. “My spirit will fly on a golf ball soaring through the constellations!”
“Glad you got the metaphor,” I say, pulling out the next concept’s storyboard. I excitedly continue, pointing to the board, a graphic illustration of people huddling around a hole as if FDR is about to give a fireside chat. “At each hole, everyone will get an opportunity to tell a story about you and what you meant to them. Each hole will be named a constellation that matches one of your developments and what it meant to you and to them. When we get to the ninth hole we’ll announce that your trust is creating nationwide golf camps for underprivileged urban kids who wouldn’t normally have the opportunity to learn the sport and the ethics of the game that can be applied to everyday life.” I pause to catch my breath. “So, what do you think?”
Mr. Pearl beams. “This is phenomenal! But why wait until I kick the bucket to get this noble idea off the ground? I want to start that camp today so I can see the results and be proud of it. In fact, why wait for my demise to enjoy this whole ordeal you’ve concocted? I want to do it twice, Ms. Banks. Once while I’m alive, like a dress rehearsal! So I can enjoy it, because it sounds like a heck of a lot of fun. Then you can do it again when I’m gone.”
I stand there dumbfounded. “That’s twice the cost.”
“You worry too much about money.”
I cock my head at him, wondering what that’s supposed to mean.
“You’re very pretty when you’re trying to figure things out. I find it…endearing. Would you like to go out sometime?”
“Where did that come from?” I ask, surprised.
“I act on impulse.”
“Well, I’m, uh, flattered. But I don’t date my clients. Strict policy, especially when I’m just getting my company off the ground.”
Mr. Pearl heckles. “You got the bug, don’t ya?”
“What bug?”
“The ‘I’ve gotta make a mark’ bug,” he says, putting his golf club in the bag.
“Well, that is what I went to school for. And it is part of human nature, to take steps toward accomplishing… something…worthwhile.”
“The thing is, Madison, once you’ve got the bug, there’s no going back. It’s in your blood. It’s who you are. It’s your lifestyle for the rest of your life. It’s like having an on button that never goes off.”
“You have that, too?” I ask, feeling an instant kinship with him.
He nods. “Born with it. Nothing turns it off. To tell you the truth, I don’t even think death can turn that sucker off.”
I smile at him. “You know, I believe you. But how do you balance the professional button with the personal button?”
“I’m still trying to figure that one out. Whoever figures it out first has to promise to tell the other.” He winks. “Deal?”
“Deal.”
Kate and Henry Foster, General Contractors
Kate and Henry Foster learn about Lights Out from their good friend Norm Pearl, only they decide to call me about handling a different kind of demise.
Over a cup of coffee at a local diner in Ann Arbor, I meet with the couple, both in their mid-forties, young and full of life.
“Look, we don’t want a pre-need tribute for the closing curtain on our lives,” they tell me. “We want a time-of-need celebration for the death of our marriage.”
“You want to celebrate…a divorce?” I ask, trying to make sense of their request. They nod. “This is a new one on me. What you’re describing is not Lights Out’s core business, so I’m not sure I get what you want us to do.”
Kate begins. “We want to celebrate the life of our marriage…and its finale. But no one believes us that it’s over.
”
“They think we’re not serious about getting divorced because we don’t fight,” adds Henry. “In fact, we still love each other, and we have this great general contracting business together.”
“But we both want to move on,” clarifies Kate. “We’re not growing with each other anymore the way we would like to. We don’t have a problem with moving on, but everyone else around us seems to.”
“We don’t want to affect morale within the company, either,” says Henry.
Kate chimes in. “We’re afraid that if we get divorced, it’s going to cause major rifts among our family, friends and business associates. And neither one of us wants that. So we think if we have a happy celebration, a tribute for what our marriage was, then we’ll make everyone see it differently.”
“So you want an exit ceremony for your marriage, not your life?” I ask. They nod in unison and an idea is born inside my head. “Okay. Tell me more about your marriage. What are the highlights? What are the low points?”
For the next hour, Kate and Henry share the joys of their marriage with me—how they met and created their business, and about their children, their personal passions, their love of adventure travel and their friends. I take notes and give them questionnaires and templates to fill out. We make a plan to meet again and finalize the details.
I’m about to leave the coffee shop when I spot my brother Daniel, in black jeans and a black T-shirt, sitting quietly in a corner, writing. I glide into the seat across from him and break the ice. “Hey. How’s it going?”
He looks up, caught off guard, and offers a platitudinal grin. “It’s going.”
“Did you have your meeting with that publisher?”
He nods.
“And?”
“They offered me a publishing deal. They’re going to print three thousand copies.”
“That’s great!”
“No advance,” adds Daniel, meekly offering full disclosure.
“Oh. Well, it’s still great. And you can use this one to get an advance on the next one. How’s Andy doing?”
“Not too happy about the breakup. He’s starting to sulk a lot. Like me.”
“How is it living at Mom and Dad’s?”
Daniel smirks. “I’m twelve again…only with two kids now.”
I laugh. “You can be funny when you want to be.”
He asks, “How’s the death and dying business going?”
“Alive and well,” I say, then feeling the awkwardness of the situation I stand up. “Well, I have to go.” I turn to leave.
“Hey, Mad…when are you going to drop the black-ribbon act already?”
I glance at my black ribbon commemorating Uncle Sam’s memory faithfully pinned on my shirt. “Maybe when you drop the doom-and-gloom act.”
“That will never happen. You want to know why?”
“Why?”
“Because loss is way the fuck underrated,” he softly says.
“I know.” I nod. “I know.”
I walk out thinking about Daniel. What made him so prone to misery? What made us both unable to let go of grief ? It wasn’t like we had bad childhoods. We had wonderful upbringings, good educations, overnight camp, parents who cared. What was his issue? Or mine? What compels me to play the results? Was it the era we grew up in? Society’s pull? Do you shape yourself ? Or your generation and its inherent environment? I think about what Norm Pearl said. Do the lights ever really go out? And where does the light, the soul, the mist go after it leaves the body? Is it liberated? Like a butterfly’s metamorphosis? Do liberated souls continue to shape life on earth, becoming the unseen writers, directors and producers of earth’s soap opera, manipulating drama on earth for some greater purpose than is visible to the eye of the earthling? Are there politics of the soul? Our souls have their own journeys unrelated to those of our parents. So how does attachment fit in—if everyone is an adopted soul? I stop myself. Keep your eye on the pin, I tell myself. Keep your eye on the pin.
I sit at a coffee shop on Main Street catching up with the Financial Street Journal. I learn that Arthur has taken an extended leave to travel around the world. He still refuses to name a successor, instead trusting all to do their jobs without him for the time being. Apparently his trust in his executives is greater than the market’s, because the stock has dropped a significant point. Palette Enterprises, on the other hand, seems to pick up speed again with the announcement of an acquisition deal of a leading video-game publisher. Palette will license the videogame publisher’s artwork. I shake my head and sigh.
Sierra joins me. “You know, I think reading that paper is a downer for you.”
“Information is power,” I say.
“Depending on how you use it. Otherwise it’s a depressant.”
“Duly noted,” I say. “Did you find a shooter for South Carolina?”
“Yep. I sent him the video-production template to follow. I’ll edit as soon as I get the footage.”
“Awesome. Oh, that reminds me. I have to make sure my lawyer trademarks the production template.” I shoot off a quick e-mail to Todd reminding him, and then look at Sierra. “Can you create a Lights Out banner?”
“Are we going on parade?”
“If you weren’t so cute, I’d…”
“What?”
“I can’t think that fast. Anyway, I need a banner for the funeral convention.”
“Why don’t you hire a company to build an exhibitor’s booth for you?”
“That’s not where I want my dollars to go.”
“But that is what the business is about, no? Impressive exhibitions? And you do want to inform potential clients about what you’re doing.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to go over the top. It’s not an entertainment trade show. I want a simple, tasteful booth.”
“Do you want me to set up the video projection and make sure it runs smoothly?”
“That would be great. Invite Milton if you want. I’d love to meet him.”
“If he’s not traveling.”
Mr. Pearl’s “rehearsal tribute” takes place at his favorite golf course in Hilton Head, South Carolina. Approximately one hundred friends, family and business associates arrive at dusk to pay tribute to him.
I stand offstage next to Norm, who wears a tuxedo with a Taylor Made golf hat and shoes. He looks out at the burgeoning crowd of would-be mourners. I glance around looking for a familiar face in the crowd.
“Not a bad turnout, huh?” Norm smiles. He looks down at his feet and murmurs, “I think I’m feeling kind of awkward about all this. I never thought so many people would come to celebrate my life.”
“How can you say that? You are an amazing person,” I say. “You have accomplished so much.”
“I don’t think I’m worthy of this kind of attention.”
I notice the crowd is growing restless, waiting for Norm to speak. I look Norm in the eye. “Oh my God, you are soooo worthy. You’re worthy of being praised, you’re worthy of being loved, you’re worthy of celebrating you with the ones you love,” I say encouragingly. I flash on my liberal arts degree and wish I had added just one course in psychology to all those business classes.
“Really?”
I wing it. “Yes. Absolutely. Now go out there and…be a brilliant dead man. You can do it. Go on. They’re all waiting. If you get nervous, just look at the TelePrompTer.”
“We have a TelePrompTer?”
“Well, sort of…the old-fashioned kind.”
“The old-fashioned kind?”
I point to my mouth. “Read my lips.”
“But I won’t be able to see your lips in the dark.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll send the words telepathically. Go on, you’ve got great dead-man talent in you.” I give him a big push and out he goes.
Norm Pearl stands on stage staring out at his family and friends. He takes a deep breath. “Everyone, thank you for coming here tonight to participate in this tribute to…well, to myself. This tribute is s
upposed to happen in the distant future, but Lights Out Enterprises made it look so good, I thought I’d have a dress rehearsal so I could partake in the fun with you! Only you guys get a reprise!”
The guests cheer.
“Okay, so the deal is, we’re going to pretend I’m not here so I can hear all the nice things you guys are going to say about me when I’m gone. At least I hope they’re nice. If not, don’t expect an invite to the encore!” He laughs and the crowd laughs with him.
“By the way, if you do make it to the encore, there’s one overriding rule, no crying! I’ve had a great life so don’t waste any tissues on me.
“Okay, so first up is the life bio video, which will play on the wall of the country club building. If I missed anyone—sorry, but we can reshoot and add you into the video for the final playback!” He chuckles. “Okay, everyone, enjoy!”
I cue the projectionist while guests lie on blankets watching the video summation of Norm’s life. It ends with a resounding applause. Afterward, people mill around the buffet featuring all the food and drink that Norm Pearl wishes he could eat without restraint and which he happily partakes in tonight. And off to the side, the Charleston Philharmonic plays Norm’s favorite symphonies by Ravel and Stravinsky.
Everything goes according to plan. Guests receive glowin-the-dark golf balls with Norm Pearl’s name engraved on them. Norm Pearl stories are told at each hole. I shepherd the rounds making sure everyone has enough balls, making sure that the field lights are on, that the video crew is getting all the highlights, and that no one gets hurt, for which I have a registered nurse on the premises as backup.
In the middle of a Norm story on the fourth hole, also designated as the Orion hole after an urban development in Cleveland, my cell phone vibrates. I grab it and walk away from the hole. “Madison Banks,” I whisper.
“Madison, Victor Winston. I’m sorry but I’m not going to make it.”
“Oh. Well, that’s okay,” I say. But I’m disappointed. I didn’t realize how much I wanted my round-A investor to see my first official Lights Out dress rehearsal send-off.
The Funeral Planner Page 16
