“I’m stuck in a board meeting in Houston and missed the flight. How’s it going?”
“Great. It’s going great. Mr. Pearl plays a wonderful dead man. My skills at dead-man therapy are growing, and the sky is all a-glow with golf balls.”
“Good. Keep up the good work and we’ll talk later. Bye,” says Victor. He hangs up.
“Right. See ya later,” I say, and hang up. I stare at the phone, sighing and return to the celebratory crowd.
We reach the ninth hole and I turn to a sweet blond woman in her mid-fifties. I hand her a wireless microphone. “Okay, Elizabeth, you’re up.”
“Oh, dear. I’m not very good speaking with large crowds,” she says nervously. “I usually speak to small groups.”
“You’ll do great. Just think of this as, you know…groups of small groups. Here’s your speech.” I hand Elizabeth a piece of a paper.
She looks at the crowd. “Oh, dear. I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. Just look for the TelePrompTer. And don’t forget to tie in the constellation.” I check my notes. “This is Aquarius, a.k.a. Project Phily.”
“Did you say there’s a TelePrompTer?”
“Sort of. But don’t worry. Think of all the good this will bring!”
Elizabeth stands there frozen…until I shove her into the center of the green. Norm watches as Elizabeth shyly lifts the microphone to her mouth.
“Hello, everyone. Welcome, um, to the ninth hole, I mean, the hole of Aquarius. My name is Elizabeth Thyme. I’m here to make an announcement on behalf of the Philanthropy Golf Society. I’ve never had the honor of meeting Mr. Pearl, but I am so touched by this man’s generosity and goodwill. Tonight, in paying tribute to this fine man, I am pleased to announce the formation of the Norm Pearl Golf Camp Academy.”
Everyone raises their fists to the sky and cheers. “Go, Norm! Go, Norm!”
Norm blushes. A good friend pats him on the back. I notice Norm no longer watches the crowd of family and friends, but is suddenly mesmerized by the shy, humble, sincere and forthright qualities of Elizabeth Thyme.
“Really,” says Elizabeth. “This is truly something. The Norm Pearl Golf Camp Academy is going to help many children across the country. Children who wouldn’t normally have this kind of opportunity…to learn the game of golf and the leadership and team skills that go with it and that will serve them on the green and off. I can’t thank Mr. Pearl enough. He’s a real water-bearer, and water is the bearer of life, so please, let’s all bless this man and give him a round of applause!”
Everyone cheers some more.
A small elderly lady walks up to Norm and pinches his cheek. “You’re a good son, Norm. A good son!”
Norm blushes some more.
Elizabeth turns to Norm in the crowd. There’s a glitter in her eye. “I know you’re supposed to be dead for the night, Mr. Pearl, but I’d like to resurrect you and ask you to say something to your guests, on behalf of this occasion.”
I watch Mr. Pearl suddenly become quiet and soft-spoken as he approaches Elizabeth. She hands him the microphone.
He slowly raises the mic. “I thought my life was great… until I died tonight…and was reborn in this moment. Because who can turn down a resurrection from a beautiful blond?”
People laugh.
“Seriously, I gotta tell you, a dress rehearsal on death is the best way to play out life. I never knew how much I was loved. And I never knew how much I liked to give. Without this tribute, there would be no Golf Camp Academy. And for that I’d like to thank the woman who inspired the idea to begin with, Madison Banks.”
He points to me. Everyone looks. I try not to show how shy I suddenly feel. I nod my thanks, not really wanting any of the attention. I mumble, “Thanks.”
Norm continues. “Thanks, Madison. I gotta say that death has never made me feel more alive. What a life-enhancer this is. Okay, now, everyone, I want you all to honor the request of a resurrected man…and that is enjoy this moment!”
Everyone cheers again and I notice Norm takes the moment to enjoy Elizabeth Thyme.
The finale to the evening has approximately fifty people lined up ready to tee off their glow-in-the-dark golf balls simultaneously. Someone counts down: “Three… two…one…and tee!” Suddenly fifty glowing golf balls baring Norm Pearl’s name hit the sky. I look up. The sky is indeed all a-glitter with small lights popping through the atmosphere in an improvisational theatrical free fall. I smile to myself and whistle the theme of “Fishing Free.”
I return to Ann Arbor to put together Kate and Henry Foster’s “death of a marriage” tribute. I expect a somewhat resistant crowd of attendees, so I hire JoAnna Myman from Event Ventures to help with the details. Because the Fosters are adventure travelers, the marriage tribute is held at a local summer camp where they first met. Everyone has an opportunity to go waterskiing, sailing and kayaking.
Sierra puts together a ten-minute life video bio of the Fosters’ marriage for the finale in the camp theater. One red balloon with both Kate’s and Henry’s names on it is released into the sky before the video begins. The video includes a montage of photos and video depicting the life of their marriage and its happy ending. When the video ends, a set of balloons, both white, bearing each of their names separately, is released into the sky. Kate and Henry assure everyone this is what they want, that they are fine with it, and they want everyone else to be fine with it, too.
Finally, one of the attendees lifts his glass of champagne and yells, “To the death of a marriage and the birth of new beginnings!”
It’s exactly what Kate and Henry had hoped for.
I’m in Los Angeles when Arthur calls to say he’s in town on his way home from Australia. He invites me to dinner at the Bel Age Hotel.
I wait for Arthur at the bar, reading my Financial Street Journal and sipping grapefruit juice. I notice Gold Guy at the end of the bar, leering at me. I smile politely, but then he cocks his head and winks while flexing his body. He starts moving toward me. I quickly drop my paper and grab the black ribbon on my shirt, pointing to it and shaking my head. He shrugs and sits back down, glancing around to make sure no one saw his rejection repeat.
Arthur arrives and we’re seated for dinner overlooking the glowing neon lights of Sunset Boulevard.
“How have all your travels been?” I ask.
“Good. No. Terrific,” he says, placing his napkin on his lap.
I ditto his action, remembering one of the golden etiquette dining rules is to napkin-place only after your host. “I’ve made some remarkable discoveries about myself… and all because of Lights Out, Madison.”
“Arthur, I believe you’re smiling.”
“Am I? Well, it’s about time.” He picks up the menu, glances at it and puts it down. I barely have time to read the first item. I wonder if Arthur took classes in speed-ordering.
A waitress appears, ready to take our order. “What would you like this evening?”
I hesitate. Arthur looks at me, politely waiting for my answer.
“Um…you know what, I think I’ll have whatever Mr. Pintock is having,” I say, unless of course he orders something really difficult to eat.
“I’ll have the chicken Caesar salad and a glass of Chianti,” he says.
The waitress writes it down and leaves. I sigh, relieved, and then give my full attention back to Arthur.
“Confidentially speaking, I’ve decided to leave Pintock International.”
I nearly cough up my drink. “Excuse me, did you say leave?”
“I did. I haven’t told the board yet. Before I do, I want to implement a few changes in the company.”
“Have you chosen a successor?”
“No. And frankly, I’m not convinced any of my in-house executives have the drive and the leadership skills required to fill my shoes. They’re certainly competent. Drive and leadership is another matter.”
“What will you do after you leave?”
“Learn to live, for starters. Grace
was right. I never did that very well. You know who really knows how to live? The Australians. I’ve never seen such a commitment to having a good time. Remarkable. I also discovered the answers to some of those pre-need questions you had for me.”
“Such as?”
“Such as what kind of music I like. Well, I found out.” He pauses for effect—a long pause.
“Are you holding me hostage in suspense?”
He smiles. “Ready for this? I love acid jazz and techno.”
“Acid jazz and techno. That’s great, Arthur.”
Our food arrives, but he continues sharing his self-discoveries with me, so I politely refrain from eating until he does, yet another dining etiquette rule. This leaves me to drink more Chianti without any solids in my stomach.
“Yes. And I discovered how much I enjoy architecture and industrial design. I visited the top design firms in France, Germany and Japan,” he says with childlike wonder. “I went on architecture tours in Barcelona, Paris and Switzerland. You should see Frank Gehry’s Guggenheim Bilbao museum in Spain. Breathtaking, Madison, absolutely breathtaking. And in Yverdon-les-Bains, Switzerland, architects Diller and Scofidio designed a building made of mist. Imagine that. They call it the Blur Building because its shape is made up of clouds and it changes depending on the wind.”
“Wow, Arthur. You’ve really found yourself.”
“I’m sharing this with you, Madison, because I’m ready to do the life bio video all over again.”
“Okay, tell me when and we’ll set it up. Oh, and I can’t thank you enough for your referrals.”
“It’s my pleasure. It feels good to think about someone else. I think it helps ease the grief.” He pauses a moment, thinking of Tara, and then continues. “Speaking of helping others, there’s someone I think you should meet or perhaps I should say become acquainted with. Maybe he can help you.” He finally begins to eat his meal.
I dig into mine, trying not to appear starved. “Really?” I ask between big bites of my Caesar salad. “How?”
“I can’t say, since I did sign the young man’s NDA, but he seems to be quite talented and exceptionally driven, though I’ve only met him once.”
“Does he have a name?” I ask, placing a bite of salad in my mouth.
“Derek Rogers.”
I choke, then cough and gag, until I’m able to grab a glass of water and wash the shock away. This is chased by a short, intense bout of hyperventilating.
Arthur isn’t sure what to do. Concerned, he stands up, about to call the waiter over. “Are you having an asthma attack?” he asks.
I wave my hands back and forth to signal no. “No, no, I’ll be fine. I seem to have an allergic reaction to, uh, to people with the initials D.R.” I catch my breath.
“I see. You don’t care for doctors. Who does?”
I guzzle my wine down between blurting unintelligible protests. “I’d say it’s more like young scheming corporate pillagers who seek short-term incentives to bolster revenues until they can raid and exploit another unsuspecting sector, leaving their previous habitats in shambles.”
“What are you talking about?” asks Arthur, trying to follow me.
“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head, refusing to stoop so low as to bad-mouth or gossip about another person, even Derek Rogers. “Are you, uh, doing business with this, uh, person?”
“Derek Rogers? Not at this time. I just thought he might be able to help you.”
“Help me?” I shake my head. “I don’t think so.” I say under my breath,“That’s the last thing he would do for me.”
“Is there something you don’t like about this fellow?”
I shut my mouth and shake my head.
“Are you sure?”
“He’s got black dye under his fingernails.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” I say. “It’s the, uh, name of a song Tara once wrote. I just remembered it.”
“Sometimes you baffle me, Madison. But I admire you, really.”
“Really?” I ask, flattered and touched. “That is so nice…Arthur.” I get teary-eyed and, forgetting all business dining etiquette, use my cloth napkin to dab my eyes, mascara and all.
For the next few minutes I fill Arthur in on the latest developments of Lights Out. It feels good to share my goals and aspirations with him. And for a moment, I feel like I’m talking to Uncle Sam.
It’s Friday morning. I’m hard at work in the Los Angeles apartment putting together my itemized “customized experience” package in preparation for my meeting with Victor Winston. I glance at the clock. I’ve got two hours and twenty-one minutes to go. I break down costs and services into levels of participation. I include all the other amenities plus the life bio video, talent, and services from outside vendors for customized lighting design, music and catering. I add a breakdown of costs for risk management, destination management and tribute security, not to mention specialized costs for technology management for holograms, 3-D virtual reality, sensory theater, hi-tech attractions, emotion simulators, sports simulators and storytelling prompters, as well as adventure tributes that include hot-air balloons or customized tribute video games.
I’m preoccupied with all of this when I hear the ring of the phone, buried under piles of paperwork. I dig through and finally grab it.
“Lights Out Enterprises,” I say. “Experience designers for transitional states.”
“Hey, there, it’s Victor. I like the new tag line.”
“Thanks. I thought I should expand the brand after the Fosters’ dead marriage celebration. Are we still on?”
“Yes. But I’ve got to get to a meeting in Palm Springs earlier than I thought. So instead of meeting at the office, would it be all right if I drop by your place? It’s on my way.”
“Sure. When?”
“Now? I’m about to park on your street.”
“How do you know where I live?”
“I do have your paperwork, remember? And I have a GPS. It isn’t difficult.”
“But I’m not done with the presentation.”
“That’s okay. Show me what you’ve got so far.”
I look at myself and glance around my apartment, which no longer had any semblance of personal living space, but of a start-up company. It’s 11:05 a.m. and I’m still in my twopiece flannel pajamas. My place is a mess. My suitcase lies open with clothes half in and half out from all the traveling. Paperwork, videotape cassettes and stacks of newspapers and business magazines lie all over the living room.
One wall is covered with a large hanging white board. On the board is a list of clients and underneath is the action plan and status of each one. Computers, laptops, fax machine, printer, scanner, PDA, digital camera, CD disks, boxes of software, PowerPoint presentations, reams of paper and other office supplies—everything a girl needs to run a company from home—fills my entire living space. I’d prefer Victor not see this state of affairs. On the other hand, getting a meeting with Victor has become increasingly difficult with all of his other obligations. I need his input now, and who knows when he’ll be able to reschedule.
“Can you give me ten minutes?” I ask.
“Sure,” says Victor. “And thanks for accommodating me.”
“No problem, see you in ten.” I hang up and move into overdrive. I hit the print button on my current work and rapidly organize everything into messy little piles on my desk, couch and floor so the place looks presentable—well, sort of. I try hiding all the cables on the floor so he won’t trip over them. Then I run into my bedroom, toss the duvet cover over the bed and throw on a pair of jeans and sneakers. The doorbell rings. My hair is a mess and I’ve forgotten that I’m still in my flannel pajama top when I answer the door.
Victor stands there, clean and dapper in a pink cotton shirt and Dockers. Everything about him is neatly put together.
He smiles and holds up a Starbucks cup and a newspaper. “I brought you some tea. Black, the way you like it…and a Financial Str
eet Journal. That is your news carrier of choice, no?”
“Yes. Thanks,” I say, opening the door and taking the paper from him like a junkie. “Come on in,” I say as I scan the headlines.
Victor surveys the room. There’s not an ounce of judgment in his eyes or in his voice, but I’m hardly paying attention because I’ve become engrossed in an article that outlines transaction trends based on culture in different regions of the country.
“So this is the headquarters of Lights Out Enterprises,” I hear Victor say in the background. He places the cup of tea on the only bare spot left on the kitchen counter. He takes in the mess. “Now this is…”
“Chaos,” I say, still skimming the paper.
“I was going to say this is exciting. There’s more energy coming out of this room then out of all of Shepherd Venture Capital.”
“Well, you’re welcome to come here and work from the Lights Out pit anytime.”
“The Lights Out pit. Was that pun intended?” he asks.
But I’m too engrossed in breaking news to respond. “Humph, look at this,” I say. “Ubiquitous Music makes a pact with a cell-phone maker to license their music into phones. Could Lights Out broker a deal between Ubiquitous and the entire funeral industry? I mean, why not let funeral homes have the same access to music that cell phones do? What do you think?” I look up at Victor.
“Is part of your brand to work out of your pajamas? Quite clever, really. Will all of the Lights Out employees be following suit?”
I look down at my attire and realize Victor’s comment is a gold mine. “That is a great idea, Victor. After we build the brand, we can have Lights Out merchandise, starting with Lights Out pajamas.” Then I stop myself, concerned. “Hugh Hefner doesn’t have a trademark on pajama attire at the office, does he?”
“I don’t think that’s something you can trademark.” He studies my surroundings. “Do you have any hobbies?”
“Reading the FSJ,” I reply as my focus shifts to another section of the paper.
“What do you do for fun?”
“Work,” I say, as if it’s a perfectly appropriate answer.
The Funeral Planner Page 17
