I glide into the limousine and smile. “That’s exactly the point, Mr. Thornton.”
“Good. I’m looking forward to seeing your proposal and budget next week.”
“Next week,” I say. The limo takes off.
I study my notes from the meeting and begin a plan. I’ll propose the funeral take place in a forest or arboretum. If he wants a funeral home, I’ll suggest having a large hi-def video screen show the life of plants and trees with time-lapse photography. I’m sure I can get that from National Geographic. And of course, I’ll suggest martinis served in test tubes. Everyone can receive a forest-green lab coat with Thornton Pharmaceuticals’ name embroidered on it. There will be no music, only the amplified sounds of nature, and an audio recording of Thornton’s personal views on the lessons to be gleaned from the life of plants and trees. If he’s ambitious, I’ll suggest we package the audio tapes and distribute them either for free through his Web site or in arboretums around the world with proceeds going toward the cure for the common cold.
My thoughts are interrupted by my ringing cell phone. “This is Madison Banks.”
“Aunt Maddy! I did it! They’re watching it right now,” Andy fervently whispers.
“They are? How did you set it up?”
“I told them that for my birthday I wanted to watch the movie The Kid, ya know, the movie where Bruce Willis meets up with the kid he used to be.”
“Yeah…”
“Well…I told Mom and Dad I wanted both of them to watch the movie with me at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, like you told me to do.”
“And?”
“And then I switched the tapes, just like you said,” says Andy softly.
“So they’re all watching it now?”
“Yeah,” he whispers. “I told them I had to go to the bathroom—so I could call you.”
“What happened when they realized it wasn’t The Kid?”
“Grandma said it must be one of those life bio videos you were working on. I told them I wanted to see some of it. And Grandma, Grandpa and Mom wanted to see some of it, too. Then they figured out it was about the death of a marriage and now they’re all glued to the tube,” he says, still keeping his voice hushed.
“Your dad, too?”
“Riv-e-ted…gotta go. I’ll make contact later,” he whispers conspiratorially. “Over and out.”
“Over and out,” I whisper back, hoping Daniel and Rebecca find a way to value their union again.
I pull out my trusty FSJ from my briefcase. I scan the headlines and skip to the Market section. There’s a small article about Derek Rogers.
“Now what?” I say to myself.
The article states that Derek Rogers, CEO of Palette Enterprises, has resigned to pursue other interests. Mr. Rogers tells FSJ that his success in leading Palette Enterprises to its meteoric rise now leaves him challenged to take on new opportunities. He leaves Palette with substantial stock options and an exit bonus of five million in cash. I predict Palette’s stock will fall in a matter of weeks. The article goes on about who will succeed Derek. I look at the printed words, turn the page and whisper,“I’m not going to wonder what you’re up to next, Mr. Rogers, not anymore.”
I jet-set from New Haven to Houston for my meeting with Roger Lincoln of Green Power Corporation. Roger’s office is lined with books on every subject you can think of, a private library of over ten thousand books. He’s five-six, stocky and well-dressed in his early fifties.
I pull out my steno pad for notes while Roger fixes me a cup of hot tea. I discover that he collects signed first editions of American literature and has a penchant for historical novels about Vikings.
“Oh, I love to read,” he tells me. “I find it incredibly helpful for business, too.”
“How’s that?” I ask.
“When authors write about their regions, I learn about their customs. It actually helps when I travel for business. Like in the South, they ask a lot about your family before they close a deal. In New York, they’re slick as oil, and the faster they talk, the less they know. In the Midwest, they’re straight and real. How do you like your tea?”
“Black is fine. Thanks. Do you have a favorite author?”
“Lynne Sharon Schwartz. She wrote Disturbances in the Field. A classic, if you ask me—should be mandatory reading for college literature courses.”
He hands me my tea. “Thank you. Do you write, too?”
“I dabble in poetry. I love Robert Frost. ‘Stopping by the Woods’ is priceless. And Sylvia Plath, she was a genius. The new young poets are quite incredible, too.”
I stop writing. “Roger, I’ve got an idea. What do you think of having a poetry slam of your favorite poems?”
“That is brilliant!”
“How would you like it if I could get one of your favorite authors to read your eulogy?”
“That would be amazing!”
“I know you’re into the Vikings, so have you considered a Viking funeral?”
“What a great idea! I could have flaming arrows hit the sails of a wooden boat set to sea at dawn with me in it.”
“Yes, and you could have your favorite music playing at the same time. By the way, what is your favorite music?”
“Anything by Herbie Hancock. In fact, if you could get him to play live while the ship sets sail, I would resurrect myself for the event.”
“Just so you know, we’ll have to work out burial details for the “viking funeral” with your local funeral home. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with some paperwork and you can start selecting the poems you want read.”
Back in Los Angeles, I’m swamped preparing Lights Out for a funeral industry trade show. I leaf through stacks of mail and find a fancy invitation to the wedding of Norm Pearl and Elizabeth Thyme. “Good going, Norm.”
I mark it in my calendar, not surprised, given the looks Norm and Elizabeth shared at his “death and dying” dress rehearsal, yet I wonder how he found the balance of the buttons.
My phone rings, interrupting my thoughts. The caller ID reads my parents’ house where Andy’s been for a few days. I answer. “Hey, Andy. What’s the outcome report?”
“That was a clever ruse you pulled, dear,” says Eleanor.
“Oh, hi, Mom. What ruse?” I ask, trying to cover my tracks.
“You know very well. Andy included me in on the plot—in which he was a superb actor, I might add. You realize that you’re a storyteller, don’t you, dear? Whether you like it or not.”
“How’s that, Mom? I thought I was an entrepreneur.”
“Your bio video on the life and death of a marriage is a story—a powerful one, by the way. Personally, I think those two will end up back together sooner rather than later. But stories are powerful teachers. You and Andy managed to wield that power. Rebecca’s decided to delay filing for a divorce.”
“We did? What happened?”
“Well, Daniel cried like he did at the bris. What’s new? And Rebecca, even though she wore her stoic look, was without question affected. Not one quip out of her during or after the video. So she’s holding off, for now. And Andy feels as though he’s won a Pyrrhic victory,” explains Eleanor.
“So that’s good. It gives Daniel more time to get his act together,” I say. “Does he suspect any behind-the-scenes coercion?”
“Not a clue,” says Eleanor. “And Andy’s sworn me to secrecy. I guess that makes me an accomplice.”
“How’s it feel?”
“Oh, super. I can’t wait until it’s over so I’ll have a great story to tell,” she laughs.
My doorbell rings. “Hang on, Mom, and tell me what you think,” I say, and hit the hold button. While I retrieve a large box from FedEx, I know Eleanor is listening to a humorously prerecorded “hold” message.
A light feminine voice says, “While you’re acting out on the stage of life, do you ever wonder what people might say about you when the show’s over? You know, when the curtain drops? Well, you don’t have to wonder anymore.
Lights Out lets you light up the way you want to be remembered…”
I pick up the phone. “What do you think?” I ask as I open a box stacked with pajama tops baring the name “Lights Out.”
Eleanor can’t stop laughing. “I love it, honey. I think you ought to give out those little novelty flashlights at the trade show with your company name on them.”
“That’s a good idea,” I reply. “Thanks!”
Competitive Landscape: The Past Reprised—
History Repeats Itself
The Funeral Trade Show in Las Vegas is filled with exhibitors displaying their wares. There are wall-to-wall items related to one’s time of need and the afterlife, and the room is jam-packed with owners and employees of funeral homes from across the country and its allied industries, as well.
My booth is in the low-rent district away from the main thoroughfare, a cost-conscious move on my part. A large banner boldly hangs above the booth baring the name Lights Out Enterprises. I did, however, give in to Sierra’s suggestions and display a forty-five-inch television monitor playing clips of the life bio videos in an ongoing loop, including scenes of Maurice LeSarde singing live at Uncle Sam’s tribute. Pajama tops and novelty flashlights with the name Lights Out on them are giveaway items. And on display is the customized gravestone by the renowned French sculptor Davide. It is an extraordinary patina sculpture of Uncle Sam fishing. The artist cleverly placed the fishing line’s hook and lure in a round empty watering hole where visitors can leave a memento. There’s also an attachable video monitor inside a matching patina sculpture in the shape of a fishing tackle box. When you open the tackle box, the life bio video automatically plays with sound. There’s also a button to push on the sculpted fishing lure that plays the melody to “Fishing Free.” At the base of the sculpture Uncle Sam’s name is engraved along with his dates and a small inscription that reads “It’s a beee-utiful day.”
I also included samples of Andy’s now-framed leaf art with poetic words about loss, loss and more loss written by Daniel Banks.
Crowds stand and gawk at the sculpture and the videos.
Sierra fiddles with the projector to make sure the image on screen is crystal clear. More and more people stop by. I conduct a series of miniseminars outlining the offerings of Lights Out with a PowerPoint presentation. And on two separate monitors at either end of the booth the Web site is prominently displayed.
Sierra motions to me that she’s going to check out the show. She signals that she’ll be back in ten minutes. I nod and continue my speech to the group in front of me. “And so you see…” I explain,“Lights Out Enterprises offers strategic partnerships with funeral home directors so you can enhance your services to your communities. You supply the pre-need clients and we’ll take care of all the details. Are there any questions?”
A man raises his hand. “How are you different from Tribute in a Box?”
“Tribute in a Box,” I repeat. “I’m sorry. I’m not familiar with them. What do they do?”
“Seems like they do exactly what you do,” a woman replies. “And they guarantee celebrities will perform at the funeral, I mean tribute.”
I’m baffled.
“They’re right around the corner,” says another man. “And their price points are lower than yours.”
On those words the crowd begins to disperse. Sierra returns wearing a concerned expression on her face as she shuffles through the exodus to me. She places a copy of the Financial Street Journal in my hands.
“Maddy. Today’s journal,” says Sierra. “Read and breathe. And whatever you do, don’t go around the corner unless you want to short circuit your own lights.”
I look down. There on the front page is a cover story:
Derek Rogers resurfaces with “Tribute in a Box.” Derek Rogers’s latest and greatest venture: prefab customized tributes for all. Since leaving Palette Enterprises, Mr. Rogers has quickly and quietly amassed ownership of 1,000 publicly traded funeral homes offering after-funeral services, estate planning, legal advice, grief counseling and now, Mr. Rogers’s latest product, Tribute in a Box, specialized funeral services aimed at the babyboomer generation. The consortium of funeral homes also offers accrued interest earned in prepaid plans. Tribute in a Box rolls out its offering at the Funeral Trade Show in Las Vegas with exceptionally low price points due to volume-based business incentives…
I throw down the paper and look at Sierra. “How is this possible? What does he do, have a chip in my brain that tracks novel business ideas? Even if he read the article on Lights Out, he wouldn’t be able to copycat me like this, and in such record time!”
Sierra shakes her head. “It’s weird, Maddy. Twilight Zone weird.”
“I have to go over there.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
But I’ve already begun my journey. I stomp toward the main aisle. As I turn the corner I stop in my tracks. My mouth drops open. The most extravagant exhibit on the whole floor is Tribute in a Box. Not only is there a slick life celebratory video on a giant eighty-foot HD plasma screen that bares an uncanny resemblance to my life bio video template cut-by-cut, but it seems like every concept of my business plan is on display in 3-D virtual hologram format, rotating at different points in the booth. On top of that, celebrity look-alikes for Billy Crystal, Whoopi Goldberg, Jennifer Aniston, Tom Cruise, Bob Dylan and Donald Trump wander the perimeters of the booth blurting out their trademark lines, shaking hands with all of the attendees, and promising to speak on their behalf at their time of need as long as it’s arranged in advance via the Tribute in a Box Pre-need Celebrity Package.
I blink and take a step closer, only to discover none other than Jonny Bright animatedly propagating the business to a crowd of funeral-home owners.
I grab Sierra’s arm. “That’s…that’s…that’s Jonny Bright!”
Sierra shakes her head. “Holy shit. He never got back to you on your business plan. You’ve got one hell of a lawsuit if you ask me.” I start heading toward Jonny. Sierra grabs my arm. “Don’t go there, Maddy. Remember what Professor Osaka taught us. You’ll just reveal weakness inside your anger. Besides, competition is good. Even your uncle Sam told you it keeps you on your toes. Remember?”
“I’ve got my anger under control,” I mumble through tight lips. “I’m just going to do some competitive trolling, that’s all. Can you please watch the booth?”
“Do I have a choice?” asks Sierra. “Maddy, if you’re going to walk into the lions’ den…take Uncle Sam with you.” She hands me my purse.
I look awkwardly at her. “How did you know Uncle Sam was in here?”
“How long have I known you? I used to be your girlfriend, remember? It doesn’t mean I stop knowing you.”
I nod, pat my purse, walk right up to Jonny Bright and immediately unleash my anger. “Excuse me, but what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
In the distance, Sierra shakes her head and covers her eyes.
“Maddy! Hi! Um…welcome…welcome to, uh, Tribute in a, uh, Box,” Jonny stutters. He turns to the crowd. “And here’s a, uh, sample video for all, uh, of you to look at.” He hits Play on a DVD machine and moves to the side of the booth with me.
“Hey, you’re looking really, uh, hot. So, how are you, Maddy?” he asks, nervously wiping his hands on his pants.
“How am I?” I ask, infuriated. “You hold on to my intellectual property, you don’t return calls, you don’t communicate, you pull a Houdini—on everyone—and you turn up here, with my business plan on display, and you ask ‘How am I?’”
“Look, Maddy. I think you’re, uh, way, way overreacting.”
“Don’t you dare try to turn this around, Jonny.”
He swallows hard. “Look, how do you know I’m not protecting you? That Derek didn’t come to me with the idea and I kept your plan away from him so there wouldn’t be a conflict of interest?”
“Then why not return my calls? Why not return my business plan? What are you h
iding from unless you’ve got something to hide?”
Jonny fidgets, nervously rubbing his hands together like he did at Morton’s restaurant and like he did at the Beverly Hills Deli. And then it hits me. “You gave Derek my business plan for Artists International, didn’t you.” I am stunned by my realization.
Jonny squirms some more.
“You signed an NDA. I can sue you for this, Jonny.”
“I never signed an NDA,” he whines defensively.
I pull out my PDA to retrieve the legal docs I scanned in a long time ago.
“Really? I can prove it.” I show him signed NDAs by Bobby Garelik and Victor Winston. But the third NDA is blank. Jonny never signed it. I falter.
He gloats and says, “See. I never signed an NDA.”
“There are witnesses, Jonny.”
“Only if you can get them to testify,” he says cockily. Before I can reply, Derek Rogers appears, immaculately dressed, and as usual, bearing an arrogant posture. “Well, look who’s here. Madison Banks. I like your booth. It’s got a nice quaint charm to it.”
“Tell me something, Derek. Do you ever generate an original concept on your own?”
“Why should I? That’s what I hire other people to do for me.”
“Like Jonny?”
Jonny stands behind me, shaking his head in an attempt to signal Derek on his response. Derek remains calm and nonplussed as he replies,“Madison, you wouldn’t want me to ask you to reveal your sources of inspiration, now, would you?”
“Why don’t you try me?”
“Because frankly, I don’t care where your inspiration comes from. I care about results. And I have to say your Lights Out Enterprises is a nice little outfit. In fact, I’d be interested in acquiring it. What do you think, Maddy? Would a hundred thousand do it?”
“Is there anything you can do besides insult people, Derek? Or are your only abilities stealing, raping and pillaging other businesses?”
“What? My number’s too low and you’re hurt?” snickers Derek.
The Funeral Planner Page 19
