Sierra, Siddhartha and I set sail in the Sunfish, laughing and splashing each other. In the middle of the lake, we settle down for tuna fish sandwiches and cookies.
“So how are you doing without Lights Out?” asks Sierra.
“I’m not doing. I’m being. Or trying to. But I gotta tell you, being gets boring.” When she laughs I ask,“Sierra, how did you get your business to grow so fast?”
“First of all, my business is a much simpler one. But what I did do and still do is practice flexing the muscle of gratitude.”
“The muscle of gratitude?” I say teasingly. “Sounds like the title of a sermon.”
“Well, it is in some ways. It’s about getting into clearly defined affirmations such as ‘I am grateful for my happiness,’ ‘I am grateful for my successful business.’ Say it enough times over and over and voilà, success and happiness appear.”
“I’ve tried that. It doesn’t work for me.”
“That’s because you get stuck in the past. Drop the regrets, sweetie. Just take a deep breath and exhale them.”
I take a deep breath and exhale. Sierra applauds. Sid gently puts her paw on my hand. “The next step, Maddy, and this is crucial, is to keep moving.”
“How do you know you’re going in the right direction?”
“You make it the right direction…because the only wrong direction is no direction at all. That’s getting stuck in a state of paralysis, and well…then you might as well turn the lights out.”
“Was there something I did in college that made me successful? Like, did I practice a certain custom or ritual?”
Sierra laughs. “Unrelenting drive and passion. And when you hit an obstacle you found a way around it—no, through it. I have no doubt you’ll find your way through this one, too.”
“No, I mean was there something I did on a regular basis?”
Sierra thinks for a moment. “You used to take Tara and me out to dinner every week and tell us we were your most trusted friends, and then you’d ask us to advise you on all aspects of your business and give you feedback.”
“Did I listen?”
“All the time,” says Sierra. “A lot of times you still did it your way, but you made us feel such a part of your decisions that we always believed we were part of your success.”
I ponder that, and then hesitantly reveal a deep insecurity. “Do you think I can still be successful as an entrepreneur?”
Sierra holds my hands in hers. “Yes. Your results have yet to play themselves out. I’m just waiting for the green light so I can be back on board. You can always count on me, Maddy.”
“I know. That’s why I love you. You can count on me, too.”
“I know. That’s why I’ll always love you.”
We reach over to each other and share a small kiss of gratitude.
“I am grateful for our enduring friendship and love,” I say in a mock-affirmation monotone.
Sierra throws water on me and laughs. “Smarty-pants.”
Siddhartha emits a small woof.
“Was that a bark?” asks Sierra. We laugh. “Let’s sail back in.”
We swing the sail around and head back to shore. “So, how’s Milton?” I ask.
“Great. It’s really nice having a different balance of energies.”
“What about women?”
“Right now I’m happy with Milton, but he doesn’t own my sexuality. I don’t have an either/or conflict about it…and neither does he.”
“Did you use affirmations to set it up that way?”
“Absolutely.” Sierra grins.
We dock the boat and all three of us pile out. Sierra collects her things. “I wish I could stay longer but I’ve got an edit session tonight. Walk me to my car?”
Sid and I accompany Sierra to her car, where she gives Sid a loving cuddle. “Goodbye, precious.” Then she offers me a deep hug. “Remember who you are,” says Sierra. “Which is anything you want to be. Now just keep moving.”
I watch her drive off as the setting sun casts colorful hues against the horizon. Sid and I stop at the mailbox. Inside is a letter from Victor. It’s handwritten—with meticulous penmanship, of course. With Sid by my side, I read the letter aloud for both of us.
“Dear Advisee Banks,
Great to hear from you. Glad the excavation is going well. Sid sounds like a loyal friend and I’m sure will help you reach your potential, which always takes precedence over accomplishing a goal. Loving another (even a puppy), requires risk and intimacy, but the sense of mutual belonging is well worth it. Dogs are masters at teaching us how to recognize happiness in the simplest things. My happiness today consisted of three green lights in a row, two great parking spaces, an awesome steam shower and making contributions to Mothers Against Drunk Driving and pharmaceutical research (as I’m hoping to abate a future comprised of cubicle rats as leaders—i.e., students on Ritalin). If you ask me, happiness is about NOT being annoyed. It’s as simple as having tea with a friend (who may never even drink the tea she orders). It’s about being the best you can be without judging yourself by the standards of others but by the standards you choose to define yourself. It’s about letting sunshine in and regrets out. Hope I don’t sound pedantic; just know it comes from a place of genuine caring. Please keep me posted on any and all future archaeological findings.
Sincerely,
Your Adviser Winston”
I look at Sid. “What do think, Sid? My Adviser Winston. Good thing I’m not the possessive type like Alyssa Ryan.” Siddhartha sits, staring at me. “Come on, let’s go visit the bar.”
I walk over to the Eagle’s Nest with Siddhartha in tow. Richard greets me with a free beer.
“How goes it?” he asks, seeming genuinely happy to see me.
“It goes. But I was wondering if I might take you up on your offer to bartend. The only thing is, I don’t know much about bartending.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” he says. “You know how to pour?”
“Yes.”
“You know how to listen?”
“I’m told I could use some improvement in that area,” I say, remembering Victor’s channeled message to me back in my Los Angeles apartment.
“No problem, I’ll get you some Q-tips.”
He signs me up for duty and tells me Sid can come, too, as the bar mascot.
My routine now includes working every night. While Siddhartha plays the role of adorable-but-distracted hostess, Richard teaches me the art of tending bar. In the hour before the bar opens I receive lessons on the stocking of beer and liquor.
“What about fancy drinks like a Pink Squirrel?” I ask.
“You don’t have to worry about those. Most people around here like a good ale beer or fine glass of wine. All you have to be concerned with is listening. It’s really a caregiving experience,” he tells me while wiping the bar clean.
“What if they don’t want to talk?”
“Oh, believe me, they want to talk, it’s human instinct. And they want to be heard, which is where the art of paraphrasing comes in.”
“Paraphrasing?”
“Yep,” says Richard, topping off all the bottles of hard liquor. He points out,“I like to keep the whiskeys to the right and the vodkas to the left.”
My curiosity is piqued. “What exactly is paraphrasing?”
“Rephrasing what someone says without repeating it word for word, so they know they’ve been heard. I tell ya, it’s just like when a grieving family comes to see you in a time of need. Never ask for the stats first, though,” he adds, getting agitated by a jogged memory,“which is what that Tribute in a Box wanted me do. They’ve got it all wrong, insisting I take notes, makin’ the whole thing so damn clinical and uptight when it’s supposed to ease the pain of a survivor. Ya never take notes at a first meeting. You use counseling skills to help people deal with loss.” He shakes his head, clearly irritated.
“It’s not worth getting so upset over,” I say gently.
“You’re righ
t.” He pours himself a shot of whiskey, kicks it back and settles down. “Anyway, I was saying, when a customer starts talking at the bar, you do like a funeral director—you ask them to tell you about what happened, to explain what the whole ordeal was like for them. Be a mirror. The trick…is to do it with compassion.”
“Be a compassionate mirror, so to paraphrase,” I say.
“Right.” He smiles at me like I’m an A student. “You reflect back to them the meaning their words have for you.” He looks at the clock, which reads five, walks to the door and flips the Open sign around. “Watch me.” He winks. “I’m pretty good in action.”
The first patron to walk in takes his regular seat at the bar. He’s a sixty-year-old man named Guy, who wears long-sleeved thermal shirts under dark green overalls with heavy work boots. “Hey, Richard. You finally got some help,” says Guy.
“That’s right,” says Richard. He introduces us. “This is Guy. He’s here every day at five, sharp. This is Maddy Banks, Sam’s niece. So be nice to her.”
“Is that so?” asks Guy. “Sam was a helluva guy. Best fisherman I ever met.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Can I take your order?”
“I’ll have the usual.” He winks.
“That’s a tall ice-cold glass of draft ale,” Richard tells me. I pour a glass for Guy and hand it to him.
“Sally’s fences around her garden’s come undone again,” Guy says.
Richard gives me a look and turns to Guy. “What happened?”
“I suspect some deer jumped clear across them, except for one who took the whole damn fence down. I’ve been fixing it for a week now.”
“What’s that been like?” asks Richard.
“Hard work, especially in this heat, but Sally makes damn good lemonade and meaty sandwiches. And she plays her music in the house loud so I can hear it. Pretty symphony music…makes the day go by a lot quicker.”
“Sounds like the deer’s mishap with a fence is providing you with some work and keeping you well-fed and entertained while you’re at it,” says Richard.
“Yep. That’s exactly what it is,” says Guy, then he takes another sip of beer.
I smile at Richard, impressed. “That was good,” I whisper.
“That was nothing,” he says softly. “It’s more challenging around grief, when you’re trying to help someone resolve unresolved feelings.”
Siddhartha sticks her nose into Guy’s leg. He looks down and smiles. “Now who’s this little fella?”
“That’s Siddhartha,” I say. “She’s a girl, so it’s Sid for short.”
Guy reaches down and pets her. “Hello, Sid.” He grabs a bar towel and plays tug-of-war with Sid for a while. He looks at Richard and me. “I had a dog once. A golden retriever. She was a great dog.”
“What was her name?” I ask.
“Dunlop, because I found her as a puppy in a pile of opened-up white paint cans. Took me a month and two cans of paint thinner to get all the paint off of her,” he says, smiling at the memory.
“What happened to her?”
“Couple years later I took her to a groomer for a good washing. When I came back to get her, they said she’d died.”
“What! How did that happen?” I ask, horrified.
“They never really told me,” says Guy, getting a little teary-eyed.
“That’s insane. Did you sue them?”
Richard jumps in. “So what I hear you saying, Guy, is that you took Dunlop for a grooming and when you returned she was gone.”
Guy nods his head.
“What was that like?” asks Richard.
“Pretty bad. It didn’t make any sense, ya know? For a long time I felt like it was my fault. What if I hadn’t taken her there to begin with?” He takes a gulp of beer as if to swallow his painful memories.
“I imagine it must have been a painful way to lose her,” says Richard.
“Yeah,” says Guy. “I never talked about it before.”
“Sounds like you needed to talk about it.”
“Yeah. I think so. Thanks for listening.”
“No problem,” says Richard. “The next beer’s on me…in memory of Dunlop.”
Guy offers a nod of deep gratitude.
I’m amazed, and turn to Richard. “You’re good.”
The next six hours are a blur of activity as I learn the ropes of tending bar and meet the locals—carpenters, builders, painters, writers, doctors, manufacturers, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters. Eleven o’clock rolls around and Richard flips over the Open sign in the window to read Closed. I help him lock up for the night, but not without a few questions.
“What does Guy do, Richard?”
“Oh, he’s sort of like the local handyman but deep down he’s quite brilliant. He can invent whatever it takes to fix a problem. He’s an unsung engineering hero,” says Richard, locking up the liquor storage bin.
“Does he have family?”
“Only family I’ve ever heard him mention is that dog, Dunlop.”
“He started to get upset about it.”
“That’s healthy. It’s all part of the protocol of grief.” He faces me. “That’s love. Remember, Maddy, you can’t love someone unless you’re willing to grieve over that someone. Need a lift home?”
“No, thanks. Sid and I like the walk.”
“See you tomorrow, then. And, Maddy, you did a great job. You’re a hard worker, just like your uncle.”
Sid and I walk along the shoreline under the moonlight to Uncle Sam’s cottage. “Did you get that, Sid? The protocol to grief is love. To paraphrase with interpretation…that would mean that those who have grieved are also those who have loved. I would grieve you a lot—you know why, Sid? Because I love you a lot. Would you grieve for me?” Siddhartha jumps on me and whimpers. “I know…I’d miss you, too…like I miss Uncle Sam…and Tara.”
For the next week, I endear myself to the customers at the bar, listening and paraphrasing, while Sid endears herself to them by nuzzling up to them for a loving stroke on the head.
I’m working the bar one night when the town’s librarian, Mrs. Jones, shows me a series of her watercolor paintings.
“Sounds like you really enjoy painting from your car-studio during your lunch hour,” I say.
“Yes,” says Mrs. Jones. “I painted these over some twenty lunch hours.”
There’s an extraordinary painting of Guy working outdoors on a fence with strange-looking parts strategically placed on top of it. “That’s an amazing painting. You’re really talented.” I try to squash my instinct to introduce Mrs. Jones to a handful of gallery owners I know from my failed Artists International venture, but I’m determined not to meddle with people’s lives here. What if I helped and it backfired? Better not to tempt fate in this little town, I think to myself. I glance down the bar at Guy sipping his beer. I top off Mrs. Jones’s iced tea and remember the story of D. J. Depree, the founder of Herman Miller.
The story goes that when D.J. went to pay his respects to the wife of a millwright who had died while working for him, she showed him her husband’s book of poetry, and forever thereafter D.J. wondered—was her husband a millwright who wrote poems or a poet who worked as a millwright? That one persistent and prescient thought marked the start of a changing perception of the American worker from machine-centric widget-maker to employee with inalienable rights—rights that D. J. Depree recognized in the 1950s. In fact, his was one of the first companies to give employees participative ownership through stock. Years later D.J.’s son, Max, succeeded him as an equally good leader, maintaining the values his father had instilled in him. It was Max who went on to write the little, well-known book “Leadership is an Art,” declaring that leaders should leave behind them assets and a legacy; that they are obligated to provide and maintain momentum; that they must be responsible for effectiveness; that they must take a role in developing, expressing and defending civility and values and implement management-sharing opportunities.
Derek Rogers must have skipped that class in college because he certainly eschews all those principles. But Victor doesn’t. As far as I can tell, Victor is a man of great principle. I watch the people in the bar. Is Mrs. Jones a librarian who paints or a painter who works as a librarian? Is Guy a handyman who engineers or an engineer who is handy? “God, I hate conundrums,” I mutter under my breath, and focus back on the present.
“What do you think of this one, Maddy?” asks Mrs. Jones.
I stare at another stellar painting. “It’s remarkable,” I comment. In this painting of Clark Lake at dawn, Mrs. Jones has captured its essence perfectly. My instincts win out and I say, “You know…I know a little bit about the art world. I could give you a list of names and numbers of some art gallery owners in New York to contact if you want.”
“Really?” asks Mrs. Jones. “That would be very nice. Let me think about it.”
“Sure. And I’d be happy to call in advance, if it helps.”
I glance toward the other end of the bar to make sure all the customers are happy. Richard pours another patron a second shot of whiskey. I hear the soothing tones of Richard’s voice as he asks, “What was that like for you, Wally?”
“It’s rough,” says Wally, mumbling. “I can’t look at my own bed without thinking about her. I can’t walk up the driveway or stand in the garden without thinking she’s going to be there.”
“Sounds like your home is filled with memories of her.”
“Beautiful memories,” says Wally. He kicks his drink back.
“You ever think about moving, Wally…maybe taking a vacation?”
“Without her? Can’t bear the thought. I’ll take another shot.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now, Wally. We don’t want any accidents on the road.”
Wally nods. Richard passes me to get a fresh rag.
“What happened to his wife?” I ask.
“Mary Beth? She passed away six years ago. Wally’s never gotten over it. That’s what long-term grief can do.”
“Long-term grief ?”
“It lowers your serotonin levels and triggers hard-core depression. Some people get sad like Wally. Some get agitated and keep superbusy to hide themselves from their own pain. You don’t want to encourage them to grieve anymore, but just help them cope with it.”
The Funeral Planner Page 25
