The Funeral Planner (8 page)

“Yeah, well, timing,” I utter. It’s all I can say without getting choked up.

“So when are you coming to pitch us some more of your ideas?” Jonny asks.

“Not for a while. I’m in stealth mode right now.”

“What sector are you in?” he asks, a little too eager and keen for my taste.

There’s a slight shift in his energy and I feel myself clam up in defense of something, but I’m not sure what. “Well, I’d rather not say at this time. I’m still in an embryonic position.”

“Wise move,” pipes in Bobby. “The girl certainly knows how to play the intrigue card,” he tosses out, unaware of the dollops of ketchup and mustard around his mouth.

Victor looks me over with a perspicacious glance and then quietly adds, “Something tells me this woman’s not playing at all.”

I look back at him, the weight of his words capturing my attention. The replacement of “girl” with “woman” is no accident. And there is, no doubt, a high dose of integrity attached to what he says, far surpassing the verbiage from his colleagues. “Well, when you hit your trimester, be sure to give me a call,” instructs Jonny. “I want first dibs on delivery. Promise me, Maddy.”

“Okay, I promise.” Then I pop the big question, because the serendipity of ideas crossing camps is too high for me to ignore. “Hey, Jonny, you don’t happen to know Derek Rogers, do you?”

He covers a sudden cough and wipes his hands clean on his napkin before answering. “In passing. Why? You think he pulled a copycat on you?”

I shrug. “I can’t help but wonder, you know.”

“It’s always like that,” says Bobby. “I get the same ten pitches on the same concept in the same week…without fail.”

“I wouldn’t sweat it, Banks,” adds Jonny.

“I guess you’re right. So, enjoy your lunch. See ya.” I walk over to the counter to collect my food. I glance back at the group. Jonny easily dominates the picture with his animated kinetics. I can still feel something amiss inside from talking with him. I wonder what it was that made me clam up, even though I don’t have time to figure that out right now as I cast my eyes around the deli, eager to find the two elderly tennis buddies. But they are clean gone; the booth they sat in has new occupants. As I pick up my take-out, I am left to wonder what kind of funeral service the man named Walter had planned, if any.

I sit in my apartment sipping lemonade and surfing the Web for a start-up deal for my new business. There’s a bundle for a DBA, Federal and state tax ID, business license, seller’s permit and domain name—which I buy. I set up an accounting system, open a bank account and obtain a company credit card. Next, I need a Web site and a hip, cool logo to breathe life into Lights Out. There’s only one person I trust for the job. I pull a business card from my wallet, remembering how White Mondays’ logo sparked a legend.

I call and a young lady answers,“Candelabra Productions, may I help you?”

“Sierra D’Asanti,” I say. “It’s Madison Banks from Los Angeles.”

In a moment, I hear a sweet, gentle voice ask, “Are you okay? Do you need to talk about Tara?” Concern dominates Sierra’s tone.

“No, no, it’s not that,” I reply, touched by her immediate concern. “I’m okay. I want to know if I can talk to you about becoming a strategic partner on a new business venture.”

“I’d be honored to.”

“But I haven’t even told you what it is.”

“Anything you do, I want in on.”

“Really?”

“You’re so funny, Madison. You’re the last one to see your potential. But I’ve always known it’s just a matter of time before you pop into entrepreneurial stardom. I’d like to be there when it happens. So whatever you’ve got going, count me in. Now, what’s the next step?”

“I need you to meet me in Vegas.”

“For?”

“A funeral convention.”

“When?” she asks, nonplussed by the topic.

“December first. I booked a room at the Hilton. I’m in major start-up mode, so are you okay sharing a room with me?”

“What do you think?”

“Okay. Can I reimburse you on your airfare in two months?”

“Of course. Just one question—are we paying homage to Tara with this new venture?”

“Let’s just say the lack of meaning at her funeral was a catalyst.”

A long pause follows as we both take a moment.

Sierra quietly adds,“I’m looking forward to this, Maddy.”

“Me, too.”

One hour later I’m standing in the empty lobby of a law firm in Santa Monica. I look at my watch. She’s late again. Impatient, I pull out my
FSJ.
There’s an article on gender-swapping roles in wedding parties. Apparently, the title of bridesmaid is expanding to bridesfriend and best man to best woman, making room for brides and grooms who wish to include close friends of opposite gender in the gig.

I hear a succession of clomping heels followed by the sulky voice of Eve. “This better be good. Sales at Nordstrom don’t come around that often.”

I put the paper down and look at her, decked out in a potpourri of the latest fashion brands. “Do you have your mission statement?”

“It took a back seat to
The Tempest.
”

“Then let’s start with a quiz, shall we? Inspired by today’s
FSJ.
”

Her face sours. “Since when do internships include tests?”

I ignore the minipout. “For two points, what would the analogous role of best man in a wedding ceremony be to a funeral ritual?”

She scrunches up her lip, stumped. “This is totally irrelevant.”

“Come on, Eve, try to think in analogous terms.”

She sighs. “The florist, no—the undertaker. I don’t know, the pallbearer.”

“Excellent. Now find out if pallbearers are traditionally men only or open to gender swaps.” I hand her a manila folder. “And please proofread this and prepare the graphs and charts per my instructions inside. Thanks.” I start heading toward the elevator.

“Where are you going?”

“My attorney’s office. Todd Lake.”

“Like that?”

I look at my army pants, vintage Nikes, white blouse and baseball hat. “What’s wrong? I’m in L.A., the everything-goes place.”

“Everything,” she says. “Look, you may know content, but I know presentation. I’m sure you’re going up there to engage in some form of tit-for-tat, so why not use appeal to do some of the work for you. At least let me fix your hair and makeup.”

I did need something from Todd—legal advice on the cheap. I check out Eve; she has a point. “Okay.”

“That will be for three points,” she tells me, dangling her Prada makeup bag in front of me.

“Nice,” I say.

Eve performs a quick makeover on me in the lobby restroom and I’m good to go.

Todd Lake, lawyer, husband, father of four, greets me in his office. He is handsome, kind, stable, and the only guy I trust in the city.

“You look great, Maddy. Really great. What’s different? New hairdo?”

“More like new intern.”

“So what can I do for you?”

“I need to register a trademark for my new company and find out if I should incorporate in California or elsewhere, since the business will operate on a national level.”

“Your accountant can tell you the best place to incorporate and we have a division here that can take care of the trademark paperwork for you—”

“Can we do it on a percentage basis, Todd?” I nervously ask. “There’s no way I can afford your hourly rate.”

“Don’t worry about it, Maddy. Just keep me posted on the details of your project every once in a while and we’ll call it even.”

“It’s a deal.” I hand over the paperwork for Lights Out Enterprises.

“Are you going to tell me what your new venture is about?”

“After I finalize the business plan in Vegas.”

“Vegas? You’re not opening a casino, are you?”

“Me? I’ve never touched a slot machine. Besides, you know me better than that—I gamble with concepts, not cash.” I offer a wry smile. “By the way, what’s the thing you like least about funerals?”

“No food. No water. And they’re gloomy.”

“And your positive slant? If there is one?”

“Connecting with friends and family…and it’s a reminder to appreciate my family more.” He pauses, suspiciously. “What are you up to, Maddy?”

My face is bright and eager. “I’ll keep you posted…and, Todd, thanks.”

I dash through traffic to my accountant’s office. A tall, thin, intense Stephen Picard leans across his desk, addressing me in his thick Australian accent. “I advise you to set this up as an LLC, Maddy, in Nevada. But we can look after it from here.” He stops and leans back in his chair, with a dubious expression on his face. “Maddy, what makes you so sure this is going to work?”

“I’ve got good instincts, Picard. So get ready. Because when it flies, I’m going to ask you to incorporate it into your clients’ estate planning.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” he says, studying me. “I like your determination. I hope it really works out for you…this time.”

I stare at him, frozen in place. I’m sick of trying so hard, sick of trying to convince others. “Please, drop the pity. I’m going to make it. Sometimes it takes longer for some of us than for others. If you don’t believe in me, tell me now so I can find an accountant who does.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says softly. “I have great respect for you, Madison. I’ve never seen anyone persevere more. But I do hate seeing you get hurt.”

“So do I, but I’ll just have to practice better risk management.” I gather my briefcase and notebook and walk out. Halfway down the hall, I stop to close my eyes, swallowing the tears of humiliation.

The funeral convention in Vegas resembles every other trade show with exhibitors displaying their wares from inside branded booths all crammed together in a large open space. Only, this one has a stable of high-end hearses and an endless variety of caskets ranging in color and price equivalent to the imagined distance between heaven and hell. If people are willing to spend twenty thousand on a casket, surely they’ll be willing to spend that much or more on the funeral experience itself.

My phone rings, so I flip it open. “This is Madison Banks.”

“Hi, my plane got in early. Where are you?”

I look over my surroundings. “Between a casket and a hearse.”

“Cute. I can tell this is going to be fun. Okay, I’ll find you in twenty.”

I hang up and graze the aisles, soaking up all the knowledge I can and keeping my eyes peeled for opportunities to enhance Lights Out. I come across rows of booths selling urns in all shapes and colors. One booth has a brick wall on display.

“You look perplexed, young lady,” says a thin, elderly gentleman standing behind a brochure-laden table.

“I’m not sure why you’re exhibiting a wall,” I remark.

He offers a knowing smile. “New to the funeral business?”

“Aside from limited funeral attendance, you’re it.”

“Let me guess. You’re the prodigal daughter returning home to take over the family business but know nothing of it because you’ve been studying abroad in…Europe. Am I right?”

Eager to validate his assessment, I reply, “Close enough.”

“Well, I’m glad to oblige you.” He hands me brochures and a business card. “These are columbariums. They’re pre-manufactured spaces inside of walls for standard-size urns.”

I’m fascinated by the multitude of choices in the funeral market. Who knew? I think. Another customer stops by and I skip over to the next aisle, wondering what other surprises are in store. There’s a booth displaying Memorial Comforters. A sweet salt-and-pepper-haired woman sits underneath the sign.

“Hi, I’m Madison Banks,” I say, reaching out to shake the woman’s hand. “These comforters are stunning.”

“They’re individually personalized, hand-woven ornamental cloths used during a ceremony of remembrance. They’re for decorating a casket or an urn. Or they can be used as a memorial gift.”

“Would you be interested in a strategic alliance with my company?” I ask her. “I’ll need to know your product services and costs.”

She beams back excitedly. “Why, yes. Please sit down.”

We iron out a nonexclusive arrangement.

I walk the floor again, discovering a whole side market for pet funerals. Four aisles are solely designated for pet urns, pet caskets, different-size stones and rocks engraved with memorials to cats and dogs, and pet condolence cards.

Brilliant, I think, to capitalize on the thirty-billion-dollar pet industry.

I find a minibooth inside a larger booth arranged for the sole function of casket selling. Instead of showcasing full-length caskets, this company features multiple miniature caskets on show.

A vibrant sun-tanned man in his forties, dressed in a slick Armani suit, approaches me. “Can I help you?”

“Why is your casket display different from the others?”

“We want to minimize the discomfort and intimidation associated with average casket buying. Instead of offering customers a large room at a funeral home filled with imposing full-size caskets, we’ve strategically designed this booth. Here, the buyer is invited to explore the merchandise and know exactly what the cost options are. Go ahead, touch them all you want.”