The Funeral Planner (12 page)

“Oh, come on, Maddy. That’s a dead-end business you’re talking about. No pun intended.”

“Excuse me, but I happen to think that death is alive and well, thank you very much. Think about it. Everyone has to go at one time or another.”

“I’m sorry, Maddy. I don’t think you’re going to get traction on it because I don’t believe people want to confront it. It’s fucking morbid.”

“Oh my God. That’s the whole point. It’s always been that way in the past. But baby boomers are going to change the perception. They’re going to turn it into a celebration so they don’t have to deal with the morbid aspect. You should be loving this idea, Jonny, you’re the one with the celebration reputation. I’ve heard about the parties you threw at BU. Legendary to say the least.”

He cocks his head arrogantly. “Yeah, they ripped all right.”

“Think about it. How do you want to be remembered? What do you want said at your funeral?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay, okay. It’s obviously a touchy situation for you. So let’s give it a euphemism. What do you want said at your
tribute?
And who do you want to say it? Do you want music? Do you want a band? Do you want the chef at Morton’s to serve your favorite appetizer? Because funeral homes, I mean
tributary centers,
are starting to put kitchens on the premises.”

Jonny looks at me, his interest piqued. “I could do that? Come on.”

“Why not? You could preplan it. Pay for it up front. And get this. My plan is to invest the prepaid fees in secure bonds with double-A ratings, so by the time a pre-need becomes a time of need, it hasn’t cost a dime. In fact, if enough pre-need time passes before time of need arrives, the heirs of the pre-need-turned-time-of-need will make money back on the funeral, so it will pay for itself
and
leave them with a profit.”

For the first time all evening, Jonny stops filling his face with food and drink and looks at me with keen interest.

“Wow. I’ve got to hand it to you, Maddy. You got me. How much do you think you need to get it rolling?”

“Just give me a first round of three hundred thousand to get it off the ground.”

“Okay, I’ll see if I can talk Garelik into it. He’s got the final word. But I need a copy of the business plan.”

I whip out a business plan from Eve’s bag and I hand it to him. Jonny’s eyes start to do that funny flicker thing. “When can I get an answer?” I ask. “Because otherwise I have to move on to other VCs.” I’m hoping potential competitive interest will spurn him to a quick green light.

“Give me a couple of weeks,” he says. “Are you ever going to drink your wine?”

I notice Jonny nervously wipe his hands on his napkin like he did in the deli, and for an instant, I get that funny feeling again that something’s amiss. I glance at my full wine glass. “I’m not…thirsty anymore.”

Jonny leans in close to me. “Can I ask you something? Doesn’t all this business talk make you…horny?”

I look at him, unbelieving, and lean toward him. “Can I ask you something? What is
wrong
with you?”

“Come on, Maddy, you’ve got that lust for the deal in your eyes. I can see it a mile away,” he leers.

“So consummating a business deal for you is synonymous with a fuck?”

He nods excitedly at me.

“Well, just so we’re clear, we’re working off of two different dictionaries. I gotta go.”

Jonny looks at me confused, then lifts my glass of wine and finishes it in one gulp.

While trudging up Inspiration Trail at Will Rogers State Park, dry air rushes to my lungs. I suck in the smells of nature, nostalgic for a different kind. These aren’t the smells from my youth. Sycamore instead of maple, dry winds rather than humid breezes, parched beige paths as opposed to soggy black earth; I prefer the latter, perhaps because the familiarity of a happy youth brings with it a sense of groundedness I have never found in L.A., a sprawl of disenfranchised architecture sitting on earth that could be loosened at any given moment by a seismic sneeze.

My cell phone rings and I unhook it from my hip clip like a western gunslinger.

“Well, Sunshine?” asks Uncle Sam. “Did they go for it?”

“Hi, Uncle Sam. The presentation went…okay.”

“But…?”

“Let’s just say they’re reconsidering…after a dinner date…which was not consummated.”

“So the presentation lured them in. Did you wear chartreuse?” he chuckles.

“I’m not a fishing lure, Uncle Sam,” I say, suddenly realizing that maybe I am. Maybe that’s the metaphor, that every aspect of my presentation is synonymous with fishing, only I’m the bait and VC money is the catch. “Okay, maybe I am.”

“What stopped them from biting?”

“A missing prototype. I think I can seal a deal with one.”

“That’s easy enough,” he says cheerily. “
I’ll
be your prototype.”

“You will?” I’m shocked.

“Sure, why not?”

“Because it’s going to mean more money to do it right.”

“What doesn’t? Besides, if you have proof of concept you can retain more assets in the company. Why do you sound so surprised?”

“I don’t know. It sounds too easy.”

“Well, enjoy this part of it, because the hard part will come. It always does.”

“I’m already exhausted.”

“That’s from climbing a mountain, not a business plan.”

I stare at my phone, and then put it back to my ear. “How did you know I just climbed a mountain?”

“Lucky guess,” he answers. “Don’t worry, Maddy. I’ll be there to help you through the tough times. I promise. You just keep recharging those batteries with a good hike now and again. So what do we do besides send you a ticket back home?”

“I’ll send you a list of questions for the life bio video and you think about the answers.”

“You got it. Lights, camera, action.”

I can see him clearly smiling across the distance. “See ya soon, Uncle Sam.” I tuck my phone back inside its hip holster. An unexpected breeze packed with humidity swings by. I take in the momentary familiarity, and enthusiastically sprint down the mountain. “Yes! Thank you, Uncle Sam! Thank you, Inspiration Trail! Prototype, here I come!”

The red-eye to Ann Arbor is becoming a good friend. I sit in coach typing away on my computer to fine-tune the template for the Lights Out Video Tribute. I glance at the
Financial Street Journal
in my backpack, my incentive to finish. I hit the save button, put my computer screen down and pull out the paper.

I scan the front page and then flip to the Market section. A story with the headline “Palette Enterprises Commands Triple Valuations,” detailing Derek Rogers’s impending rise to fame, snags my attention. I sigh, and dare to read on, only to discover that the international art and design scene has become a hotbed of opportunity, now with Outsider Art catching on, and all at the hands of artistic business genius, Derek Rogers. The article goes on to mention that Mr. Rogers has been seen on more than several occasions milling about Washington, D.C., becoming buddies with a variety of lobbyists across a wide range of industries but that he declined to comment on whether it is Palette-related business or what his next entrepreneurial adventure might be.

I get that funny feeling again that something’s not right in Derekville. But before I can get in touch with it, I spot a smaller headline at the bottom of the page: “Successor Speculation at Pintock International.”

The article claims that president and CEO Arthur Pintock, of Pintock International, may step down from his thirty-year tenure position for personal reasons. “Some speculate a recent lack of leadership on Mr. Pintock’s part on account of his daughter’s death, and that scouting for a successor is something the board is advising the sixty-eight-year-old Mr. Pintock to consider sooner rather than later.” The article states that, “It was widely assumed that one day, Tara Pintock would take over the reins. But even after her departure to pursue her songwriting ambitions, and prior to her death, Mr. Pintock refused to comment on the subject. It is widely known that Mr. Pintock keeps close counsel with three key executives in London, New York and Shanghai, each of whom is considered by the board to be a potential candidate. Both Pintock’s board of directors and analysts on Wall Street are eager to know who will eventually take over control and when, with respect to its affect on the direction of the company and its stock market value. But to date, the bench strength of the powerhouse board has failed to convince Mr. Pintock to utter the name of a single candidate, either in-house or out.”

I close my eyes and think of Tara. I reach inside my bag, pull out a flashlight pen and hold it upright. I flick it on and quietly recite the
kaddish
prayer for Tara.

The last of winter begins to melt, making way for mud puddles and the smell of new foliage. A horn honks from the dirt road outside Uncle Sam’s cottage on Clark Lake. Andy stands inside the cottage and turns to Uncle Sam, Sierra and me. “That’s my dad. I’ve got to get to my piano lesson now.”

“Hey, thanks, Andy, for giving us your time,” I say, sharing a quick hug with him.

“Yeah, you were great,” says Sierra from behind a high-end video camera.

Andy hugs Uncle Sam. “It was fun! See you guys later!” He scoots out the door.

“Let’s see if we can get that magic hour of light,” I say.

Uncle Sam, Sierra and I walk onto the backyard deck overlooking the lake at sunset. The ice begins to break apart, revealing baby ripples of water against the shoreline. Sierra places the camera on a tripod.

I turn to Uncle Sam. “Be yourself, and remember to rephrase my question inside your answer, cuz no one’s going to hear me when we finish cutting it together.”

Sierra crosses over to Uncle Sam holding a small lavalier microphone in her hand. “Can I hook you up for sound?”

“Absolutely, I’ll take a beautiful girl hooking me up for sound any day.”

“Why thank you, Mr. Banks.”

“You can call me Sam.”

“Okay, Sam.” Sierra smiles.

“Hey, are you flirting with my production crew?” I tease.

“Why not?” He smiles back as Sierra finishes. “You okay with it?” he asks her.

“Actually, I’m flattered,” she says, and turns to me. “We’re good to go.”

“Uncle Sam, you ready?”

“Ready.”

Sierra lines up a master shot with a wide-angle lens. I stand to the side of the camera.

“Keep your eyes on me, Uncle Sam. Not the lens. Warmup question number one. What’s your favorite hobby?”

“My favorite hobby is fishing on Clark Lake. It takes patience, and, well, that’s a metaphor for life…because without the joy of the journey, there’s no joy of the catch.”

“Hold it,” says Sierra. “The breeze is blowing his hair in his face and there’s a hot spot on him.” She readjusts his hair and powders his forehead. He blushes under her cosmetic touch-up. She smiles at him and returns to the camera.

“Tell me about your other hobbies,” I suggest. “Like whistling.”

“I love to whistle. It’s how I communicate with myself and nature. Puts air in your lungs. Makes you feel alive. Just put your lips together and blow.” He puckers up and whistles the tune of “Fishing Free.” An obvious sense of contentment washes over him as he gestures toward the beauty around us.

Sierra and I watch, mesmerized by the ease with which he handles the art of living. He finishes the song, looks at the landscape and offers his trademark line,“It’s a beee-utiful day!”

We break into a round of applause.

Uncle Sam blinks repeatedly several times, revealing shyness graced with humility. It’s an endearing mannerism and I watch Sierra capture it on tape.

I glance at my guide sheet. “Okay, Uncle Sam, tell me what you are most proud of in your life.”

He takes a moment, then replies, “I’m most proud of my love of life.”

“Can you explain what you mean by that?” I ask.

“I wake up every day and appreciate every moment. It doesn’t matter if it’s raining or the sun is shining. It’s all beautiful. I’m very proud of that.”

“
That’s
beautiful,” says Sierra.

I feel a pain in my heart I can’t define. Will I ever feel that way? I fumble through my papers to resume the questions. “What’s made your life special to you? So far.”

“My life is special because of the people in it.
They
make my life special. I hope I do the same for their lives,” he concludes.

“And your favorite piece of music is?”

“My favorite song is ‘Fishing Free.’ The melody is both light and introspective. It feels fresh every time I hear it.”

“What do you believe life is all about? A collapsible reply please.”

“Life is about doing the best you can without hurting yourself or others along the way.”

“What advice would you give your loved ones?”

“Love yourself so you can love others.”

Sierra gives me a look.

“What? I don’t love myself ?” I ask.