Chapter 3
Uncle Sam and I trudge in snowshoes across a frozen lake carrying the necessary load of accoutrements for late-night ice fishing. We use his jigging rods and augers with skimmers to skim ice from the holes and set up an ice tent to break the wind. We place buckets upside down over burning Coleman lanterns to keep warm. Uncle Sam attaches chartreuse moon-glow fishing lures to the hooks, slips them in the hole, locks down the jigging rods, and breaks out a flask of whiskey. We each swig a shot. The liquid is rich and smooth, coating my throat with a blast of heat.
"All right, let's get to it. How many words?" asks Uncle Sam.
"Three," I proudly reply.
"Okay, hit me."
"Customized funeral experiences," I announce.
Uncle Sam doesn't say a word. He swishes the whiskey, mulling it over. He nods. "Brilliant, Maddy. Brilliant."
"Really? You think so?"
"I think this one's a winner. If you want, I'll take you around to see Richard Wright. He owns the local funeral home in Jackson. He can give you some pointers. And you might want him on your advisory board."
"That would be great, thanks. Will you be on my advisory board, too?"
"Sure, why not? What are you calling it?"
"I don't know. The idea came to me today after attending a... well, a rather 'dead' funeral."
"Let's mull it over and see what we come up with." He passes the flask.
I kick the liquid back and blurt, "How about White Lights? Or Remember Me?"
"Not catchy enough." Uncle Sam takes a swig and offers, "What about Happy Times?"
"Too happy."
"Forever Events?"
"Maybe. Reflections Of?"
"Singsongy. What's a metaphor for 'time's up'?"
We look at each other and simultaneously shout, "Lights Out!"
"That's the one," says Uncle Sam. "It's catchy and humorous and if people can't laugh about it, they're not going to be good clients." He chuckles, adding, "You sure do like to play the results, Maddy, in more ways than one. What's the first thing you're going to do when you get back home?"
"Research. There are so many opportunities here, Uncle Sam... online memorials to name just one. Relatives who can't make it to a funeral can see it online or see a video about the client's life... or how about this—interface with the Internet so people can send e-mails with secret messages, important financial information, or just stuff they wanted to say and couldn't to whomever upon, you know, expiration..."
"Start with the facts, Maddy. How many funeral homes are there in the U.S.? And how many services do they perform on average every year?" He pauses while I take it in, nodding and thinking. "You'll have to study the competition, too," he adds.
"Competition? What if there isn't any?"
"Believe me, if you thought of it so will someone else, if they haven't already. Besides, you want that—keeps you on your toes, makes you stronger. Without an enemy you lose the challenge to grow. Healthy competition is good. Remember Sun Tzu?"
"Okay, okay...so approach this with Sun Tzu's advice in hand. 'If you know yourself, but not your enemy, for every battle won, you will lose another.'"
He smiles. "That's my girl. Now, how are you going to finance this?"
"I'll write a business plan and approach some venture capitalists. But it may take months. I need to find a consulting job or go to a temp agency to pay the bills."
"The idea's too good, Maddy. How about if I become your angel investor?"
"What? You? Why?"
"Why not? Besides, I like to bet on ideas now and again. And Banks Baits, 'the baits you can bank on' is long gone. I could use something to keep me on my toes. What do you say? I'll be your silent collaborator and put in fifteen thousand to cover your living expenses and administration fees for the next four months while you develop a business plan and do your due diligence."
"I don't know what to say, Uncle Sam. What kind of equity do you want?"
"None."
"No. I have to give you something or I won't do it," I insist.
"Pay me back when you make a profit. No interest required. How's that sound? And there's no time frame on this. Never paying me back is fine, too."
"That's unbelievable," I say, thrilled, and for once feeling truly supported, not just in a financial sense, but in an emotional one, because more than anything the money represents Uncle Sam's belief in me.
"One other thing, Maddy. I'm throwing in an extra thousand for you to buy new clothes and treat yourself to a manicure, pedicure, facial and a massage."
"Why? I don't look good?"
He chuckles. "You look great, Sunshine, but I want you to feel great. Now, go determine the needs of the industry and then create your solutions."
I don't have the answers right now, but it's only a matter of time before I do and I am not about to waste another minute.
***
I research facts and figures about the funeral industry online from my modest apartment back in Los Angeles. But I need more than Google can provide. I'm thinking about where I can get access to LexusNexus and other more formidable search engines, when my phone rings.
"Maddy Banks," I answer, not recognizing the caller ID number.
"Uh, yeah, um, Eve Gardner here," says a young female on the other end. "Professor Osaka said we're to meet."
"Professor Osaka?"
"Yeah, you're the grad he wants me to do an internship with... from UCLA."
"Oh, yeah, I completely forgot," I say, remembering how he inveigled me into this. "Look, I'm really busy right now—"
"So am I," she says, cutting me off. "But I need the credits to pass this year and if I don't pass my father is going to have a shit fit. Osaka insisted I be flexible for you, which I have to tell you is not my style."
I stare at the phone. What had Professor Osaka sent me? Then it dawns on me—the UCLA library. I reel the phone back in, remembering, too, that internships include free labor.
"Okay, Eve, meet me outside the UCLA library in thirty minutes. Don't forget your student ID card. And by the way, assume it's a business meeting."
I pace outside the UCLA library watching the secondhand tick inside my Lucite watch. This girl is already twenty-six minutes late. I shake my head. It's a good thing I brought a Financial Street Journal with me. If she's not here by the time I scan the Market section, she's history. I glance over the paper. There's nothing particularly exciting to read. I fold it up, getting ready to find an alternative means of entrée into the library, when a petite blond fashionista strolls toward me applying cherry-red lipstick to her generous lips before looking me over.
"Madison Banks, I presume?"
"Eve Gardner, I take it. You're thirty-two minutes late." I look her over. She can't be more than nineteen years old, but she dresses like she's thirty-four on her way to an afternoon tea party with Prince Charles. There's an iPod and a cell phone clipped to her hip. A total high-tech princess complex. What on earth was Osaka thinking?
She gazes at her shoes. "I couldn't decide between the Prada leather loafers or the Fendi Black Zucchinos."
I have no idea what she's talking about. I only know she's late. "Really? Well, that kind of indecisiveness will cost you in business."
"That's okay. I'm not looking for business. I'm looking for a husband. Do you know what kind of MBAs hang in libraries? The kind who like Pradas or Fendis? Or should I be wearing Cole Haan?"
"I wouldn't have a clue."
"That sucks. I thought I was going to learn something from you. The way Osaka raves about you, you'd think you were Card Captor Sakura or something."
"Who?"
"Whatever."
"Here's something to learn, Eve. I don't get caught up in appearances and I'm not obsessed by...stuff. We're here to enhance life by creating products, services and experiences, not fill it with competitive junk."
"Are you saying my Mac lipstick is junk?"
"Let's just say, I don't need it."
She glances at me in my khaki pants, white T-shirt, baseball cap and running shoes, and blurts, "Well, for someone who fits all the requirements of a modern-day woman, you sure do make a horrible consumer."
"Yes, I know. Now come on, I've got an assignment for you to do."
"Assignment? I thought I was supposed to watch you do your thing."
"I'm of the constructivist school of thought—learn by experience, experience by doing. Come on." I start for the library when Eve plants her Pradas or Fendis or whatever they are in the ground.
"I need a latte first," she whines. "Starbucks only. Besides, that's where all the smart guys go...isn't it? Or do they go to the Coffee Bean...or is it Peets?"
I sigh. "Do you know how much lattes cost over time? Like, five lattes a week in the course of a month?"
Eve looks at me disdainfully. "Excuse me, but math is not my major."
"You've got statistics to pass, don't you? "She swallows hard and nods. I continue. "One latte a day, five days a week is approximately eighty dollars a month, which comes to $960 a year. In your world, that's two-point-five pairs of Prada shoes a year or fifty Prada shoes every twenty years."
"No way," she says, impressed.
"Yes, way. Of course, in my world, with dollar-cost averaging in the stock market, that's nearly one million dollars over twenty years, the equivalent of two thousand pairs of Prada shoes."
Eve's jaw drops in astonishment. Any moment and I think she's going to start to salivate with Prada envy. Now that I've got her full attention, I head inside the library, and this time she follows in silence as her student card opens the door for all my immediate needs. I find two empty computers next to each other. I sit down and start typing while Eve scopes the place.
"How are you supposed to meet guys here if you can't talk?" she whispers.
I roll my eyes. "You meet them in class after saying something intelligent from what you learned in here."
She looks dubiously at me. "Really?"
"Do you mind? I'm trying to put together an industry map. I need to gather information," I whisper. "So I can attract VC money."
"What's VC?"
"Venture capitalist."
"That sounds sexy." She peers at our surroundings. "Well, you won't get much help from the librarian. She's rubbing her temples. It's either a migraine or a hangover. I'd say hang-over, because she definitely looks dehydrated."
"Eve. How badly do you need those credits?" I ask.
She sighs and sits down, crossing her arms and legs. "Okay." "I need you to find information about funerals."
She gives me a strange look. "They're boring and it's impossible to wear all black and stand out in a crowd that's wearing the same thing. And...it's a challenge not to mess up your makeup. Those tears get in the way. Someone should invent funeral mascara. What else do you need to know?"
"Facts and figures, please, not a treatise on funeral fashion. Find out everything you can about funeral homes—how many are in the U.S., the average number of funeral services per year, their average cost, anything with numbers attached to it."
"You just had to throw in statistics, didn't you." She sighs and takes a notebook out of her Prada knapsack, gets online and starts typing, one finger at a time.
While Eve gets to work I do my own digging. I quickly discover the difference between an "at time of need" client and a "pre-need" client. "Time of need" clients are people who have just lost a loved one and are in need of funeral arrangements on an immediate basis. Pre-need clients are people who wish to plan in advance. Based on this information it's clear to me that Lights Out Enterprises needs to be designed primarily around the affluent pre-need client.
In addition, the numbers point to an increase in preplanning and prepayment of funerals with a huge increase in cremation, which in turn results in less usage of funeral homes to conduct a service, because for the most part, people opting-in on cremation are tending to opt-out on any accompanying services. That's where I come in. As with my roller-skating shows at the age of six and the elaborate pranks I designed in college, I realize what I have to offer are creative experiences.
And if I can design customized funeral events that can be reproduced and still maintain personalization, then I'll have something marketable and meaningful. The goal is to shift the pain of grief into the context of a life celebration while honoring the memory of the departed. I break down the elements to include event planning and life bio videos with a list of strategic partners and outside vendors.
Strategic Partners
Funeral Homes & Cemeteries: I do a quick search. Interesting. There are several under the brand name of Dignity Memorial and they seem to have the same mission statement as me--namely, not to be afraid to have "the conversation". If people could just talk about it, it would help bring familiarity to the unfamiliar and then you wouldn't have to be afraid!
Green Burial Grounds
Estate Planners
Insurance Companies: Hhhm... I look one up called Forethought Financial. I like the name. I like their motto: "Always thinking ahead." And I really like their values: Integrity. Respect. Discipline. Transparency. Forethought. I look forward to learning more about them... but right now, I'm on a roll. I keep going...
Strategic Alliances
Anthropologist-Mythologist
Technicians
TelePrompters
Caterers & Restaurants = Designer Chefs
Digital Photographers
Fabric Associations
Floral Arrangers: (I'm definitely calling 1800Flowers.com. Ever since I saw their Dogable and Martini flowers, I've been hooked. With that kind of creativity, we're sure to make a great match!)
Gravestone Companies
Graphic Designers
Lighting Designers
Music Production Libraries/Soundtrack: (Aha! My cousin Laura Taylor can introduce me to her friend who runs APM Music. She's always talking about him and that they have the largest production music library in the world!)
Libraries/Composers
Party Stores
Prop & Costume Stores
Signage-Banner Companies
Specialty Transportation Services
Tent Companies
Video-DVD production companies
Web Designers: If there's one company I can rely on for all my go-to-one-stop-shopping domain, hosting, and website builder needs, it's GoDaddy. Built from scratch, they seem to be entrepreneurial friendly and their launching a new website builder, so they're bound to be offering some good deals on it. Of course, I'll have to--
Eve announces, "I'm done."
"You're done?" I'm afraid to find out what she's possibly retrieved in such a short time. "Okay, what have you got?"
She rattles off her findings with aplomb. "There are approximately twenty-eight thousand funeral homes in the United States with an average of two hundred services per year. Most are multigenerational family-owned businesses with a handful of major corporations who own consortiums of funeral homes and graveside cemeteries that are publicly traded on the stock market. Also, in the year 2000, there were approximately two-point-five million deaths in the United States with an average burial cost of five thousand dollars for an adult funeral."
I am impressed. "How did you memorize all that?"
"I'm an actress," she replies. She says it as fact.
"Then why are you in business school?"
"My father doesn't believe in the arts. And I believe in husbands as patrons."
"You seem very clear on your goals."
"Very," she says. "Would you like to hear more?"
"Please. Orate away."
She clears her throat and with dramatic flair continues. "According to a central advocacy organization for funeral directors nationwide, not only is there an increase in women and minorities entering the funeral service profession but immigration trends point to an increasing variety of funeral customs."
I make a mental note to research diversified funeral customs. "Anything else?"
"No. But I can't believe there's actually a convention for funeral home directors. Can you believe that?"
"There are conventions for everything, from consumer electronics, to book fairs, to plant growers. When is it?" "In two weeks. In Las Vegas."
I smile. For once my timing is perfect. "Excellent," I say. I pull a sheet of paper from my briefcase.
"Am I allowed to ask questions?"
"Not at this time," I say. "Now I need you to sign this NDA. And next time we meet, I want a one-page mission statement from you, worth five points, depending on how clear and concise it's written."
She whines, "You're giving me homework?"
I nod and hand her the paper. She stares at it.
"What's that?"
"My insurance policy, so you won't share this information with anyone. Not even Professor Osaka." She gives me a funny look." NDA is an acronym for Nondisclosure Agreement. That means everything between us is confidential." She looks it over, purposely vacillating, her pen in the air. "So that you can eventually get those internship credits," I add. She smiles and signs. "Great." I take back the signed paper. "E-mail me that research and I'll e-mail you when and where we'll meet next. Good job, Eve. You surprised me."
"If that's all it takes, you should see me on stage."
"Yes, well, in the meantime, instead of studying lines, I want you to study the Financial Street Journal, every day."
"What's that?"
I roll my eyes."Oy" is all I can say, and I hand her my copy. I feel the pressure of a ticking clock—one I devised for myself out of desperation to become a successful member of America's capitalist society. Even more so, because I'm determined to pay Uncle Sam back as soon as possible with interest.
***
I stand in line at the deli for take-out that'll last two days. There isn't a moment to spare.
Two elderly gentlemen converse in a nearby booth. Their wrinkles are tanned and they both wear white tennis garb. Corned beef sandwiches and bowls of matzo ball soup sit on the tabletop between them.
"Which one you going to do?" asks the fellow wearing glasses.
"Ah, come on, Walter. Do I have to think about that now? I'd rather eat in peace and schedule our next game," replies his tennis partner.
"What? You think you're going to age backwards?"
"Okay, okay, what are you doing?"
"Cremation."
"Cremation? That's against Judaism."
"Yeah? Well, Judaism ain't paying for a casket. And they aren't cheap, let me tell you. I've been looking into it. And I'd rather have my money go to my kids than four slabs of finished mahogany that's gonna rot underground."
"You're not sick, are you?"
"Clean bill of health. But they've got enough to deal with. Between my autistic grandchild and paying their rent, the last thing they need is to deal with my death, may it be years from now. Besides, it's done. I already paid for it."
"You prepaid? Why?"
"To beat inflation, and I found a good deal. A thousand dollars covers it all, including the paperwork and the urn."
"Paperwork? I thought we got to leave that behind."
"Death certificates. Believe me—they get you any which way they can." He chuckles. "Death may come, but taxes never die. On the other hand, the dead never age."
His friend chuckles. "You're too much. What about a service?"
Before I can hear his response I am interrupted by the white-hat-headed deli guy. "What will it be young lady?"
"Oh, um, one quart of matzo ball soup, three pieces of noodle kugel and a lemonade to go, please," I reply, then quickly turn back, hoping to catch the rest of the conversation.
"Maddy! Maddy Banks!"
I look over and see Jonny Bright across the room, the venture capitalist whom I had approached with Artists International. He's still as skinny, taut and wired as when I met him six months ago. He smiles at me, but something feels funny. I can't quite put my finger on it. He rapidly motions for me to come over to where he's sitting with a few good-looking guys.
I oblige. "Hi, Jonny."
"How are you?" he exclaims, appearing to be genuinely happy to see me. "Everyone, this is Maddy Banks, entrepreneur on the rise. Maddy, these are some of my buddies from the firm, Bobby Garelik and Victor Winston. Maddy's always got home-run ideas. She's quite the efficient one." Victor politely nods hello, while Bobby glances up between inhaling bites.
"Nice to meet you both," I say. "I'm not just efficient, I'm also effective," I add with a grin.
"Yeah, right. What's the difference?" asks Jonny as a platitude, while cocking his mouth to load it with slices of brisket.
"Efficiency is about doing the thing right, effectiveness is about doing the right thing," interjects Victor, the only one eating at a natural pace. Everything about him seems methodical and deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world. He adds, "It's a pleasure meeting you, too. Did you study with Peter Drucker?"
"I couldn't afford to, but I've read every one of his books." Victor casually glances at my hands.
"What about his credo," Victor asks, "does it apply to all aspects of your life?"
"Professional for now. My mission statement is to get one business off the ground, then roll out the plan for my personal pursuits."
"Interesting strategy," Victor says.
"Hey, Mad. I saw what happened with your last endeavor. I'm really sorry about that art thing. You were so on the money, too," says Jonny.
"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?" asks Sierra.
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."
I touch the displays like a kid in Lego Land. The more expensive model clearly has the highest quality of combed cotton inside. All in all, they look like little toy coffins, shiny and rich in texture. I realize it's kind of fun and weird to stroke the finish and tug on the drawers where one's private items go, like medals, jewelry and cell phones.
"How does the pricing work in relation to the display?" I ask.
"Take a look at the wall," he explains. "Which quarter casket looks most expensive?"
I point to the one in the upper left corner.
"And which one looks least expensive?"
I point to the one in the lower right corner.
"That's retail 101," he explains. "Designing displays around the psychology of perception. We've integrated it into the casket-buying experience by offering funeral homes these movable casket display centers and movable gift shop centers where customers can buy condolence cards, guest book registries and memory boards. We also include a line of books and pamphlets on grieving and bereavement. Over here—"
He guides me to the movable gift shop before leaving to accommodate another prospective client.
"Hello, Maddy."
I turn. Sierra stands there in her reliable serene repose, bearing a sly smile. She cocks her head toward the displays. "Casket choosing by skin tone?"
"Very funny. But I believe skin tone has a tendency to fade when you, uh, go."
"Perhaps, but I believe the EnLighten Thee Makeup booth next door will fix that in a jiff. So what have you surmised so far?"
"That it won't be long before it's common practice to buy a casket at your local Costco or Wal-Mart. Only to be followed up with a line of designer caskets at Target. Can't you see it? Architects and designers like Frank Gehry and Philippe Starck designing caskets. And if you want to take it further, I don't think it's too far-fetched to imagine Michael Jordan designing a line of afterlife running shoes for Nike. Worn by the deceased when their metaphorically speaking 'soles' take flight. What do you think a shoe designed for encounters of the afterlife-kind might look like?"
Sierra cannot stop laughing.
"You know what you are, Maddy? You're a futurist. I'm looking forward to seeing what happens when the future catches up with you."
"But then, wouldn't I be on to the next future?"
"Perhaps, but one day you're actually going to stop and enjoy it, which would put you in the present. I hope I'm there for it."
"What does that mean?"
"You'll see. Come on, let's go build your enterprise." She smiles.
We stumble upon a booth showing a series of CDs of original funeral scores.
I turn to her. "Know what I'm thinking? We make a strategic alliance with music production libraries and sound-effects libraries."
"How do sound effects fit in?"
"Say someone loves thunderstorms and rain."
"Like you."
"Yes, like me. So maybe I want those sounds at the closing of the service as people leave the premises. Or we use them in the biographical videos. Clapping sounds as a transition between the chapters in someone's life."
Sierra nods. "Okay, I'm starting to get this."
We pass a booth providing services for slide shows. One section features customized engraved casket lids, another displays fifteen varieties of leg hose. We share a look and smile. "Who's going to see the hose?" We move on.
Another area boasts headrests embroidered with phrases promoting peaceful rest. I think of Daniel. Maybe this could be a lucrative market for poets, offering their talents to the bereaved with personalized tributes to the departed. Moving on, we notice companies selling embalming paraphernalia.
"Shall we explore this?" asks Sierra.
"Let's skip this one if you don't mind." I discover my curiosity has its limits.
A company sells fabrics with beautiful wall-size tapestries hanging above caskets. A photo of the loved one is silkscreened onto a giant tapestry with overnight delivery guaranteed. I pocket a business card for future reference.
We find the heart of the organization that's behind the event. Their association commands a wide booth providing valuable educational information to its twenty-one thousand members, funeral home directors, including the latest information about their lobbying efforts in Washington, D.C., a monthly magazine on current funeral-related topics, public relations tips, programs plus information on everything from mortuary sciences to new compliance laws affecting safe, legal and compassionate operations of funeral homes and ways to help their members enhance quality of service.
I collect packets of their information, facts and figures gathered by organizations like the U.S. Census Bureau, the Cremation Association of North America and the Casket & Funeral Supply Association of America.
I turn to Sierra. "Think you've got enough visual stimuli here to come up with a great logo?"
"Oh, I'm buzzing with ideas...for the logo and the Web site."
"I can't wait, but we've got to hit the workshops now."
"Shall we divide and conquer?" asks Sierra.
"Good idea." I open my program and point. "Which one do you want?"
Sierra reads the options aloud. "'Business Transformation Trends,' 'Strategies for Independent Funeral Homes,' 'Civil Celebrants versus Traditional Clergy,' 'Everyday Ethics & Etiquette,' 'The Pre-Need Market,' and 'The Psychology of a Funeral.' I'll take 'Psychology of a Funeral.'"
"I'll skip between the 'Civil Celebrants' lecture and 'The Pre-Need Market.' See you back in the room at eighteen hundred hours." I smile.
"Aye, aye." She gives me a wink.
I slip in and out of workshops the rest of the afternoon, fascinated to learn about the growing number of "Civil Celebrants," a fairly new profession in the funeral field catering to clients without religious ties who want to ritualize the death of a loved one by hiring not your everyday clergy, but civil celebrants to conduct the rituals. Civil celebrants can be anyone from your local grocery store clerk to your neighborhood photographer to your personal trainer to your therapist.
I skip to the next workshop to learn more about the growing discussion on "pre-need" versus "time of need" markets. More funeral homes are using outside vendors to help with more complex funeral arrangements. I'm right on target.
Back to the room, I decide. I'm laden with brochures and pamphlets. The muscles in my arms have formed into complicated knots. Thoughts of Seth creep into my mind. One thing he excelled at was the soothing of twisted muscles. I miss his touch. I could call, but what for? We were not a good fit.
I take new action inside the hotel room and luxuriate inside a big bubble-filled hot tub. I leaf through the brochures to digest the information of the day. Sierra enters the room unloading her own accumulated handouts.
She eyes me enveloped in gyrating bubbles. "Now that looks relaxing," she says. "Would it be presumptuous of me to join you?"
"Only if you fail to bring a washcloth."
"Done deal," she replies, plucking a washcloth off the towel rack and tossing it to me. She removes her clothes and slips inside the tub, releasing a sigh of relief. "Ah...the joy of the bath." She smiles. "So, what exactly is a civil celebrant? Sounds like someone stuck in 1865 on the side of the Union."
"You're ice cold."
"Then it sounds like a Miss Manners course on how to celebrate with civility."
"Getting warmer."
"Well, how about I wash your back while you enlighten me?"
"You're on." I turn and she glides a warm, wet, soapy washcloth across my back.
"You've got great skin. It hasn't changed at all, so silky and smooth—but these knots!"
I moan as Sierra kneads one out. "Wow. That feels great." And I actually relax for a moment. "What about you? Any revelations on the psychology of the funeral?"
"Plenty. Did you know an obituary is really a plea for help? A plea from the survivors to the community to be there and support their transition."
"I thought it was the deceased who was transiting."
"Nope. The result of their departure leaves the survivors to figure out a whole new social order. Funerals help survivors reconstruct a new social order inside their families and the community."
"I never thought of it that way." I turn around. "Here, let me do your back now." I take the washcloth from her.
Sierra releases a small noise of appreciation. I get the signal and drop the cloth to knead her muscles. "Hmm. That's the airplane ride, huh?"
"Mmm-hmm," she replies. "So are you seeing anyone right now?"
"Was...but I'm playing the results."
"Don't worry," she says, as if reading my mind. "The right person will fit naturally into your plans. And if it's any consolation, I think you're very hot, Madison Banks."
Her comment mollifies me. "Thanks, Sierra. Are you seeing anyone?"
"I lived with a woman but it didn't work. Lately, I've been dating men again."
"Anyone special?"
"Well...there is this one guy...Milton."
"Milton?"
"Yeah. What do you think? Could I marry a guy with the name Milton?"
"I would be suspect, unless he pleases you to no end. "I smile.
"Not there yet... I'm taking it slow. But he does make me laugh."
"That's huge. Seth and I didn't laugh enough," I reflect.
"I'll make you laugh." A mischievous twinkle appears in her eye as she suddenly splashes water in my face. I reflexively splash back. A miniwater fight ensues.
"Okay, okay, you win," I say, my mouth filled with water and laughter. We laugh some more and sink inside the water to rinse ourselves off.
Sierra gently runs her hand through wet hair. "It's pretty interesting, isn't it?" she asks rhetorically. "That the funeral, aside from being a socially acceptable place to weep and mourn in public, provides the last chance to learn."
"Learn what?" I ask, reaching for a towel.
"That the dead are really dead."
I freeze.
Sierra turns around. "What is it, Maddy?"
"I don't want the dead to be dead," I whisper.
She holds me in her arms. "Oh, Maddy...you know if it wasn't for Tara's death we wouldn't be sitting in a hot tub in the heart of Las Vegas right now."
"No, I don't imagine we would be."
"If Tara were here, what would she think?"
"She wouldn't be thinking at all. She would be out dancing."
"Then let's go dancing, Mad. For Tara. Let's keep her alive."
**
Couples and singles weave around the dance floor to a loud techno beat. Sierra's hair is down and wild, and she moves with fluidity and grace, hips shifting to the rhythm of the music as if the vibrations emanate from her bones, not the speakers.
I, on the other hand, can't hold a beat to save my life. My hips swing out in fierce gestures. I shake my head and roll my shoulders with pronounced vigor. I catch myself in the mirror fumbling to the beat, arms awkwardly gyrating, legs swinging out as if trying to land on undiscovered planets in the solar system. I watch Sierra's liquid-smooth moves. I stop dancing, shaking my head in defeat.
Sierra glides over. "What's wrong?"
"I suck. What happened to me? I used to win every single dance contest growing up. Now I can't even find the beat."
"That's because you're out of touch with the rhythm of life, from working too hard," says Sierra, through the din of the drums. "Keep your feet on the ground at all times," she instructs. "And switch your center of gravity from one hip to the other. Like this."
Her body moves fluidly. I attempt to duplicate her motions but to no avail. "I think I'm missing some vital hip coordination," I say.
"I can cure that," Sierra offers. Undeterred, she places my hands on the back of her hips. "Feel it and follow along."
I face her back, trying to own the beat. She patiently presses my hands on her hips, maintaining a slow, methodical pace until I start to catch on. In minutes, I'm moving to the music, mastering it.
Sierra leans close to my ear. "You want to take a break and get some water?"
I keep moving and shake my head. "Can't stop now. I may never get it back."
"I see." Sierra smiles. "Did you stop to think it might be like riding a bike?"
I shake my head again, still moving to the beat. "Oh, no. This is much harder."
"Okay, marathon woman. I'll get us both some water." She smiles.
Sierra heads toward the bar. A couple of guys approach her like magnets. Meanwhile, I keep moving, wondering yet again how long I can feed my ambition to pursue my goals in order to reach the life I think I ought to be living.
----------------------------------
BEHIND THE CHAPTER:
This chapter is brought to you by 1800Flowers.com. Use Promo Code 'FUNERALPLANNER' and receive a blossoming 10% discount on your next 1800Flowers.com order.
I love all of my characters for different reasons. I love Maddy for her complexity, intensity, and drive. I love Sierra for her dedication, insights, creativity, and free-flowing Eco-Boho Style. I especially love Eve (Glam meets Romantic). She takes over and makes me laugh as I write because Eve is after all, Eve. If Eve were standing here, she'd get me and well, everyone, to discover their style and shop their style at Rachel Schostak's hot new fashion blogger/shopping site Styleshack.com. Check it out and take the Interactive StyleQuiz to discover your Style Archetype! Very cool! As Eve says, "Styleshack is the best virtual fashion stylist--bar none, with the bonus of making real time reservations at local boutiques to help you architect your style for pick-ups at your convenience. Style meets Convenience. It doesn't get better than that!" This is in addition to the haute couture boutique Really Great Things on 73rd & Columbus in Manhattan. They dress me for important meetings and I really do close more deals!
I mention APM Music because they have a stake in The Tribute Network and Tribute Video Festival in return for use of their of music on the tribute videos. So why not?
The name for Lights Out Enterprises came from a brainstorming session with my dear cousin, Laurie LaZebnik (author of "Strongheart") but my cousin Gershon Segelman thought I should've named it Drop Dead, Inc. :)) To see how the real life business LOE inspired by the novel spawned international media attention visit Press at LynnIsenberg.com and LightsOutEnterprises.co.
I really did go to a National Funeral Directors Convention in Vegas for research. I really did think up all of these ideas--many of which now exist (like caskets at Costco and graveside tribute videos--now via QR codes). One funeral director shared his excitement with me about their new cremation garden with floating urns and striking a deal with an art school to design custom urns. I said, "That sounds like Maddy Banks." He replied, "Well, Lynn, I did read your book!"
The associated YouTube link will reveal notable Hollywood talent and celebrities endorsing the novel-inspired Tribute Video Festival. Enjoy!!
And now... another drum roll for... Chapter Four...
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Hope you enjoyed this chapter of The Funeral Planner! If you just can't wait to read the latest about Maddy, Eve and Sierra and their entrepreneurial adventures The Funeral Planner Trilogy is available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Sony. Check out LynnIsenberg.com for more.