The Funeral Planner (19 page)

I meet with my cousin Laura, who thinks it’s an awesome idea, but instead of helping me find high-profile entertainment people, she encourages me to develop the concept as a reality TV show. I try Adam Berman at Ubiquitous Music, but he declines claiming it’s a conflict of interest. I cold-call high-profile corporations featured in the
Financial Street Journal,
but the young assistants who play gatekeeper to upper management simply don’t get it, thinking I’m some sort of quack.

After ten days of nonstop dead-ends, I throw my pen and notepad down and head over to the Bel Age Hotel for a real drink.

I sit at the bar nursing a grapefruit juice, but this time with a shot of vodka in it.

“I’ve never seen you come in here for a
drink
drink before,” says the bartender.

“Me, neither,” I reply.

“What’s got you so down?”

“The search for that which doth not exist,” I say, slightly slurring my words.

“Maybe you’re just looking in the wrong places. What are you seeking?”

“Oh, just a high-profile corporate executive willing to share his life in the context of death.”

“That’s easy,” he says, cocking his head toward the bar. “People like that hang out right here, in bars. Traveling CEOs looking to share and connect. Bars are where they bide their time, trust me.” He winks.

The guy with the gold enters. I glance at him, and then back at the bartender.

“Not him,” says the bartender flatly.

Gold Guy sees me but I’ve got my black ribbon on, so he keeps his distance, every so often casting discreet glances my way.

Meanwhile, I sit there stumped. The
Financial Street Journal
lies by my side next to the
New York Times
obituary page. A large loquacious crowd of suits pass the bar on the way to what must be several ballrooms.

“What’s up with crowd central?” I ask the bartender.

“Another convention, real estate or something,” he replies.

I nod. “Hey, maybe I should hit the trade show industry,” I tell him. “You know, traipse around the country going to conventions seeking clients looking to book their own funeral gigs.”

I shake my head. When I glance up I notice Arthur Pintock standing alone at the end of the bar, rubbing his temples, looking tired and worn out. I get an idea.

Moments later, the bartender brings Arthur Pintock a hot cup of cappuccino, compliments of Madison Banks. Arthur looks up, recognizes me and nods thanks.

Mr. Pintock moves from his end of the bar to mine. “Hi, Mr. Pintock,” I say. “Madison Banks. How are you?” I see the pain on his face that my connection brings, leaving him absent of words. “I’m sorry to hear about you and Mrs. Pintock,” I say, providing discreet filler for him until he can regain his composure.

He nods, and then notices the black ribbon on my shirt. “What’s that ribbon for?”

“My uncle Sam passed away last week,” I say. “He was like a father to me.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “May I join you?”

“Yes, of course,” I say, moving my papers over and quickly stuffing the obit page in my briefcase. He sits next to me.

“And call me Arthur. How about a couple of martinis?”

“Sure,” I say. “Arthur.”

Arthur and I drink up. The more we drink, the more we cut loose about our feelings of loss.

“The thing about it,” says Arthur,“is if people haven’t experienced death, they have no idea what you’re feeling. It makes them uncomfortable to be around you. They don’t know what to say. You don’t know what to say. So they ignore you, as if you were some stain that might rub off on them and…inflict them with your grief.”

“Yeah, as if grief were contagious,” I concur, swilling my drink. “I don’t understand why schools and universities don’t teach practical classes on dealing with grief and bereavement. It should be mandatory. Don’t you think?” I bury the rest of my drink down the hatch and slur on. “Especially with an aging baby boomer population. How is a nation of grievers going to cope?”

“That’s a good point,” says Arthur. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“You know what else I wonder? How come there are no eternally, internally-lit caskets?”

“Hadn’t thought of that, either,” says Arthur. “Interesting proposition, though.” He pauses again. “So what are you doing now, Maddy? Why are you sitting alone in a bar?” he asks.

“I’m grieving.”

“Oh, right.”

Both of us are a little tipsy—okay, more than a little tipsy—okay, a lot tipsy.

“Actually, I’m grieving a death and a celebration.”

“How’s that work?” asks Arthur.

“I finally secured an initial round of VC money for my new business but without a front bowling-pin client, I’m afraid it’s going to flat-line.”

“What’s the business? Maybe I can help you.”

“I’d rather not say.” He gives me an odd look. “I think it would be…inappropriate,” I add. “Truly.”

He guffaws. “You think I haven’t heard the most outrageous ideas in my time? If you don’t tell me, I’ll be insulted.”

I size him up, then slowly and apprehensively let it out. “Customized funeral experiences for the pre-need market, strategically targeting those who want to bring value to their lives by doing the same in preparation for their death.” I finish my martini. “With all due respect, Arthur, I want to make those experiences about celebrating a life, as opposed to mourning a death. I just didn’t think so many people would be so put off by it.”

Arthur stares at me, coming to a slow realization. “I see. And when did you come up with this concept?”

I look at him, starting to sober up. “Well, sir, the idea-generation process was initiated at Tara’s funeral.”

He nods. Silence follows before he turns to me. “I’m not afraid. After what I’ve been through, I’m not afraid of anything. Especially death. I’ll be your front bowling-pin customer, Madison Banks. Just tell me what I need to do and how much I need to pay.”

I’m stunned. “But, Arthur, I’m not sure you realize what you would be getting into…” I say, protesting. “The process requires some introspection and…”

“And you think I haven’t been doing that? Nonstop since Tara’s death?”

Hanging on to the edge of the bar, I look him over. He’s not fooling around. “It would require a serious time commitment,” I whisper.

“Keeping busy to fill the void would be a, uh…welcome relief,” he says quietly. “Please.”

“Okay, okay,” I say. “You’re in. I’ll tell you what you need to do.”

He extends his hand and I shake it.

“Can I ask you a question?” he asks.

“Sure.”

“Do you think Tara would have really made it as a songwriter?”

“I have no doubt, Arthur. No doubt at all.”

He grins. “Me, too.”

“Would you like to see some photos of her? I recently downloaded them.”

“Yes,” he says. “I would love that.”

I pull out my PDA-cell phone-camera and bring Tara back to life. “See here—this is the time we were at the library studying for an Ethics test and Tara started creating lyrics out of random sentences in our text books….”

He recognizes the oh-so-mischievous smile of his daughter and lights up. “She made everything fun, didn’t she.”

“That was Tara,” I say. “Oh, and check out this one.” I click to another photo. “This was when Tara, Sierra and I…”

My words and sentiments seem to create solace we both desperately needed.

Arthur Pintock becomes my primary focus for the next month. I fly back and forth between Los Angeles and Ann Arbor coordinating pre-production of the life bio video, and finalizing the paperwork with Winston Capital. I coordinate with Sierra to take over the video. I have extensive conversations with Arthur Pintock about what he’s gotten out of life to date, what he hopes for in the future, how he wants to be remembered, what he wants to say to those who survive him, what kind of music he likes, whom he would like to speak about him and what valuable wisdom he could impart to friends, family and colleagues.

In the midst of the Pintock Project, I receive an e-mail from Eve with an attached pdf file. It’s her visual essay for Professor Osaka. I’m impressed, not so much with her content, but with her visual style. Eve clearly has a talent for graphic arts and research, information I neatly tuck away in my memory bank.

Sierra and I interview Arthur at work and in his hotel room where he now lives separated from his wife. Arthur realizes he has no hobbies in his life because he never made time for any; he realizes he has no musical preferences because he never took the time to listen to any; he realizes there are no clergy who he’d want to speak on his behalf because he never took the time to know any.

I interview his colleagues at the office, but no friends, because Arthur comes to realize he has no real friends since he never took the time to make any of those, either. His overachieving, workaholic nature is what took him to the top CEO position of the world’s most powerful mortgage-lending business, not a well-rounded, well-balanced social life, nor a well-rounded, well-balanced home life.

I interview Grace Pintock, who decides to take this opportunity to tell her husband on video all the feelings she’s had to unwillingly hoard inside her heart because he was never willing, ready or able to hear them for the last thirtytwo years of their marriage, highlighted and microscopically emphasized in the months following Tara’s passing.

Arthur flies Sierra and me on the company’s private jet to film him in action and continue the questionnaire process while he conducts business in New York, London and Shanghai.

I try to discover something about Arthur during these trips that might reflect a dimension other than his need to control, manage and expand the empire he’s created. I hunt for anything that might resemble a hobby or a passion we can use. But aside from his staunch discipline for exercise—he jogs a ten-mile treadmill run every day at 5:00 a.m.—the closest I get is his undying interest in building companies.

“So…building…is a big thing for you. That’s a good start,” I coax. “You like the art of erecting and assembling. Did you ever want to be an architect?”

“No. The closest I’ve ever come to architecture is my desire to reconfigure commercial space so it’s conducive to labor performing better.”

“So have you done that?”

“No, but I placate that desire by making contributions on a smaller scale.”

“Can you give me an example?” I ask, digging for more.

“Well, I suppose office chairs are a good example,” he says. “I believe they’re as valuable as good sleeping mattresses.”

“How is that?”

“In order to have a good day you need to have a good night’s rest, and in order to have a good night’s rest, you need to have a good chair at the office. That’s why I only use Aeron chairs by Herman Miller. The ergonomic features provide aeration and adjustable mobility—and they are top quality. Makes you feel invincible at work.”

“Sort of a self-esteem booster for you.”

“Not just for me. I know it’s considered a luxury item for executives. But I consider it a necessity for high performance in the workplace, which is why every one of my employees has one.”

“Any examples aside from the chair?”

“Office systems,” he says. “How spatial configurations of office furniture affect productivity.”

The closest thing I can find to a hobby for Arthur is his penchant for driving to the warehouses of Herman Miller’s corporate headquarters in Zeeland, Michigan, to stay up-to-date with innovations in office systems.

I am beginning to think that to do justice to Arthur Pintock, his tribute should take place in an office with Aeron chairs for all to mourn in; only they wouldn’t really be mourning, they would be celebrating his life in comfort with high-performance memory…thanks to the, er, chairs.

While Arthur Pintock’s life bio video gets cut in the editing room, rumors spread that he’s planning a video roast for himself in preparation of a tendered resignation. The board thinks the naming of a successor is imminent. They assume he’s finally acquiesced to address the issue and they quit harping at him on the matter.

Eventually, however, the rumor finds its way to Arthur, who immediately calls his board together and informs them once again, that he has no intention of resigning or naming a successor.

“The video is not a roast but a life bio video as part of my pre-need estate planning,” he says.

A member of the board asks,“Does this mean you have a health issue?”

“I assure everyone that I am in excellent health and more than capable of steering the company toward its ongoing expansion plans. I advise everyone to stop spending their time scrutinizing me and focus on your own personal affairs, or I
will
have a health issue,” he says, fuming under his breath.

While Sierra works on the post-production of the Pintock Project, I fly back to Los Angeles to work on the product offerings, finalize the advisory board and schedule a meeting with Victor Winston. He e-mails me an address where to meet him, but when I get there all I see is a run-down bowling alley.