* * *
The long stretch of road on the way to the airport is void of other vehicles. Seth turns to me with a wily smile. “How about a three-sixty?”
“I prefer not.” I quiver.
He offers a salacious grin, then swiftly jams his foot against the brakes of his Jeep Wrangler. He dramatically twists the wheel like a conductor orchestrating a sudden flourish of symphonic sounds. I find myself jammed against the passenger door, my heart thumping. The car swerves and weaves in a circle, then pulls out of a fishtale and veers into a straight arrow. We rock back into place.
Seth grins at me. I smile back, trying to be a good sport, realizing that impromptu three-sixties are not something I wish to include in my repertoire of experiences.
“Did you like that?” He smiles.
“Not particularly. I just established a corporation, registered the URL for a new Web site and finalized a PowerPoint presentation. I’d like to stick around to finish what I started.”
“Wow. Busy Barryspoon. Is that that Artist Showcase you’ve been working on?”
“Artists International,” I reply. “I’m about to shop it to investors. I’ve got professional artists and designers lined up to have their bios videotaped with a licensing plan in place to capitalize on cross-promotional applications. I just have to be the first to bring it to market.”
“How the hell do you do…all that?” he asks, dubiously lifting a brow.
My voice elevates in pitch as it always does when I get excited. “I secure financing. I stabilize strategic partnerships with globally recognized museums. I get the media jazzed about it so they’ll write articles. I create an online catalogue for curators to download artist bios for prospective clients. I design a companion convention for art dealers with sponsors—who’ve given me verbal commitments. Oh, and I include a new emerging market called Outsider Art. It’s raw, unaffected, unsophisticated and people are paying millions for it.”
“Yeah, but how does this thing make money?” asks Seth.
“I license private collections of major art and design museums around the world to advertisers. Museums love it because the extra income helps them stay afloat. I want to do it with anime, comic-book art and video-game art, too. Anyway, it’s all in the business plan that I gave to Jonny Bright.”
“Who’s that?”
“A venture capitalist.” I pause, feeling my brow furrow.
“What’s that face for, Withermore?”
“I should’ve had him sign an NDA. Last time I shared my idea with venture capitalists and strategic partners, someone leaked it to Derek Rogers.”
“Derek Rogers? The dude who burned you in college?” asks Seth.
I nod. It still gives me a bad feeling. Forgiveness is not my strong suit. And when you consider that Seth and I have only known each other for four months and he already knows the history of an incident that occurred ten years ago, well, it’s pretty obvious that I haven’t let that one go.
Seth cocks his head toward me. “Can I ask you something? How can you even think about business when you’re off to a funeral?”
“Simple. If I don’t, I’ll fall apart.” Then, to keep the pain at bay, I force a smile, adding, “Though I am getting to be pretty good at interment these days. Black dress on hand, there’s nothing to it.”
We reach the airport departure terminal. Seth parks curbside and handles my bags for me. He leans in for another kiss when I remember the envelope and hand it to him. “I totally forgot. Could you please pop this in the mail for me? It’s for Ryanna in South Africa. I promised her a sample business plan as a template for the business she wants to start.”
“Who’s Ryanna?” he asks, taking the envelope from me.
“She’s in my e-chapter of Start-up Entrepreneurs.”
“You’re always doing that—helping other people, then getting taken advantage of or getting ripped off. Why do you do that?”
“I…I don’t know how not to,” I say, never having thought of it like that before.
“That’s why I dig you.” He slips me a deep-throated kiss, then probes, “So…can I borrow some money?”
I freeze. How can he ask me that when he knows I don’t have it to give? Besides, he stills owes me seven hundred and fifty for his trip to Portland to visit his six-year-old son. I can give him anything else…like my apartment or my entire library of books on corporate marketing, demographic trends and strategies on how to generate income. But actual cash dollars—I don’t have those to give. And anyway, it’s a line I can’t cross. Since I have less experience in relationships than in failed business ventures, I proceed in the following fashion.
“You know, Seth. I really like you and you are the most amazing kisser. But this, uh, merger that’s in development is turning into a high-risk position and it’s affecting my bottom line. Actually, I don’t have a bottom line anymore because I went under it a long time ago. What I mean is, the proof of concept just isn’t there right now because—well, because there are too many essential barriers to entry and I think that the value proposition has been, well, exhausted, and, uh…”
Seth interrupts. “Whoa. Can you pull back the reins and say that in English?”
I have to really think about it for a minute. “I propose we table the merger until our financial positions stabilize.” It’s the best I can do.
“So…you want to say goodbye.”
“No. I did not say that word. Please, don’t say…that word. I’d rather we just say, ‘see ya later,’ and see what happens. How’s that?”
“Cool,” he says. He pauses to squeeze my hand. “See ya later, Maddy.” Then he throws me a wink loaded with goodbye.
On the escalator toward security I take a deep breath, holding back my tears—unborn tears that represent the loss of Smitty, Tara, past failures, disappointments and now Seth.Even though I knew I had to do it, it didn’t lessen the hurt any.
I board the plane for Detroit only to get immobilized in the aisle, waist-to-face with a gentleman in first class. I recognize him: the iconic singer-songwriter Maurice LeSarde, whose melodic music and happy lyrics I worshipped as a kid. Uncle Sam introduced me to his music when I was six. It turned out that Tara was a huge fan, too. It was in fact LeSarde’s songs that bonded Tara and me together as friends.
This must be a sign from Tara, I think, a message of some sort. He sits quietly next to me, his face inches from my waist. Not knowing what else to say, I whisper, “Are you Maurice LeSarde?”
He whispers back, “Yes, I am.”
“I’m such a big fan of yours!” I say like a silly starstruck child. “I kept your signed photo on my wall all through junior high, and high school…and college…and, well, it’s still up on my office wall, in the corner of my, uh, kitchen.”
“Why, thank you,” he says. There’s a humble smile on his face.
“So, um, what will you be doing in Detroit?” I ask, timidity taking over.
“I’ve got a concert there.”
“You’re performing? Wow. You haven’t given a concert in twenty years.”
He looks at me, my fandom clearly validated now. “Well, it’s a twenty-year anniversary.”
“Then it’s at the Fisher Theater.”
“That’s right.” He nods. His interest seems to pique.
“That’s a great concert venue.” The bottleneck in the aisle breaks up. I move forward, guided by a herd of travelers behind me. “Well, um, see ya later, Mr. LeSarde,” I say.
Once seated, I compose a letter to Mr. LeSarde and include $3.46 which I figure I owe him for unlawfully licensing his music at the age of six to put on a roller-skating show in the basement for which I had charged admission tickets. That was my very first business. The product was “entertainment,” which I created and advertised by going door to door in the neighborhood and guaranteeing proceeds for a neighborhood compost site. All in all, I proudly produced two performances and raised $176, enough to build a small compost bin behind the local grocery store
.
I include a few suggestions for restaurants for Mr. LeSarde to go to while in the Detroit area, then neatly fold the note up and ask a stewardess to give it to him. Okay, well, that took approximately twenty minutes, which now leaves me with the rest of the plane ride—an unwanted three hours and forty minutes to think about Tara and Smitty, the only two people I have ever known who died. I don’t like the feeling at all. I intensely dislike goodbyes.
I flash back to memories of Smitty and my schoolgirl crush on the divine older cousin who played drums and sketched pictures of naked people in cool shades of charcoal.
I think of Tara, recalling late-night study sessions where we created our own language called e-o-nay, which consisted of dropping the first consonant of each word. Our attempt to speak e-o-nay was a surefire way to provoke laughter. Tara was fun. She found humor in everything and had an uncanny ability to lighten any given moment with her infectious smile. She was driven to succeed, like the rest of us. And upon graduation, she entered the family’s mortgage-lending business.
But a year ago, Tara summoned the courage to pursue her real dream of becoming a lyricist. When she was in school she used to make up songs in class or at the library, inspired by just about everything, even the tabloids. Her songs often made us laugh, and sometimes made us cry.
Tara had, like so many of us, replaced her desires with those of her father…for a while. How many of us do that? How many of us abandon our instincts and passions to acquiesce to another’s vision for us, one that fits into their overall plans? Tara’s father had reacted badly to her decision, yet how lucky was Tara to have the courage to do something about it before she died. It’s an achievement most of us never make, I think, as I gaze out the window into the celestial midnight sky.
I had promised to visit her last year, but my business venture went bust, leaving my checkbook empty again. Why hadn’t I visited? So what if I had accumulated debt—I could have seen Tara one more time. My thoughts fill with regret, so I quickly focus again on business.
I pull out my reading materials: Business Week, Entrepreneur and the Financial Street Journal. I start with the FSJ, my business bible. I zero in on the front-page article and gasp.
The article details the successful launch of a new company called Palette Enterprises, specializing in digital bios of artists for the worldwide fine-art connoisseur and novices offline and online. The company is targeting Outsider Art and has deals with art museums for corporate branded licensing. Palette has taken the lead in this marketplace by affiliating with a consortium of galleries and producing a sponsordriven annual convention catering to art connoisseurs. The sponsors and museums are identical to the ones I approached, none of whom mentioned a conflict of interest to me.
I am shocked. My current dreams swiftly shatter. It’s near-perfect plagiarism of my business plan. To make matters worse, it’s spearheaded by “entrepreneur on the rise” Derek Rogers, with quotes for annual profits expected to be in the hundreds of millions.
I shake my head in denial. Tears stream down my cheeks. “I don’t believe it.” Grief, from every source, converges upon me, finding its outlet in this moment. Had my idea been leaked, or were all good ideas simply in the ethers waiting to be plucked and implemented by the person who committed to it the fastest.
In Baggage Claim, I watch stuffed luggage hypnotically thump and bump along the moving catwalk.
Maurice LeSarde taps me on the shoulder. “Hey, Madison Banks. I loved your note,” he says with a warm smile.
I barely manage a grin. “Really? I’m glad.” Even a one-on-one conversation with Maurice LeSarde does little to lift my spirits.
“But I can’t possibly keep your money. I’m really flattered. I’d like to offer you a pair of tickets to my concert in Detroit tonight.”
“That’s really nice of you, but you don’t have to do that.”
“I want to,” he replies. He turns to a young woman nearby.
“Hey, Dawn, give Ms. Madison Banks here two tickets for tonight.”
Dawn manages to smile and hand me two tickets while coordinating logistics on a cell phone. “I don’t see the chauffeur yet,” she says into the phone,“and Mr. LeSarde wants to make sure his room is ready for an early check-in…”
I stare at the tickets, truly touched. “Thanks so much. There’s really nothing more I’d like to do, but I’m afraid I have to decline on account of a funeral and other family commitments.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Well, take them anyway. Just in case. If you don’t use them, take my business card and consider it a rain check.” He hands me his card with his personal e-mail address on it. “And thanks for being such a loyal fan.”
“You’re welcome.”
Dawn interrupts. “I see our chauffeur now, Mr. LeSarde.”
He nods. “G’bye.” They turn and head toward the exit.
“See ya later,” I say to the space left behind, slipping his card in my back pocket.
I drive a rental car through light snowfall and arrive at a large brownstone church. In an attempt to be inconspicuous, I don a pair of large dark sunglasses because I’m here for Tara, not to run into anyone I know, especially my college ethics professor, Mr. Osaka, who thought I showed the most promise of anyone in class. The last thing I want is to see any of them and have to tell the truth—that I’m a loser.
Inside it feels cold and looks plain. A few floral arrangements dot the sides of the aisle upon entry. Mourners coat the pews, creating a sea of black breathing fabrics.
I find a lone seat in the front, off to the side. A shiny mahogany casket displays Tara lying peacefully inside. Except that Tara’s hair is all wrong. Her trademark bangs are swept off to the side revealing a bare forehead. Didn’t anyone look at a picture of her, for God’s sake? Tara loved her shaggy bangs. Reality sets in. Shit, she’s dead. She’s really dead.
“We gather here today for the death of Tara Pintock,” bellows the minister. “Death comes to all, but such an untimely death as this one brings cause for unrequited redemption of the soul to heaven.”
I later cringe at his performance of a canned eulogy. Squirming in my seat, I roll my eyes. Not once does he talk about Tara’s hopes and aspirations. He never mentions her gift for songwriting or her insane ability to see the good in everything and everyone. I become more and more agitated. This is an injustice; I fume inside my head, wondering where Tara’s parents are and how they can allow this to happen. Maybe grief has crippled them and they are simply not capable.
The minister flares his cape, preaching, “It is not just the memory of Tara we rejoice in today, but the power of grist in heaven and hell as a sacred religious symbol!”
I sweat with irritation and impatience. This is a travesty. I can’t take it anymore. As the minister’s about to wrap it up, I raise my hand to interrupt as politely as I can. “Excuse me, sir. I’m Madison Banks, and Tara was one of my best friends in school. Would it be okay if I added a few simple words?”
Stumped, he glances at an impeccably well-dressed man sitting in front of him. The man must be Tara’s father—but how could anyone possibly deny a person the opportunity to express their grief ? The man’s nod to the minister is quickly transferred to me.
Standing behind the podium I remove my sunglasses to face the chapel of mourners. “Thank you. I would, uh, just like to add a few memories about Tara.” I feel myself choke up. I pause to take stock and abort my tears. “Tara,” I begin again, “was not only a loyal friend but a person who made every day shine. Her sense of humor was contagious. And she had the ability to forgive and move on. She loved words, and to merge phrases of cultures she visited into her everyday lexicon. When she returned from London all we heard for months was ‘Blimey’ this and ‘blimey’ that!”
Mourners laugh. Obviously the description revitalizes their memory of Tara.
“Tara was always making up songs. Remember the ones she wrote for our class? There was “IPO marries ROI,” “The Adoption Rate Pra
yer Song” or “Oh, Lord, Please Grant Me a Front Bowling Pin Client.” Classmates smile and chuckle. I sing the chorus and then turn to Tara in the casket. “Remember that one, Tara?” But only silence follows. I face the mourners again. “Her songs made the top of the chart on the university radio station. And she was a fierce advocate of justice, helping students obtain health insurance at fair and equitable rates. She even wrote a song and distributed it through the Internet. It worked like a charm—the students got the insurance. She flourished in everything she touched and I have no doubt that given just a little more time to execute her action plan, her path to profitability and personal accomplishment as a lyricist would have exceeded even her expectations. Tara was a great, trustworthy friend, and a proud daughter, who loved every moment.”
I stare at the casket and, unable to say goodbye, simply whisper, “See ya later, Tara.” Someone claps, then stops. Silence follows as I nervously return to my seat.
Tara’s father, renowned Arthur Pintock who runs the world’s largest international mortgage-lending business, stands up. He clears his throat. “Thank you, Madison. Thank you for honoring the life of my daughter.” He nods at the minister and sits back down, squeezing his wife’s hand in an act of solidarity.
The minister faces the crowd. “Thank you all for supporting the Pintock family in this time of need. Do remember to sign the guest book on your way to the reception line. God bless.”
Now that I’ve blown my cover, I duck through the crowd for a fast exit. But suddenly, Sharon, from my leadership development class, blocks me on my left. I squeeze to the right, but Marcus from my ethics and corporate governance class appears along with Lani, president of the Venture Capital Club.
“Maddy! You look amazing! How are you doing?” asks Sharon.
“Did you write that speech?” asks Marcus. “It was beautiful.”
Lani adds,“I’m sorry to see you here on this occasion, but you must tell us what you’re up to and what kind of business you’re in.”
The Funeral Planner Page 2