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,
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,
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