I chalk the interview up to experience, like getting my teeth drilled. But two days later – shortly after I’ve dragged myself back from filling out an application at McDonald’s, while I am sitting depressed in front of the TV watching some perverse soap opera – I am contacted.
“Mr. Lakatos?”
I recognize the voice, and my stomach turns icy.
“Yes,” I say.
“This is Ms Davenport from Valley Oaks Memorial Park. We spoke earlier.”
So, I have a name to attach to the disembodied voice.
“How are you, Ms Davenport?”
“The President wants to see you about the sales position, Mr. Lakatos.”
“That would be ... fine,” I say. “When?”
“Thursday evening at six thirty. This is a convenient time?” It is a command more than an inquiry.
“Sure,” I say.
“Mr. Vulchine also wishes to meet your fiancé. You can bring her with you?”
Fiancée!
“Yes, of course she’ll come,” I say.
Ms Davenport gives directions to the office. It is located on the cemetery grounds, and the security gate will be left open for me.
“Please be on time,” she says.
“I will, thank you,” I say, then add hurriedly, “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Lakatos.”
I hang up. What am I getting myself into? This is the oddest thing I’ve been involved with since that mirror episode in Coloane. I’ll have to call Ms Davenport back and cancel, say I’ve decided to “pursue another opportunity” or some b.s. like that.
But then I think about the endless line of customers at McDonald’s – the hot grill I’ll be standing over, the boiling French fries, the high school kids and retirees I’ll have for coworkers. How long before I crack up?
To think I’d actually run down the street in Tokyo to reach a McDonald’s! I’ve always liked the place, but the view from the other side of the counter is grim. I pick up the phone again and dial. Thank heaven, Julie is in.
“Tyler!” she cries. “I was just thinking about you.”
“Julie, you’ve got to help me.”
42: The Great Interview
I drive to the college Thursday afternoon and pick up Julie. She looks great – an attractive, though conservative dark outfit, heels, excellent make up, her blonde hair light and bouncy. Her perfume turns my humble Chevy into a celestial chariot. I kiss her passionately.
“Watch the lipstick!” she says.
“Let’s get naked,” I pant.
“Honestly, Tyler. I thought we had to make an important interview.”
“Yes,” I pull away, “that’s unfortunately true.”
After maneuvering off the campus and reaching the main drag, I take Julie’s hand, stroking her wonderfully soft skin. She is wearing a solitaire ring.
“That’s some diamond,” I say.
Julie holds up her hand; a sunbeam ricochets off the carat-sized stone and stabs my eye.
“It was my Grandmother’s,” she says. “Grandfather bought it for her shortly before they died. He said he wanted her to have the diamond he couldn’t afford when they were young. Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
“They both died in the same week,” Julie says. “They simply couldn’t live without each other. Isn’t that romantic?”
“Uh ... yes.”
Julie examines the diamond, turning her hand to vary the perspective.
“Grandmother just loved this diamond, and I inherited it. I thought it would add credibility to this situation.”
“Yeah,” I say, “good thing she wasn’t buried with it.”
Julie shoots me a vexed glance.
“Sorry,” I say, “that was indelicately put.”
She smiles and strokes my cheek where a bushy sideburn used to grow.
“Looks like you’ve been to the barber, Tyler. You’ve got that IBM look now.”
“Yeah.”
“I like it,” she takes my hand, “very much.”
A few hours later we arrive at Valley Oaks. Thick overcast has moved in, replacing the pleasant early spring atmosphere with ugly gloom. Darkness is closing in as we pass through the security gate. Immediately, I take a wrong turn on the winding roads and, instead of heading towards the office, move farther out into the cemetery.
The place is largely vacant and has the raw, expectant quality of land waiting for a subdivision to be built on it. Only in this case, the residents will all be dead. Most of the existing grave markers are set flush in the ground, with an occasional large, erect family plot stone.
Such a waste, I think, this land could be a park or something.
My antipathy for grave yards runs deep; I do not appreciate their presence in an increasingly crowded world. The place is totally flat, and small sapling trees have been planted in neat rows. The ‘Valley Oaks’ moniker seems quite an overstatement.
“Did I tell you this place used to be a sod farm?” I say.
“Oh, really?”
Julie is quiet, thoughtful, her diamond-fingered hand strokes her cheek as she surveys the necropolis. No sunbeams glitter in the stone. We pass a towering crucifix which bears a graphic Christ figure.
“This must be the Catholic section,” Julie says.
I turn left at a half-completed mausoleum and intercept the correct road. We park in front of the administrative building and enter as the last rays of daylight vanish. Ms Davenport stands by her desk in coat and gloves. She glances at the clock which shows we’ve missed our appointed time by three minutes.
“I’m Tyler Lakatos, and this is Julie Lindberg.” I feel awkward in the somber gray suit I’ve borrowed from Victor. “Sorry we’re late. We got tangled up on the roads; very peaceful out there!”
Ms Davenport looks at us blankly, not reacting to the attempt at levity. She is a tall, pale, angular woman with dark hair and eyes. Her face has a sickly cast under the fluorescent light.
“Mr. Vulchine will be back soon.” She indicates a door off to the side. “He asks you to wait in his office.”
A wave of cold air brushes us as she passes on to the exit. A car engine starts and tires rumble on the gravel. We are alone.
“Guess we’d better go in,” I say.
We enter the president’s office. It is dimly illuminated by tiny recessed lights along the ceiling. We must have activated an electric eye device, for the overheads turn on. Bright light floods the room.
“Oh!” Julie grips my hand.
“What’s wrong?”
I follow her gaze. A coffin, huge and terrible, lurks against the far wall! My eyes widen and my breath whistles in through my teeth.
“Good God!”
I squeeze Julie’s hand hard enough to make her cry out again. We remain frozen a long moment before realizing the truth.
“Well, ahem, what do you know?” I say.
I try to sound nonchalant, but am not doing too well. I stroll across the room and examine the large wooden credenza. It does almost look like a coffin, if you aren’t expecting it.
“Where’d he get that horrible thing?” Julie whispers.
“I don’t know.” I feel like a complete idiot. “Guess we’d better sit down, eh?”
We take chairs facing the President’s desk. The spacious window behind it grows darker as evening sets in. I want to close the drapes, but think it might be presumptuous. I dislike bare windows in the dark. They make me feel vulnerable, as if a sniper outside is taking aim at me. A few minutes crawl past.
“You must be Mr. Lakatos,” a male voice says.
We twist around to see Mr. Vulchine walking toward us. We hadn’t heard him enter the office. He is tall and very thin with puffy, blow-dried white hair accenting a pale face. My first impression is that he and Ms Davenport must be related.
I meet him half way across the office. His cold and dry hand transmits surprising strength. As we stand exchanging amenities, I can see
the credenza in the background and have the eerie feeling that Mr. Vulchine has just risen out of it.
I introduce Julie. Mr. Vulchine smiles and takes her hand in a courtly gesture. I half expect him to kiss it. Julie smiles back, blushing slightly. Mr. Vulchine settles into his leather chair behind the massive desk.
“So, you’re interested in working for us?” he says.
“Yes, sir,” I say.
He shuffles through some papers, selects one, studies it briefly, lays it aside.
“I’ll come right to the point,” he says. “You did a fine job selling yourself on the phone, Mr. Lakatos. That’s important to us. A man who can sell himself can sell other things, too.”
My heart beats faster.
“We’re impressed with your potential,” Mr. Vulchine continues. “Now, we’d like to find out more about your temperament and your plans for the future. That’s why I asked Miss Lindberg to come.”
He smiles at Julie, and she beams back. He has an undeniable Gone with the Wind type charm, even if it is somewhat ghastly.
He begins asking me questions which I field with as much skill as possible. Yes, I’ve gotten a basic understanding of the job from Ms Davenport. No, I have no sales experience, but am very willing to learn. Of course I’m willing to undergo a training program to become a “licensed cemeterian.”
Pretty fancy name for a grave salesman.
Then he shifts the focus toward Julie, and I can relax slightly. The window behind the desk reflects Julie and me, but only the high back of Mr. Vulchine’s chair is visible. It looks as if Julie is conversing with a vacant piece of furniture.
“Have you decided on a wedding date?” Mr. Vulchine asks after some preliminary chatter.
“Next June,” she replies without missing a beat. “I’ll be finished with school then, and Tyler should be well established.”
She reaches an arm over my chair back, and I feel myself reddening slightly. Mr. Vulchine grins, delighted with this scenario. His upper canine teeth are pointed in a faintly vampirish manner.
Soon afterwards, the President wraps up the discussion with a job offer, which I accept. Then he escorts us to the exit.
“So, we can expect to see you Monday morning for the first training session, Mr. Lakatos?” he says.
“Yes, sir.” I receive another powerful handshake.
It is quite dark when we get back into the car. I whip off my tie and exhale an immense sigh of relief. I had scarcely been breathing during the interview, I realize. An unwholesome green light illuminates the security gate, offering me guidance as I drive the winding lanes.
“Kind of weird, eh?” I say.
“Perhaps at first,” Julie replies, “but I think Mr. Vulchine is very elegant. You have to start somewhere, Tyler. This could be the beginning of a fine career for you.”
“Yeah?”
“You wouldn’t stay in direct sales too long, of course,” Julie says. “You’d move up into management. Maybe not here but someplace else, once you’ve got some experience.”
Her words hang heavy in the Nova.
We stop at a motel along the freeway. As she gets undressed, Julie takes off the diamond ring and holds it up in the lamp light.
“Let me know when you want to do this for real, Tyler.”
43: The Frank Meade Road Show
“Pleasantness is not what counts for me.” – Adolf Hitler
After a series of classes and a written exam, I am a ‘licensed cemeterian.’ This seems like a lot of trouble, but apparently some government regulation is involved. The parchment certificate I receive baffles me with its seals and fancy lettering. I hide it away in the back of my file cabinet.
My subsequent on-the-job training with Frank Meade is even more surprising. Frank is reputed to be Valley Oaks’ premier salesman, earning top commissions through his amazing nerve and persistence.
The first day I accompany Frank on sales calls, another agent takes me aside and speaks in a confidential tone.
“You’re going out there with the best,” he says, “pay close attention to everything Frank does. We don’t call him ‘Dead Meat’ Meade for nothing, you know.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I say.
I meet Frank in the parking lot and, after some preliminary chit chat, get into one of the big company Lincolns with him.
“Think about it, Tyler” Frank says as we pull away from the office. “With the divorce rate the way it is, who’s gonna get the burial plots?”
“Excuse me?” I say.
“Young married couples are the preferred customers,” Frank says. “They buy their double plots thinking they’re going to spend eternity together, but then they get divorced and the whole idea loses its attraction.”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” I say. “They’ll probably sell them back.”
Frank nods. “Hey, if you stick with the company long enough, maybe you’ll be handling some of those transactions.”
Frank is crass and brilliant, with a Hitlerian grasp of human psychological vulnerabilities. He knows how to rattle people’s emotions and get them to sign before they come back to their senses. He’s a big, hefty guy like Bob West, but more overweight. And he certainly lacks Bob’s sensitivity.
Despite his bulk, Frank looks neat in his well-tailored suit and silk neck tie. His wife is in charge of his wardrobe, and she has excellent taste. Nobody could say that he lacks the “professional demeanor” stipulated by the want ad – especially if you wanted a professional to break somebody’s arm.
The first day out we make two calls at the homes of young married couples, and Frank lands sales both times. I am awe struck by his performance.
We enter the first house brandishing a “free” book on estate planning.
“We’re not here to sell you anything,” Frank says to the wife.
I bite my tongue, but manage a smile. This is one helluva deceptive opening line! But my role is merely to observe and hand over documents at the proper moment.
“Yes,” the woman says. “You explained that on the phone.”
The husband shakes hands with us, but lets his wife do most of the talking. After some chit chat about wills, trusts, and inheritance legal hassles, Frank seamlessly turns the conversation toward making those “final arrangements” and the wisdom of doing so “pre need.”
By this time, the couple is holding hands and looking apprehensively into each other’s eyes.
“This isn’t a subject we wish to think about,” Frank says with an almost lugubrious expression on his broad face, “but we feel much better once we’ve made the proper arrangements and done right by our loved ones.”
The woman nods, daubing her eyes with a tissue. Frank makes a subtle gesture with his index finger, and I hand over the BOOK.
“Shall we examine some options?” Frank asks gently.
The woman nods again.
The BOOK presents tasteful color pictures of Valley Oaks cemetery with accompanying text in wedding invitation style lettering. The photographs look better than the real place. I am impressed by the photographer’s intelligent use of camera angles and lighting effects.
Before long, both the husband and wife are crying. The woman has been sniffling for some time when the man suddenly lets go a torrent of sobs. I am appalled, but Frank merely settles back deferentially and bides his time. He actually flashes me a surreptitious wink.
Frank has them by the short hairs and knows it. At another signal from him, I produce the legal papers and Frank gets signatures for the purchase of a double plot with headstone, the works. After a few condolence type remarks, we are on our way.
“All in a day’s work,” Frank says as we get back in the Lincoln.
I feel like I’ve been rabbit punched. At least I am having an experience few people could match – not even Jon Glass, I suppose. The next call is similar except that Frank has to be more forceful in the closing, almost bullying the people into signing.
Two d
ays later we go out again. The first deal is settled quickly. The client is a cranky old gentleman whose wife passed on many years earlier. He is dissatisfied with the inner-city cemetery where she is buried and wants to purchase a double plot at Valley Oaks where her body can be reinterred and where he can secure his own final resting place.
“Cut the razzmatazz, young man!” he tells Frank, terminating the latter’s sales spiel. “At my age there’s no time to waste. How much is it gonna cost?”
That leaves us with a lot of time before our next call, so we go to a Montana-style steak house for dinner. There, amid the ersatz Western décor, we dig into our steaks and foil-wrapped baked potatoes. Frank orders a massive porterhouse, rare, while I make do with a small fillet, medium well.
“God, I could use a drink!” Frank says. “Wouldn’t do to visit the clients all boozed up, though.”
He shakes his head remorsefully and cuts an enormous slice of porterhouse.
“Tell me, Frank,” I am approaching a delicate subject and choose my words carefully, “is everything about Valley Oaks totally, uh ...”
“On the level?” Frank says.
“Well ... yeah.”
Frank chuckles. “Sure it is. The Boss is competing against well established cemeteries, so he has to offer good value.”
He chews the slice of steak quickly, swallows, resumes talking.
“And the customers have full ownership,” he says. “Somebody could buy plots today and down the road resell them at a profit. They wouldn’t necessarily have to go through us, either.”
He chuckles again.
“Of course, the new owner could only bury somebody on the land, he couldn’t build a condo or anything.”
“Some of the sales methods, though,” I say, “aren’t they a little ... unconventional?”
“You could say that.” Frank shrugs. “The Boss purchased some real estate, but he needs agents who know how to sell illusions.”
“Illusions?”
“Yeah,” Frank says. “What people are really buying is the fantasy that they are looking out for their loved ones by lessening the burden of death. And when couples get a double plot, they feel that they are projecting their marriage vows into eternity.”
I sip my lemonade. Yes, this makes a kind of sense. It even sounds rather empathetic. We eat in silence for a few minutes before Frank returns to form.
“There’s also the vanity factor,” he says. “Even though you’re dead, you can still be somebody with your own piece of underground realty and a handsome marker. Sometimes people just need a little nudge to make the purchase decision.”