The Monk and the Riddle: The Art of Creating a Life While Making a Living Read Online Free Page B

die everywhere, right, not just here? This is truly global. The world market for these goods is at the very least triple, quadruple the U.S. market—tens of billions of dollars, easy.”
    I pictured some Tibetan ordering the hack-into-small-pieces-and-feed-to-the-vultures economy option. How would Lenny price that?
    “Let me tell you something that I absolutely, positively, sincerely believe is the gospel truth.” Lenny leaned forward and focused on me with his dark gaze. “You would have to convince me” —he tapped on his chest every time he said “me” —“convince me that these numbers are a stretch. A stretch? I don't think so. Listen, somebody's going to do this. No doubt about it. And I say, why not us? Why not us?”
    Lenny obviously didn't ask questions to get answers, and so I waited through his dramatic pause.
    “And I'm not alone in this.” He flipped to a page of quotes from analysts and forecasters.
    He started to read the first aloud, from Jeff Bezos, founder of Amazon.com, something about “the migration of the $4 trillion global economy onto the Internet.”
    I held up my hand so I could read in silence. In a world inhabited by people who think the Internet and the universe are converging, no shortage of proselytizers are willing to endorse any kind of cockamamie scheme as the next big thing. But Bezos deserved to be read. I noticed that he made no mention of funerals or caskets.
    “Have you been in a funeral home lately?” Lenny said suddenly.
    Well, no, I confessed, I hadn't.
    “Most people, they'd rather have a root canal. Research reveals that people think funeral homes are creepy places. Not good places for making decisions that can add up to the price of a small car. You're not there because something pleasant is happening in your life. You're there to see someone off, say good-bye. All the queasy questions you never ask yourself in daily life seem to be lurking in the next room, waiting to leap out and grab you by the throat. You know: What happens when you die? Is there life after death? Am I going to be called up next?”
    “If you could answer those questions on the Internet,” I advised, “that would be a great business.”
    “Oh, there are sites that claim to have the answers, but that's not what we're doing.”
    Lenny would not be deterred, not with humor, not with questions, not with sidelong glances from strangers at the next table.
    “Then there's the guilt: You didn't call enough. You didn't stop in enough. You didn't help enough. Whatever you did, it wasn't enough. Now, by God, your dearly departed dad is going to have the casket of his dreams.”
    He paused and glared at me, slightly indignant. Was I supposed to be the grieving fool about to spring for the most expensive casket or the conniving funeral director profiteering from human suffering?
    “Have you ever heard the pitch?”
    “ Your pitch?”
    “No, no. The spiel you get in a funeral home.”
    “No, I never have.”
    He brightened. “All right, let me set it up for you. Imagine suddenly somebody's dead.”
    Again, Lenny had everybody's attention.
    “Somebody important to you. You're in shock. Grief has you on your knees. But you're the one who has to make all the final arrangements. So, first, you have to figure out where to go. You've never done this before. It's all new. If you belong to a church or synagogue, you could ask the priest or rabbi. They would probably steer you to one or two homes—and it's not unknown, you know, for the funeral home to give the church a little something in return, by the way—and so you go there. Or you look up the Yellow Pages. Or an acquaintance says she knows somebody had a nice time over to Joe Blow's place. So, tears in your eyes because a light is gone from your life, you head over there. You figure they're all the same anyway, right? First thing, they say, ‘We're here to help you.' Help you? I doubt it. They're thinking when you walk through the door, before you