WILLY: Oh, yeah, my father lived many years in Alaska. He was an adventurous man. We’ve got quite a little streak of self reliance in our family. I thought I’d go out with my older brother and try to locate him, and maybe settle in the North with the old man. And I was almost decided to go, when I met a salesman in the Parker House. His name was Dave Singleman. And he was eighty-four years old, and he’d drummed merchandise in thirty-one states. And old Dave, he’d go up to his room, y’understand, put on his green velvet slippers — I’ll never forget — and pick up his phone and call the buyers, and without ever leaving his room, at the age of eighty-four, he made his living. And when I saw that, I realized that selling was the greatest career a man could want. ‘Cause what could be more satisfying than to be able to go, at the age of eighty four, into twenty or thirty different cities, and pick up a phone, and be remembered and loved and helped by so many different people? Do you know? When he died — and by the way he died the death of a salesman, in his green velvet slippers in the smoker of the New York, New Haven and Hartford, going into Boston — when he died, hundreds of salesmen and buyers were at his funeral. Things were sad on a lotta trains for months after that. In those days there was personality in it, Howard. There was respect, and comradeship, and gratitude in it. Today, it’s all cut and dried, and there’s no chance for bringing friendship to bear — or personality. You see what I mean? They don’t know me any more… If I had forty dollars a week — that’s all I’d need. Forty dollars, Howard. Howard, the year Al Smith was nominated, your father came to me and… I’m talking about your father! There were promises made across this desk! You mustn’t tell me you’ve got people to see — I put thirty-four years into this firm, Howard, and now I can’t pay my insurance! You can’t eat the orange and throw the peel away — a man is not a piece of fruit!
Willy Loman and I have much in common. We both spent our lives doing what we thought was the best thing a person could do. For him, it was selling. I was never any good at selling. I don’t think Willy was either, but I know that about myself, and I don’t think he did.
I spent my life teaching Elementary School because I thought it was the best thing a person could do. It was a chance to change the world by influencing future generations. I earned enough money to support myself in a modest fashion, and, at the height of my financial success, I owned a house. Well done, me!
Funny, y’know? After all the highways, and the trains, and the appointments, and the years, you end up worth more dead than alive
— Willy Loman
Funny, you know? After all the classrooms, and the students, and the meetings, and the years, you end up worthless either dead or alive.
Willy at least had life insurance. I had a policy once, I think, more than 30 years ago, but I know nothing about it today. When I die, no one gets anything. My nephew might want the computer he built for me back. I hope someone will wipe it entirely clean before anyone sees its contents. On the other hand, I’ll be dead, so what of it? I have a TV. It might get you $20 at a generous Thrift Store. It won’t cover the cost of getting rid of all my books, and movies, and music that no one else will want since you can get them all now on your phone and they require no physical storage space.
After 29 years of teaching, the government for whom I taught has decided I’m not worth the money it costs to pay rent in the cheapest place in town. Forget utilities, ignore groceries, perish the thought of even owning a car, no money for entertainment of even the cheapest variety, and to hell with the dog.
Willy thought life was about being well-liked. I never did. On the other hand, for reasons passing understanding, I seem to be. I say this because it’s only the fact that people love me that keeps me alive, both financially and psychologically.
I’m alive because my best friend’s boyfriend is renting me his old place for half price, which is the very maximum I can afford and still make it to the end of the month. I’m a liability to him. He could sell this place, pay off all his bills, and have enough money in the bank to live comfortably for quite some time without ever setting foot in a workplace. I’m screwing up his life simply by being alive. He would never say that, because he’s a kind man, but that doesn’t change that objective fact.
And that isn’t enough to sustain me anyway. I have another friend, who I really ought to call a Patron Saint in my Gratitudes if I can get her permission to do so, who sends me grocery money every month. The state of Arizona believes I deserve $20 a month to buy groceries. And then they cut it off, apparently, this month. I didn’t even get that. If not for my friend, I would live off nothing but ramen and pretzels.
The generosity of my landlord and my friend still isn’t enough to sustain me. I couldn’t pay for my phone (one of The People on The Porch tells me I could get a free phone service, but I’m too scared to try.), my cigarettes (yes, I know I shouldn’t smoke. I’m working on that. Life is stressful when one’s existence is a liability. Giving up an addiction of more than 30 years is more difficult than you probably think. It doesn’t go well for Speedy Shine when I go too long.), any of the streaming services that are much cheaper and infinitely better than cable, or the ability to do anything extra. I bought a DVD rack a couple of months ago, and my guilt is still overwhelming. I nearly ran out of food because I did that. It was $50 on Offer Up.
With Patreon and Anchor, I make enough to make it to the end of the month. If I stopped doing my show, I would be psychologically and financially ruined. Every time I lose a supporter, I go into a depression for at least an hour or two. Speedy Shine has to remind me that I’m worth loving. He gives me kisses sometimes, and he knows how to cuddle better than any living being I’ve ever encountered.
There is always a lot of talk about who deserves what. I hate all of it. I spent my life doing what I thought was right, and today I have no sense of independence. I depend on far too many people just to survive. And the minute I say that, you can be absolutely certain that someone is saying, “Well you should have…” or “Well, you shouldn’t have…” Those words always make me angry. And since anger is caused by fear, I must ask what I fear. What do those words make me fear? They make me fear that people will suffer. They will be homeless. They will be hungry. I don’t like that. And why do they suffer? They suffer because of Judgmental Bullshit.
We have convinced ourselves that there is only one right way to live, and it’s ours. Those who don’t conform to our standards deserve to suffer. No. They don’t.
I don’t know why someone made the choices they did at any given moment. Maybe I would have made a different decision. Maybe, in those circumstances, I wouldn’t have. There’s really no way of knowing. As it turns out, I’m not God. Are you? And, if you think you are, could you please send me a little of whatever you’re smoking? It’s obviously better than what I can get at the Dispensary.
My best friend of 13 years, who I know better than nearly anyone on the planet, frequently makes decisions that mystify me. She dates men who don’t make her happy. I know this because I’ve spent 13 years hearing about them. She knows they make her unhappy, but she continues dating them for years after she knows this. Is that the decision I would make? No, I don’t think so. So, shall I decide that she deserves to be unhappy, and should I therefore make no effort to help her? No, I don’t think so. She’s no better off for that. I love her, so, even though she makes decisions I don’t understand, I do all I can to help her. And she’s saved my life more than once.
If I can’t understand her choices when I’ve known her so well and so long, how am I supposed to understand the choices of a stranger? How does it help me to pass judgment on the homeless. “If they didn’t want to be homeless, they should have…” Are you kidding me? How do you know why they made the choices that inevitably wound them up in a place where they have no shelter for the night? And who are you to pass judgment on them?
I made a set of decisions that wound me up being entirely dependent on the kindness of strangers. How do I know which ones were wrong? Did I make a decision that caused me to become diabetic? If I did, what was that decision? How would you suggest that I go back and change it? Q isn’t coming by this afternoon to offer me the opportunity to change a moment in my life. And when he offered it to Captain Picard, it went very badly for Jean Luc. Marc Antony offered me an opportunity in “Horace’s Final Five.” You might want to listen to that to see how well that went. (It’s Episode 50 if you’re new here.)
“Well, you should make more money off of your podcast!”
I would love to do that, but I’m not a marketer, and I don’t want to spend any of the little time I have left in an effort to become Willy Loman. I’m not getting on Discord and Twitch. I don’t understand them, and I don’t have the mental capacity to learn anymore. If someone wants to be in charge of marketing my show, I will be happy to split with them any extra money they make for me. It turns out no one is offering to do that. So, as Kenny Loggins is singing right now, “This is it.” He and Michael McDonald seem much happier about that than I am.
Willy Loman had big dreams. All of them were failures. I avoid big dreams. I can fail perfectly well without them, and I would prefer to save the accompanying disappointment.
I don’t say he’s a great man. Willy Loman never made a lot of money. His name was never in the paper. He’s not the finest character that ever lived. But he’s a human being, and a terrible thing is happening to him. So attention must be paid. He’s not to be allowed to fall into his grave like an old dog. Attention, attention must be finally paid to such a person.
We live in a world controlled by money. It works out well for some, and it’s a curse for others. It’s not the world I want. I work to change it, nearly every week on this show. I don’t get anywhere.
What a proposition, ts, ts. Terrific, terrific. ‘Cause she’s suffered, Ben, the woman has suffered. You understand me? A man can’t go out the way, he came in, Ben, a man has got to add up to something. You can’t, you can’t — You gotta consider, now. Don’t answer so quick. Remember, it’s a guaranteed twenty-thousand-dollar proposition. Now look, Ben, I want you to go through the ins and outs of this thing with me. I’ve got nobody to talk to, Ben, and the woman has suffered, you hear me?
BEN: What’s the proposition?
WILLY: It’s twenty thousand dollars on the barrelhead. Guaranteed, gilt-edged, you understand?
BEN: You don’t want to make a fool of yourself. They might not honor the policy.
WILLY: How can they dare refuse? Didn’t I work like a coolie to meet every premium on the nose? And now they don’t pay off? Impossible!
BEN: It’s called a cowardly thing, William.
WILLY: Why? Does it take more guts to stand here the rest of my life ringing up a zero?
BEN: That’s a point, William. And twenty thousand — that is something one can feel with the hand, it is there.
WILLY: Oh, Ben, that’s the whole beauty of it! I see it like a diamond, shining in the dark, hard and rough, that I can pick up and touch in my hand. Not like — like an appointment! This would not be another damned-fool appointment, Ben, and it changes all the aspects. Because he thinks I’m nothing, see, and so he spites me. But the funeral… Ben, that funeral will be massive! They’ll come from Maine, Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire! All the oldtimers with the strange license plates — that boy will be thunderstruck, Ben, because he never realized — I am known! Rhode Island, New York, New Jersey — I am known, Ben, and he’ll see it with his eyes once and for all. He’ll see what I am, Ben! He’s in for a shock, that boy!
That’s what comes of deciding that money matters more than people. I understand the choice Willy makes. (If you’ve never read or seen Death of a Salesman, Willy kills himself after this discussion. It’s more than 70 years old, so I’m not going to listen to whining about Spoilers.) It’s a decision I consider every night before I go to sleep. It’s one Speedy Shine convinces me not to make. No one gets $20,000 if I die, but lots of people will be financially better off in many ways. If the world really is all about money, it’s difficult to conclude anything apart from the idea that world would be better off without me. The government even gets to save $1363 a month.
Is it just possible that there is something that matters more than money?
LINDA: Forgive me, dear. I can’t cry. I don’t know what it is, I can’t cry. I don’t understand it. Why did you ever do that? Help me Willy, I can’t cry. It seems to me that you’re just on another trip. I keep expecting you. Willy, dear, I can’t cry. Why did you do it? I search and search and I search, and I can’t understand it, Willy. I made the last payment on the house today. Today, dear. And there’ll be nobody home. We’re free and clear. We’re free. We’re free… We’re free…
All the quotations in this episode are from Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller.
Fred's Thoughts 