Because Demise of a Salesman Wouldn't Sound as Cool

So there we were, 6-and-a-half-year-old Son of The Anthony Show and I, sitting in the Barnes & Noble cafe two days ago, quite a rare location for the two of us on a weeknight. I had an appointment that ended in time for me to pick up Son at the bus stop and spirit him to the bookstore so Mrs. The Anthony Show could keep working while undisturbed. Son enjoyed the novelty of doing his homework at the bookstore while devouring a brownie, and I was relished being able to sit across from him, sipping a small latte while scanning the latest issue of Lapham's Quarterly.

(Simply being able to read a periodical is a rare luxury, these days.)

The spoiler is in the title.

The theme of the issue was "celebrity" throughout history, and I was finishing an article on Orson Welles — how most people in the 1970s and 1980s knew he was a famous director, but likely saw none of his movies and only knew about his career because of the appearances of his corpulent but magisterial frame in commercials and on the talk show circuit. Anyway, I was finishing the article and reflecting on his notorious epitaph, attributed to Welles himself: "The world's youngest has-been," when I was interrupted by Son's voice:

"I wanna read that book by Arthur Miller."

He pointed at a wall, along which were huge-scale reproductions of famous works of literature, including...


"You mean Death of a Salesman?"

"Yeah. Death of a Salesman. Can I read it?"

"Actually, it's a play, but it can be read," I said, as if that would make a difference to a first-grader.

"You read it? What's it about?"

I was about to explain that it had something to do with the American Dream being a facade, or inspiring proof that good writing, and not just nine World Series rings, can get you into the pants of someone like Marilyn Monroe, but I took a moment to remember some part of the play that he might understand.

"It's about this guy," I began, "who thought he was really good and successful at his job, but it turned out that he really wasn't. And he was really unhappy about that. But he didn't realize that by being a good father and a good husband, he actually was a success, in a way. Only he didn't realize it." As I said these words, I began to wonder if I were really talking about myself. Then I started thinking about Marilyn Monroe's pants again.

Son thought for a moment. "Did he die?"

"Actually, yes. At the end of the play."

"How?"

I sanitized the collect-the-insurance-money-by-suicide with, "He had a car accident."

Son became as excited as your average male first-grader would be about a car accident until I told him that not only is Willy Loman's accident a one-car affair, but the action takes place off stage.

"Did he do it on purpose?" Son asked, to my surprise.

I hedged and said, "They don't know. Some people think he did, but they don't know."

"Oh," he said, as he continued to stare at the book cover on the wall.

"You think this book is cool because it has the word 'death' in the title, don't you?"

"Yeaaaaaaaaah."