of any man. But I was with the firm when your father used to carry you in here in his arms.
HOWARD: I know that, Willy, but—
WILLY: Your father came to me the day you were born and asked me what I thought of the name of Howard, may he rest in peace.
HOWARD: I appreciate that, Willy, but there just is no spot here for you. If I had a spot I’d slam you right in, but I just don’t have a single solitary spot.
[ He looks for his lighter. WILLY has picked it up and gives it to him. Pause. ]
WILLY [ with increasing anger ]: Howard, all I need to set my table is fifty dollars a week.
HOWARD: But where am I going to put you, kid?
WILLY: Look, it isn’t a question of whether I can sell merchandise, is it?
HOWARD: No, but it’s a business, kid, and everybody’s gotta pull his own weight.
WILLY [ desperately ]: Just let me tell you a story, Howard—
HOWARD: ’Cause you gotta admit, business is business.
WILLY [ angrily ]: Business is definitely business, but just listen for a minute. You don’t understand this. When I was a boy—eighteen, nineteen—I was already on the road. And there was a question in my mind as to whether selling had a future for me. Because in those days I had a yearning to go to Alaska. See, there were three gold strikes in one month in Alaska, and I felt like going out. Just for the ride, you might say.
HOWARD [ barely interested ]: Don’t say.
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. [ He stands up. HOWARD has not looked at him. ] 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.
HOWARD [ moving away, to the right ]: That’s just the thing, Willy.
WILLY: If I had forty dollars a week—that’s all I’d need. Forty dollars, Howard.
HOWARD: Kid, I can’t take blood from a stone, I—
WILLY [ desperation is on him now ]: Howard, the year Al Smith was nominated, your father came to me and—
HOWARD [ starting to go off ]: I’ve got to see some people, kid.
WILLY [ stopping him ]: 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! [ After a pause ] Now pay attention. Your father—in 1928 I had a big year. I averaged a hundred and seventy dollars a week in commissions.
HOWARD [ impatiently ]: Now, Willy, you never averaged—
WILLY [ banging his hand on the desk ]: I averaged a hundred and
HOWARD: I know that, Willy, but—
WILLY: Your father came to me the day you were born and asked me what I thought of the name of Howard, may he rest in peace.
HOWARD: I appreciate that, Willy, but there just is no spot here for you. If I had a spot I’d slam you right in, but I just don’t have a single solitary spot.
[ He looks for his lighter. WILLY has picked it up and gives it to him. Pause. ]
WILLY [ with increasing anger ]: Howard, all I need to set my table is fifty dollars a week.
HOWARD: But where am I going to put you, kid?
WILLY: Look, it isn’t a question of whether I can sell merchandise, is it?
HOWARD: No, but it’s a business, kid, and everybody’s gotta pull his own weight.
WILLY [ desperately ]: Just let me tell you a story, Howard—
HOWARD: ’Cause you gotta admit, business is business.
WILLY [ angrily ]: Business is definitely business, but just listen for a minute. You don’t understand this. When I was a boy—eighteen, nineteen—I was already on the road. And there was a question in my mind as to whether selling had a future for me. Because in those days I had a yearning to go to Alaska. See, there were three gold strikes in one month in Alaska, and I felt like going out. Just for the ride, you might say.
HOWARD [ barely interested ]: Don’t say.
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. [ He stands up. HOWARD has not looked at him. ] 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.
HOWARD [ moving away, to the right ]: That’s just the thing, Willy.
WILLY: If I had forty dollars a week—that’s all I’d need. Forty dollars, Howard.
HOWARD: Kid, I can’t take blood from a stone, I—
WILLY [ desperation is on him now ]: Howard, the year Al Smith was nominated, your father came to me and—
HOWARD [ starting to go off ]: I’ve got to see some people, kid.
WILLY [ stopping him ]: 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! [ After a pause ] Now pay attention. Your father—in 1928 I had a big year. I averaged a hundred and seventy dollars a week in commissions.
HOWARD [ impatiently ]: Now, Willy, you never averaged—
WILLY [ banging his hand on the desk ]: I averaged a hundred and
Similar Books
