I'm Willy Loman

I began reading, probably for at least the 20^th time (I teach it in my drama class), Death of a Salesman today, when this stage direction jumped out: “WILLY is sixty now . . . .” Jumped out? No, jumped out, grabbed me by the neck, beat me over the head with a tire iron, shoved me to the floor, stomped on my chest, shoved me into a trash compactor, and set my battered and squashed carcass ablaze until there was nothing but ashes to scatter in the bitter wind. This was the first time I’d read the play since I myself turned 60. I certainly don’t recall that particular direction in previous readings. No doubt I’d simply glossed over it, substituting “old man” for the specific age. That’s who Willy Loman was, an old man, “very tired, very confused.” Well, I guess that’s me too, now. Somewhat ironically, Death of a Salesman opened on Broadway February 10, 1949, three days before I was born. Lee J. Cobb played Willy in that production — he was 38 at the time. So was 38 the new 60? Or 60 the new 38? And what’s the new 60 now? Maybe it’s just 60. Or maybe it’s just “old man.” Somebody get me my walker . . . and you kids get off my lawn!