A Creative Response to Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman and All My Sons.

A short creative response in the style of a follow-up to Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman and All My Sons where Biff and Chris encounter one another and share intimate memories.

Biff Loman stood over his father’s grave in Greenwood Cemetery, New York. The sun began setting in the distance, silhouetting the Manhattan skyline and covering Brooklyn in a soft orange glow. The crisp, autumnal air numbed his cheeks and a solitary tear slowly fell from his eye, its presence revealed by a little sparkle reflecting the light of the dying sun. It was only then that Biff began to appreciate that he would never see his father again. Until that point he had felt guilty for not shedding a single tear over his father’s death but since then, Charley’s respectful, eulogistic words towards Willy Loman’s memory resonated in his head and he could not contain his anguish any longer.

“Nobody dast blame this man”, he told himself, echoing Charley. “Nobody dast blame this man”. Despite everything, Biff could not bring himself to condemn his father. From Biff’s perspective, his father had been blinded by the totality of the American Dream and more specifically, the commercialisation of it. However, Biff also recognised that this was only due to what his father’s profession had taught him. This was what his profession deluded him into thinking. His father was dead and there was nothing on this Earth that could bring him back.

“I’m sorry, dad”, whispered Biff, barely audible. “If only you’d have listened when I told you. If only you would have taken that dream of yours and destroyed it. Oh why, dad? Why did you have to go and do this?” Biff’s emotions got the better of him before remembering not to blame his father. Biff knew Willy was neither the perfect father nor the idealistic husband, but he was nevertheless a determined one – a father that would support his family at any cost; even if that meant sacrificing his life.

“I… I’m sorry for everything”, continued Biff, with a wisp of regret, “I’m sorry about Bill Oliver. I’m sorry for the way I treated you …and I’m sorry about us. I just…” his voice broke slightly and paused while attempting to control himself but his composure still failed him. “I just can’t believe you’re really gone.”

Biff wiped away his tears. Life suddenly seemed unforgiving and devoid of compassion. His eyes glanced at the memorial flowers at the base of the gravestone which reminded him of his father – a vibrant and colourful exterior that disguised a slow, inevitable death from within. The sun was now gone and the sky was a deep, dejected blue scattered with tiny, faint sources of light. Biff stood alone gazing at them for an unknown amount of time, simply staring; staring and thinking of nothing but his father.

* * *

The sound of the streets of New York became overwhelming for Chris Keller as he laid roses on his father’s grave. The cacophony of the concrete jungle engulfed him; suffocating him and his head began to ache with the pain.

Chris fumbled around in his trench coat pockets hoping to find a cigarette to ease his throbbing head. He found none, but felt the fragile texture of a piece of paper protruding slightly from his breast pocket. Curiously, he put his hand back in his pocket and pulled it out. It was Larry’s letter – Larry’s final attempt at communicating with his family and the embodiment of his final moments on Earth. Chris read it once again only to feel his headache worsening.

Fine rain had begun to fall from the overhanging clouds, striking Chris Keller’s reddened and impassive face. He walked away from the grave, saying one final goodbye and unable to take his mind off his father. He simply walked, unaware where he was going, purely to let his mind reminisce over his memories. He felt desolated, as though he was the only individual to ever live through such an experience. At that very instant, while his mentality was at its lowest, he collided with a stranger solemnly gazing at the night sky. It was Biff Loman.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me,” explained Chris, trying to justify his actions.

“No, it’s my fault. I was in a world of my own there,” excused Biff.

This simple scenario was the only human intervention Chris could remember having for hours. He was so overcome with the disillusionment caused by his father’s death that he decided to simply talk to someone – anyone, even a stranger – but only because he believed it may unburden himself of the pain. “I’m sorry it’s just… I’ve just lost my dad” admitted Chris, “I can’t really believe he’s gone.”

The stranger suddenly seemed more attentive as though something Chris said this man could identify with.

            “He was a good man, my dad” continued Chris, “He always looked out for his kids. Practically everything he ever did he did for his boys. I guess I just never really appreciated that when he was alive.” Chris did not expect this man to care nor indeed concern himself with such an account as this – especially since it had been told by a man attempting to connect with another individual whom he had never met. However, Biff was attentive and responsive on a level Chris had not expected.

Biff was astonished to hear this. He suddenly no longer felt his isolation and quenched his need for connection and empathy.

“Hey, don’t worry about it, kid,” replied Biff. “Believe it or not, I just lost my pop too. I gotta say it feels good to hear from another person who went through the same thing.” Biff pointed to a small, rather trivial headstone with the heading “Here lays Willy Loman, devoted father and beloved husband”.

            “Really?” enquired Chris; not quite believing what he was hearing.

            “Really. He… committed suicide. He was a salesman, you see, although his job taught him these ridiculous values that fooled him into thinkin’ that just being well liked and successful was all you needed to do well in life. That dream of his killed him. Problem was he taught it to me and my brother as well which is why… well look at me, do I look successful? I just wish his funeral was a requiem for that dream as well.”

            “Your father committed suicide?”

            “Yeah, I know what you’re thinkin’ –” said Biff, defending his father’s pride, “Cowardly, huh? But you didn’t know him. He wasn’t like that. He just couldn’t really understand himself or figure out who he was. You can’t blame him for that.”

            “No, no, I mean…” Chris began to slow his speech down and think carefully about what he was saying as he sensed this was clearly a sensitive issue for this man. “…my father committed suicide too.” Biff’s eyes became more focused. “He was pretty delusional” continued Chris, “– not that l hold that against him ‘cause l understand now why he did the things he did… even if he refused to accept responsibility for it.”

“Is that right?” questioned Biff, who seemed captivated at Chris’s every word.

            “Yeah, God’s honest truth. I’m glad to say he came to terms with his mistakes in the end… even if he did take his own life.” Chris decided to tell this complete stranger what his father had done hoping it would make him feel better. “My dad worked as an engineer, you see – used to make engines for planes during the war. He and his partner were to ship out this batch of engines to the military but discovered that they were cracked right at the last minute. Afraid that he might lose his contract, he sent ‘em anyway. When they were caught, he blamed it on his partner and… got off free. Now I know sending them engines out knowin’ they were faulty is a horrible thing to do, not to mention blamin’ it on your partner but… he did it for his family. Everything he did he did for his family.”

Biff was amazed to hear this. Moved by the openness of Chris’s story, he felt it was only fair to tell him about his own father’s flawed nature. “Hey listen kid, I know what you’re going through and I know it ain’t easy.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

“My old man did some things he wasn’t proud of as well but he only ever had good intentions… He had an affair with some floozy from Boston which I know is an awful thing to do but he only did it ‘cause it would help improve his sales which meant he could bring home a bigger cheque for his family.”

“I know just how you feel. My dad was just the same. He couldn’t understand that actions have consequences – that there’s always a cause and effect. If you send out cracked air engines, you’re puttin’ people’s lives at risk. I just wish he would have realised that.”

Both men were in awe of each other’s experience and astounded at the similarities between the two. Two complete strangers exchanging deeply personal affairs but gaining invaluable insight from them were rejuvenated by each other’s presence. With Chris standing before him, Biff understood more clearly now than ever the sacrifices his father made for his family as he knew his father was not the only one to do so. Biff acknowledged that his father had bought the subliminal lies that America uses to advertise itself, and the price of this was his death. He saw Willy as a victim but also as a devoted father and his encounter with Chris had helped him come to terms with his loss, now knowing that he is not alone. He knew his father was neither perfect nor indeed particularly ethical; but there was one inalienable characteristic about his persona that was undeniable – absolutely everything he did, he did for his children. He did it for Biff.

Chris knew that his father was a man who simply tried to do well by his family, even at the cost of the lives of 21 men. However Chris, like Biff, was now able to cope with his father’s tragic death much more easily than before, having found another individual whom he can empathise with.

As the stars dotted throughout the night sky seemed brighter and more vivid than ever before, both men left the cemetery that night with a clearer understanding of themselves and more importantly, of their fathers. They were able to view life in a new, profound perspective – a vista previously denied to them. The connectedness of their experiences was uncanny and they now felt connected in the same way.  Each of them had acted as a catalyst for the reconciliation of their relationship with their respective fathers, and they were both eternally grateful for their encounter, a chance night-time meeting that shed light into the dark recesses of their troubled souls.