Pep Talks

What was Dad saying to himself? What am I saying to myself?

There’s a story, perhaps apocryphal, that on the opening night of Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman, the playwright’s parents brought some friends - first-generation success stories in the garment trade. After the show, the friend-patriarch goes up and says “Arthur, great play, absolutely marvelous! Just one thing - the title is all wrong. It should be Life of a Salesman!”

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My father was a salesman, and I remember him talking to himself in the mornings, tying his tie while I grunted and sulked into my Catholic-school uniform. He’d debate, introduce himself, and get into little dialogues. Years later, I mentioned this to him, and he responded, “Who else was I going to talk to?” My father did a lot of things, many important and many good. But he didn’t make it look easy. Growing up with him was one of those mixed blessings you hear about.

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As a salesman, what he wore was part of what he did. Early memories include weekend trips to House of Doherty off Main Street in downtown Worcester. I’d play with the electric shoe buffer while older men sold my dad shirts and ties. The place had been around since the thirties and must have seemed like quite something when my dad was growing up in reduced circumstances in a three-decker beside WPI