LINDA: Willy? [There is no answer. LINDA waits. BIFF gets up off his bed. He is still in his clothes. HAPPY sits up. BIFF stands listening.] [With real fear.] Willy, answer me! Willy! [There is the sound of a car starting and moving away at full speed.] No! WILLY: You mean to say Bernard wouldn’t give you the answers? BIFF: He did, he tried, but I only got a sixty-one.

BIFF: [To HAPPY.] The man don’t know who we are! The man is gonna know! [To WILLY.] We never told the truth for ten minutes in this house! did not die in vain . He had a good dream. It’s the only dream you can have—to come out number-one-man. He fought it out here, and this is where I’m gonna winitforhim. WILLY: Biff, you’re going to go to that lunch tomorrow, or— BIFF: I can’t go. I’ve got an appointment! This is the greatest day of my life. CHARLEY:Willy,whenareyougoingtogrowup? WILLY:Yeah,heh?Whenthisgameisover,Charley,you’llbelaughingoutoftheWILLY: [With a big smile.] What’d he say? Betcha he threw his arm around you. BIFF: Well, he kinda— BIFF: What’s he doing out there? LINDA: He’s planting the garden! BIFF: [Quietly.] Now? Oh, my God! LINDA: A hundred and eight, sixty-eight. Because we’re a little short again. WILLY: Why are we short? WILLY: Don’t blame everything on me! I didn’t flunk math—you did! What pen? HAPPY:Thatwasawfuldumb,Biff,apenlikethatisworth— out of here. Today I realized something about myself and I tried to explain it to you and I—I think I’m just not smart enough to make any sense out of it for you. To hell with whose fault it is or anything like that. [He takes WILLY’s arm.]Let’sjustwrapitup,heh?Comeonin,we’lltellMom.[Hegentlytriesto pull WILLY to left.]

WILLY: And they’ll get married, and come for a weekend. I’d build a little guest house . ’Cause I got so many fine tools, all I’d need would be a little lumber and some peace of mind. STANLEY: [Putting the table down.] That’s all right, Mr. Loman, I can handle it myself. [He turns and takes the chairs from HAPPY and places them at the table.] what I mean? [Sotto voce.] Like this bartender here. The boss is goin’ crazy what kinda leak he’s got in the cash register. You put it in but it don’t come out. BIFF: [Crying, broken.] Will you let me go, for Christ’s sake? Will you take that phony dream and burn it before something happens? [Struggling to contain himself, he pulls away and moves to the stairs.] I’ll go in the morning. Put him— put him to bed. [Exhausted, BIFF moves up the stairs to his room.]

HAPPY: You know what they say in France, don’t you? “Champagne is the drink of the complexion”—Hya, Biff!