Death of a Salesman
Bruce Ogilvie wasn’t anything like Willy Loman. He was successful and popular, a football star in high school who grew up to be a star on the local golf courses. He only sold a product if he believed in it. And he didn’t outlive his usefulness as a salesman, a father, husband, provider, or human being.
I worked for Bruce during some pretty formative years in my life. Straight out of college, I didn’t know what I was going to be when I grew up. So I worked for Bruce six years until I figured it out. He just laughed at me, this young idealistic hippy chick, watching me figure stuff out, while he listened to Rush Limbaugh, knowing I’d eventually become the capitalist he expected me to be. He watched me go through phases where I wanted to be an air traffic controller, a librarian, a teacher, a novelist, until I figured out I just wanted people to pay me to write, anything.
Bruce was a mighty good man. He loved his wife and his kids so much. I loved hearing him talk about Patty as an East Texas princess, and how he met her at the Byron Nelson. His kids were so beautiful. They would come to the office, and we’d make art and play with the copy machine. Now the oldest is going off to college, and she never expected she’d be starting this new life without her daddy to fall back on. And Patty and Bruce should be comforting each other as their nest starts to empty, but that won’t work out as expected either.
Ten years have passed since I worked for Bruce. He just turned 60 a few weeks after I turned 40. I keep thinking I’m going to call and have lunch with him, but it’s too late now. God bless you, Bruce, in your heaven. You will be missed.