What if Willy Loman made it big?

The cynical sage of Ecclesiastes writes, "He who loves money will not be satisfied with money, nor he who loves wealth with his income; this also is vanity. When goods increase, they increase who eat them, and what advantage has their owner but to see them with his eyes? Sweet is the sleep of a laborer, whether he eats little or much, but the full stomach of the rich will not let him sleep." (Ecc. 5:10-12) The perceptiveness of these words are illustrated in many of the stories told by Laurence Leamer in his fascinating study of Palm Beach, Madness Under the Royal Palms.

In it Leamer writes about the amazing rise and equally amazing fall of real estate tycoon Abraham Gosman. At the height of his success Gosman had it all -- a massive oceanfront mansion (pictured above), a wife decades younger hanging on his arm, and a 131-foot speed yacht named Octopussy on which to wine and dine guests. His was a quintessentially American success story. Born of modest means in Manchester, New Hampshire, Gosman had the gift of turning everything he touched into gold. He made his millions buying low and selling high, often flipping the same assets more than once.

By the late 90s thing started to go sour both personally and professionally. Hundreds of millions of dollars literally evaporated ending in Gosman declaring personal bankruptcy and losing virtually everything he owned. In 2004 Donald Trump bought his mansion at auction for $41 million, and used it as a prop on The Apprentice before selling it last year for $95 million to a Russian oligarch. Currently, Gosman's estranged wife is out of jail on $1 million bail while awaiting trial on charges of mortgage fraud related to the bankruptcy. When Leamer interviewed Abe Gosman for the book he was living alone in a rented condo in West Palm Beach. Leamer found the 79-year old sitting behind a huge desk still trying to make new deals. "Always be selling," the man said. Like Shelley Levine in Glengarry Glen Ross or Arthur Miller's immortal drummer Willy Loman, Gosman is ever the salesman, and for a salesman -- as Miller wrote -- there is no rock bottom. Hope springs eternal that the next prospect will bring the elusive payoff. Leamer prefaces his account of the interview with some reflections on Miller's play.

As I drove over to West Palm Beach, I kept thinking about Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman. I have seen the classic American play many times, and each time I see it, I see it differently. The tragedy takes place during the last days of Willy Loman, that boastful braggart who has made his last sale. He has filled his bold, strong sons, Biff and Happy, with his dishonest palaver and they are empty vessels, albeit in different ways.

The first time I saw the play, I was a fire-breathing young liberal, and I saw it as a parable on capitalism that makes salesmen of us all. Poor Willy was nothing more than a cog in a gigantic machine. As I grew older, I saw it more as a psychological family drama, how emotional dishonesty distorts and destroys. In recent years, I have come to view it as a profoundly conservative play. "Pop! I'm a dime a dozen, and so are you," Willy's son Biff tells his father. "You were never anything but a hardworking drummer who landed in the ash can like all the rest of them!" The perverse egalitarianism of America has convinced Willy that he can be anything, but he cannot. He is just a drummer.

Living in Palm Beach I see something else in the play now. Death of a Salesman takes place in a lower-middle-class milieu, but Willy's life could have been different. Willy could have been peddling a different product. Willy could have had a better territory. Willy could have been selling in a different era. Willy could have ended up in a great mansion on the ocean, and he still would be Willy. Willy would still be selling himself, selling a product he did not believe in.

Quoted from pp. 182-3 of Madness Under the Royal Palms (2009, Hyperion)