During an otherwise engrossing performance of Death of a Salesman on Broadway last night, a cellphone blared out during the final, tender moments, as Linda Emond delivered the famously heartbreaking monologue that concludes the play. We'd like to take this moment to salute the unsung theatergoer who single-handedly dragged one of American theater's most iconic scenes into the 21st century.

Dear Unidentified Mobile Device Owner:

Bravo! We're sure it goes without saying that last night's standing ovation was really meant for you—we just continued applauding the actors out of pity. They all looked so pathetically needy and exhausted! But we were all secretly dying to turn around and face you, wherever you were (somewhere in the back, stage left?) and let you take YOUR bow.

Not to take anything away from Arthur Miller's masterpiece, but why didn't it ever occur to us that what the ending really needed to tie the whole show together was the cheery, all-penetrating jingle of a cellular phone? Such a shame these amazing devices weren't invented when Miller was first writing the devastating monologue Willy Loman's wife delivers after his [SPOILER ALERT] death. Miller called this part of the play "Requiem," but were he alive today, he totally would have called it Marimba.

Don't get us wrong—Linda Emond gives a stirring, immaculately heartfelt performance as Willy's wife. Just to show you how perfect she is for the part, the salesman's wife is actually named Linda. (In the play.) Born for the role! But throughout the show, in the back of our minds it kept nagging at us that something was missing. There's just something so 20th century about the whole thing in general, and the ending is such a downer, you know? But after last night, future productions will surely follow your inspired lead, with a new, improved digital (3D?!) ending. Maybe something like this:

LINDA: Forgive me, dear, I can't cry. I don't know what it is, but I can't cry. I don't understand it. Why did you ever do that? Help me, Willy, I can't cry. It seems to me that you're just on another trip. I keep expecting. Willy, dear, I can't cry.

A mobile phone suddenly chirps interrupting LINDA's blah-dee-blah. BIFF removes a Sprint Nextel device from his pocket.

BIFF: Hello?

LINDA: Is that Willy? Is he coming home? We made the final payment on house!

BIFF: No, Mom, Dad had all the wrong dreams—he wouldn't even keep me on the family plan when I moved to Texas! Sorry, I have to take this, it's freaking Oliver!

LINDA: Now I'm crying. [Somewhere, off in the distance, a sad trombone wails.]

BIFF: Yo, Oliver what's up!... Sure, I can talk now, no biggie... Yeah, that was me in your office—I didn't think you recognized me, dude!... I was just in the neighborhood; I'm in town on business. Got some very big things going on back west, you know how it is... Uh huh... Uh huh... Security cameras in your office?... Damn son you really are big time... Look, I'm going to level with you, Ollie. I've got your pen, and I intend to keep it... What's that you say?... It's got vast sentimental value to you?... And you'll be willing to invest in my ranch if I give it back? Because it shows I have moxie and that counts for a lot? Hot dog Oliver, I always knew you were aces!

HAPPY: You see that, ma, Pop was right about Biff all along!

LINDA: I'm saved!

BIFF: I'll call you from the wake, Ollie! (putting away phone) Ma, how'd you like to live the American dream and MOVE OUT WEST WITH ME?

LINDA: Only if you'll buy me a new refrigerator!

They embrace, laughing and crying. Exeunt all, texting and tweeting.

And thus a fusty old drama about capitalism devouring the middle class and tossing them aside like orange rinds is made relevant and contemporary. Please sir or madam, stand up and take a bow! Tell us your name so we may praise you, mysterious innovator of American theater? Don't be shy; it's not like we're going to hunt you down like some bloodthirsty mob and surgically implant a cellphone bomb in your stomach like that fat schizophrenic prisoner in The Dark Knight. We just want attention to be paid.

[Editor's note: Last night's performance of Death of a Salesman was attended by two Gothamist reporters, and for some reason it did not occur to them to hunt down whoever owned the cellphone that ruined the play's ending and throw him/her off the balcony. Gothamist regrets the error.]

Update: Y'know, there are a lot of shows that could really use a little more cellphone ringtone...