Mr. Delaney's Diaries

Before he even got to me, Mr. Delaney had greeted each and every person in the restaurant with a childlike smile being held tight by an old man’s tired face. Despite the clear elderly appearance, the entire population 400 town we lived in would agree he was the most childlike of anyone. Always wearing a yellow suit that was only a drop away from a star and always moving with a sort of flow like he was the president or at the very least the mayor. While talking to anyone in his path, more often than not Mr. Delaney would pull from his blazer a small black Moleskin journal. Occasionally the corners would still be stiff, strong, and full of youth. Enough to where one could almost smell the freshness of the pages, as if he’d come to see you straight from whatever shop he replaces filled ones with. Most of the times you’d see the journal it was beaten and worn from excessive use. It was sort of an honor for Mr. Delaney to stop the conversation dead just to whip out his diary. Ever the gentleman he would always pose

“And would it be alright if I wrote down some of my thoughts from this conversation in my diary?”

It was impossible to say no to the sweet eager eyes of Mr. Delaney and nobody ever did. Of course, he would always proceed to buy your lunch, even when met with resistance. It never bothered me that Mr. Delaney had to make his rounds, in fact it was to be expected when meeting with our little town’s heroic genius. Before he sat down both arms simultaneously gestured me toward him as if to say, hurry and get up son, you know I need a hug and I’m tired of standing so make it quick. I obliged without a moment’s hesitation and squeezed him tight while his chest rumbled out warm chuckles.

“It’s so great to see you Pearson and you barely look a minute older!”

Mr. Delaney said with a smile. I always imagined his yellow suit must carry pieces of the sun’s rays with it even long after it had set, because the way he floated through life made everyone he encountered smile and lose track of whatever grievances they’d been harboring about life. Awkwardly I said,

“I want to again thank you for the…well for the twenty…”

It’s always been hard for me to admit when I needed help, my pride made me feel as if it made me weaker. Mr. Delaney however was like an old wise sage in the way that he had overcome all of these social gripes and hang-ups that stunt so much of humanities bright glow.

“20,000!”

Delaney said with a chuckle.

“Say it out loud, it’ll make ya feel better!”

He then proceeded to put 20,000 into a marching style rhythm and sang whilst beating his hardbottom shoes onto the wood causing other diner patrons to look over and cover their own mouths with shy smiles and giggles. I continued,

“Yes, yes…20,000…I want you to know that…well because of that I’ve been able to continue writing, and well…I got my book published! Not only that they’re already talking about a potential movie!”

I thought I was excited about these accomplishments, but Mr. Delaney sprang up out of his seat and pumped his hand into the air shouting like we’d struck gold as cartoon miners. After he hugged me again and I managed to calm him down we both resumed a polite tone appropriate to the setting.

“Mr. Delaney, I know I’ve thanked you maybe one thousand times at this point, but truly without you none of this would be possible.”

He smiled back at me and grabbed one my hands earnestly with both of his.

“I appreciate your gratitude, never let go of that. When we are grateful, we express to the universe a signal that says more! MORE! With happy and open arms. Never lose that gratitude and never act as if these opportunities and privileges you’ve found yourself stumbling into are granted. Someone may have just as much talent as you but not quite the same path and for that you must always thank what and whomever for your fortune… I’ve always had money, to me it meant very little except the fact that it meant everything to you. I want to be a part of your journey and I knew that destiny and fate had put you at my doorstep for a reason. Your grandfather and I had a bond I know I’ll never see again in this dimension of living. I promised him when he passed, I would do whatever I could to make sure your family was taken care of and secure. I’d like to believe I’ve done the best I can, considering I refuse to interfere or put my nose where it doesn’t belong. Should destiny dictate I be needed, destiny will let me know. I promise you Pearson, when you’re listening too hard you won’t hear it, funny enough, if you don’t listen at all you’ll never hear it either. I find it best to keep a smile on my face with one ear in the conversation another hearing the song of harmony. In this very room, the forks clicking, the chairs shuffling, the families talking, the few cars that pass by the window with tired raw energies. I’m aware of it all and it’s perfection yet I refuse to overcomplicate it all…Hmm actually do you mind if I write that down?”

Before offering the obvious answer, Mr. Delaney was reaching for his blazer’s inner pocket with one hand and preemptively clicking the pen with the other. He flipped it to a page very close to the end and began squiggling with lips pursing together and an occasional tongue peeking out. Mr. Delaney was our town’s fabled genius, the best writer this town had ever seen. Yet it was almost a joke, not a malicious one, but it was well known in our town’s lore that Mr. Delaney never shared a single piece of his writings with anyone. When my Grandfather was alive, he told me Mr. Delaney had thousands of the little black Moleskin journals filling up and nearly engulfing an entire room of the, otherwise neat and orderly, house he reigned over as king at the end of Big Oak Drive. I sat for a few moments playing with my herbal tea and pretending to sip the scolding drink just to act as if I weren’t waiting for him to be finished. As he scribbled, I thought of how long he’d been a part of everyone’s lives and how important he was to not only my family but the entire community. I began to feel a strange pity for Mr. Delaney in ways I didn’t fully grasp, beloved by the town and hailed as a genius without needing the proof to back it up, yet I didn’t understand why. Why wouldn’t he do what I did? Make something of the art? My entire life the only thing holding my writings back was the money to properly support it, Mr. Delaney changed all of that, and my life, mostly on a whim of goodwill and destiny chatter. Yet his work remains collecting dust. One day he’ll be gone, and I’ll be the one our town hails as a genius writer, but I’ll have the works to provide as proof. This made me bite my lip as I watched him work until I couldn’t bare the thought anymore.

“Mr…hey Mr. Delaney?”

Without looking up he slowly dragged out the word

“yes?”

and I continued while averting my gaze toward the window

“How come you’ve never published any of your writings? Or even shown them to anyone?”

I tried my best to ask the monolithic question in the most casual way but once the sentence finished, I couldn’t help but dart my eyes back to him and just as I suspected his pen fell dead and he slowly turned his head up to meet my own eyes

“Ahh now that’s a good question.”

He no longer appeared to be the child of town; it was the sage. I saw a tired and all-knowing look behind his shallow tired skin, the wisdom was almost palpable.

“Well…I did!...Yes, yes I did. I wrote them, I finished them, they are real, they are done, they are read, and they are published. It matters not if ‘anyone sees it’ because, well…they have! I am someone! Am I not?”

As he said this he began to smile, and the sage seemed to reach the harmony he spoke of earlier with the child we all knew; his flow continued

“I am someone, I have seen it, and I LOVED it! It is VERY real. It means nothing weather someone likes my work or not for even if they read my work, they certainty wouldn’t get it the way I intended and that’s okay…And when I die son, if you find it appropriate or in your head the desire is too great not to look then that is okay, you may read my work. Publish them all! I don’t mind, that would be destiny’s will and I would never dream to interfere or complain about it. It was never my will to possess control over these creations, they just are. They will be read, or they won’t. It isn’t really up to me; my own duty is to feel the emotions and express them. An audience is never a factor. If I sat here and told you not to release my work, there is a good chance you might not even heed my words and if you did, I would have set forth a path in the universe by my own volition rather than on her own great wisdom and I’d be nothing more than a man standing in the middle of a river trying to reverse its flow with a stick.”

I sat in silence thinking about what Mr. Delaney said for a good while. In the end I couldn’t come up with any satisfiable response, so we just carried on with our lunch. Mr. Delaney read my work and thought it would make a fantastic movie and begged me not to pay him back despite my best arguments. As usual he covered our lunch as a way to repay me for letting him interrupt conversation to write. Before my train arrived to take me back to the city Mr. Delaney left me with one last interaction to hang on.

“Don’t be afraid to write about life, not just the color and look of the wave, but the entire sunset too, even the pigeons who seem unbeautiful and not worth the ink. It is all so tender, and it is all so crucial. Oh also…There is one other person besides myself who has read my work…your grandfather.”

Mr. Delaney said this with a fond and nostalgic jump to his voice.

“And now I want you to take a look.”

Mr. Delaney opened my suitcase and slipped in a dark and faded little black journal before closing it back up again.

“No peaking until the station is behind you.”

Waiting for the train to leave felt like forever as I’d never been so eager in my life to get moving. Once it finally did pull off with a loud blast of its mighty horn, I watched Mr. Delaney smile and wave from the platform. Before he pulled out of my site, I watched him yank out his diary and begin scribbling furiously until he disappeared into black smoke. I laughed giddy as a child and pulled out the ancient treasure he gave to me.

Mr. Delaney’s Diaries by; Mr. Howard Delaney illustrations by Mr. Charles Pearson.

A wave of warm understanding washed over me as I muttered “I never knew Grandpa was an artist.”