UNEXPECTED LEGACY

Oliver Delvin was the senior assistant of design at Richards, Key, Stanley construction firm In New York City in 1898.

Oliver, who stood five feet seven inches tall, was a robust barrel-chested man who carried the plus side of two hundred fifty pounds on his big-boned frame. He had dark brown eyes, but his heavy eyebrows covered both eyes' in a larger part, causing his eyes to appear squinting.

Oliver knew he was not handsome but still, as a matter of vainness, he combed his salt and pepper hair back in a failed attempt to hide his balding head, but in contradiction, he almost always presented a full and unkempt beard.

Oliver spoke with a booming voice and frequently used that deep voice to his advantage by over-speaking underlings who disagreed with his perspective. Oliver often reminded himself that his voice was his greatest asset because any physical assets were few.

Oliver had recently noticed that his once smooth, glowing skin was beginning to pale and attributed the change to weight gain. "Somehow," Oliver wondered as fatigue came more frequently, "why he had let his weight spiral out of control."

His added weight was also causing labored breathing, and his overall general health was declining at an alarming rate. All attempts to diet had failed, so Oliver abandoned any idea of trying again to battle the weight.

His whole life seemed in a spiral, a trap, and the claws were pressing tightly around his soul, and he knew he was out of tune with the universe. To make matters worse, he could hardly walk anywhere without stopping to take deep breaths.

Oliver could no longer take the stairs to his second-floor office without experiencing a heavy sweat and finding himself totally out of breath. The office and city elevators had become the transportation of preference for activity anywhere that demanded his presence above the first floor.

Oliver loathed the elevators' entombing feeling, but he had no choice if he had to be somewhere above his second-floor office at work. Unfortunately, his supervisor's office was eight floors above his, and he had to make that trip several times a day to check design progress at Mr. Richards's request.

Back and forth, up and down, come here-come there-Oliver see this person-go see that person Oliver. Oliver felt the fears, the anxiety, the loss of full deep breathing all swelling up inside. He did not know what was wrong, he did not have a name for the disease engulfing him, and he was acutely conscious of that fact. There were too many things wrong inside, but regardless he knew he needed relief.

He could not go to a doctor and explain his true feelings. There would be no doubt that the physician would promptly send him to an insane asylum as he believed they did for other people with similar problems. No, he had to suppress and hide his thoughts at all costs. He could never go to an asylum because they lock away and tie-down patients. Everyone knew that much, and likely there was more horror experienced that remained unspoken behind those locked steel doors.

"No sir," Oliver thought to himself. "It will pass," Oliver convinced himself as he took a seat as Richards explained multiple ideas for a new "Madison Square Garden" to him.

Oliver patiently and attentively listened to Mr. Richards's ideas, his imagination, and extravagant concepts. Afterward, Mr. Richards expected Oliver to create their client's concepts and vision into a manageable model that exposed all the projects' essential details.

Additionally, Oliver's responsibility was to ensure that the project stayed on its long-term vision and that the design phase produced results early on. Aside from the appearance, structures must be safe and function as their clients envisioned.

After Mr. Richards stamped his approval, the plans were then taken to the city planning department for recoding by one of the firm's several runners. When the plans were recorded at the city, checked they were within code, necessary copies made, and all legal holes closed, then and only then could the construction process could begin.

Oliver Devlin was responsible for start to finish of the entire process and doing anything necessary to speed things through the city legal department. Oliver knew whose button to push in all government areas, and cash was welcome in all departments.

Mr. Richards also kept a little black book with all the important people's nasty details necessary to ensure final approval for any of their projects. Also, Oliver was armed with a "City Lunch box," as Mr. Richards referred to it, "full of bread." Cash talked, and Oliver did not have trouble in getting plans approved swiftly as Mr. Richards insisted.

Mr. Richards trusted Oliver and respected his commitment to the firm and felt fortunate to have chosen Oliver as an assistant and spoke well of him at his frequent board meetings.

Oliver appreciated this, but it caused him a great deal of conflict. Oliver knew the firm appreciated him, knew that he was with the right firm, but he hated his employer and supervisor, Mr. Richards.

Oliver Devlin felt overshadowed by Mr. Richards to the extent of rage. A rage so strong within his soul that at thirty-seven, he had become an alcoholic—"Actually a loyal servant to the iced liquid medicine," he told himself.

Oliver sought relief from his anger, rage, fear, and swelling anxiety from the bitters of alcohol and now realized that he could not function without the poison.

Deep into depression, he cast the blame on Mr. Richards for his conditions, including trembling hands and the accompanying weight gain of seventy pounds. Mr. Richards's demand for perfection, the tight scheduling, and the renderings' expectations were piling up inside.

Oliver could not stop thinking how his boss received all the credits, the accolades, and notoriety with little mention of the real designer, and he was offended when he heard him brag about how he built such and such.

"At a minimum," thought Oliver, "Mr. Richards should at least mention him in his formal interviews with the news media, but he didn't.

Many late afternoons, Oliver would take a stool at 'Perry's Globe Tavern' bar only a few doors away from his office and take his fill of "Cuffs and Buttons," later known as "Southern Comfort.". Any given night, Oliver and his long-time drinking partner "Peg Leg O'Malley" would sit side by side while Oliver would bring Peg Leg up to date on the latest gossip and his complaints regarding his employer.

Peg Leg was so-called because of a wooden leg fitted into place on his left leg's stump. His amputation was due to a wartime injury from the Civil war, which had sent Peg Leg to alcohol's liquid healing powers. Peg Leg O'Malley practically lived at Perry's Tavern.

Often he would wait patiently for Oliver's arrival each day, and when his friend Oliver arrived, he would hobble over and position himself on an adjoining stool. Soon Peg Leg would display a wide toothless grin as his eyes followed every hand gesture Oliver made regarding that day's work.

Occasionally, Peg Leg would mumble in agreement as if he also knew Mr. Richards, which he didn't, and every hour or so offered "Shit on him" to validate Peg Legs' dislike for Mr. Richards as well.

In time, they both would be "addled" or, as Peg Leg O'Malley would say, "Fogged In." Fogged-in at times would cause him to lose his balance and fall. At first, Oliver would help his friend up, but lately, Peg Leg would say to leave him alone, "as he was at peace with the floor."

So, on the floor, he would stay until old man Perry or another customer forced him to get up and leave. Peg Leg would eventually oblige, and at the last minute of exiting, almost like a warning alarm had gone off, he would customarily turn to Oliver and say with slurred confidence, "Catch Ya Ta-mahr-row Ollie." Oliver, as if on cue, would turn and look at Peg Leg O'Malley departing, raise his whiskey glass an inch or so off of the bar, rattle the ice, and say to no one, "The hell with you-you one-legged bastard."

However, tomorrow never came for Peg Leg, who was discovered by a neighbor dead from a heart attack in the hallway later that evening.

When Oliver heard the news about his friend, he almost fainted from the blood, seemingly leaving his body. Oliver was devastated. His only friend was now gone. He did not have the heart to go to Perry's Tavern but instead chose to sit at home mourning for the next few evenings.

Oliver forced himself to focus on work. It was difficult as his mind would drift to his friend Peg Leg more than he could almost control. During one of those drifts, one of his staff opened his office door and said that Mr. Richards wanted him at his office right away.

Startled, he nodded his head and slowly made the way to Mr. Richards's tenth-floor office. When he arrived Mr., Richards motioned him to take a chair.

"I know that you recently lost a friend John O'Malley. I think he was called Peg Leg by his friends, "Mr. Richards offered.

"Yes, Sir, I did."

"Well, this morning, my friend Lawyer Armengol stopped by and gave me this package for you left by Mr. O'Malley to go to you. Mr. O'Malley did not leave a will but had instructed Armengol to see that you got this upon his death."

Oliver took the package from Mr. Richards and labored back to his office to open the unexpected box from his friend. Oliver paused for a moment then meticulously opened it as if he did not want to finalize losing Peg Leg.

As he opened the box, the first thing he noticed was two packets of money wrapped neatly in ten-thousand-dollar wrappers. Twenty Thousand dollars! Oliver thought that he always believed Peg Leg was broke, but in front of him was the truth.

Besides the money, there was a letter. Oliver held it for a moment then began to read.

Ollie Boy, Sorry I had to leave my stool at Perry's but understand I had no say in that matter. I had sensed that my time was short, so I put together this note and money for you as you were me best friend. That said, there is a price to you for the money. And don't shrug the requirements off Ollie Boy because if you do, I will send the meanest Irish ghosts I can muster up to haunt you. It's possible, right lad?

First, take care of your health. Go see a doctor. Get that done immediately.

Second. Screw Mr. Richards and take off on your own. This money will get you started.

And finally, please see that me leg stays on whilst they send me away. I want to be prepared for walking any rough roads that may be ahead. Until we meet again, Peg.

Oliver wept.

*************

January 2021

New York City

Today we are gathered in the cold to commemorate the warmth, sacrifice, and vision of the person who unselfishly gave to our city during his 82 years on this planet. Forty years of those, he built the best buildings, offices, and hospitals that we could not have achieved without Mr. Oliver Delvin's foresight. Additionally, Mr. Delvin gave a large part of his income to charities, diabetes research, and studies to prevent alcoholism.

To Oliver Delvin III, we ask that you accept this plaque on behalf of this city for your grandfather, to whom we are forever grateful.

The speaker handed the plaque to Oliver III, and as he accepted it, he asked," why did your grandfather inscribe on all his buildings the initials P.L.O.M.?"

"I don't know, but I think it concerned a friend of his," answered Oliver. I've wondered that myself.