“Hello, I’m here to see Donny Mallow,” I hear a young voice telling the receptionist.

I spin my wheelchair around. Nobody comes to visit old Donny on a weekday. My family visits are exclusively on weekends. It’s hard sometimes, but I know that some of the others never get any visits. At least my family loves me.

But, I guffaw, everyone always loved Crazy Donny.

I watch the receptionist smile sweetly and motion behind the young man. I clear my throat and watch as he turns around. A young adult, big-city dressed, looks at me. I smile and adjust my tattered tweed cap. A nervous habit that I never managed to kick, just like I could never part with my cap.

He approaches me. “Shmule,” he says by way of introduction.

“Donny Mallow. Some people call me Donny the Lamplighter. Others call me Crazy Donny.” I take in his surprised expression. “Doesn’t bother me. I’m a man of many hats. Well, really I only wear this one hat. I’m sure you can tell I’ve been wearing it for years; there’s no disguising that.”

I’m rambling now. They don’t call me Crazy Donny for nothing.

Shmule chuckles. An authentic laugh, I can tell. It’s not practiced, but he does it often. 

“You’re definitely the man I’m looking for, then. Is there a private place we can talk?”

“Push me to the yard. I know a place we can talk without being overheard. By the fountain. The rush of the water will muffle our voices. And I just love the sound of water. It brings me back to my lamplighting days, dipping my oars into the river and hearing the croak of toads and the occasional splash of a frog taking a dive.”

Shmule’s lips twitch. I love making people smile. Making people laugh. Bringing people joy. And I love talking, so I’m glad that my chatter often leads to a lightening of the heart.

“So, why were you looking for Donny, and how’d you find him?” I refer to myself in the third person, but Shmule catches that and runs with it.

“I’m hoping to find a man who jumped off a cliff one night and landed in the river. I believe you may have saved his life.”

“Say, I’ve gotten many compliments before, but I don’t think anyone ever claimed Donny the Lamplighter was a lifesaver.”

Shmule smiles again. I like this kid.

“Honestly, kiddo, my memory just isn’t what it used to be. But I’ll tell you something you probably don’t know. Donny Mallow isn’t just a big talker; he also fancies himself a writer. I have diaries of almost every day of my life since I learned to form letters, so if Donny the Lamplighter ever saved someone’s life, it’s sure to be in a journal.”

“Do you have your diaries here?” Shmule inquires.

I admire his eagerness. “Some. Do you have a specific date? Or just an era?”

Shmule looks at me carefully as he tells me the date. It means nothing to me, and he seems relieved when I don’t react.

“You’re in luck, Shmule. I should have that one here in my room.”

He grabs the handles of my wheelchair and starts pushing me inside.

“Patience, my new friend. Patience is a virtue.”

We come into my room, and I can almost hear him taking in the scene. It’s a mess, but one spot is organized. My bookshelf is perfect, not one volume out of place. On top lie my diaries, in order by year. They vary in kind, but each has a sticker with a year on the spine.

“Take down 1941,” I tell him.

In a flash, he’s across the room and has the old journal in his hand. He opens it and starts flipping pages. I quickly turn my wheels and snatch the book out of his hand.

“I’ll check, thank you,” I say softly.

He apologizes contritely. I wave it off.

I open the book and breathe in the scent. Memories come rushing back to me. I close my eyes and allow them to wash over me. Shmule waits expectantly, silently.

A knock at the door disrupts my journey down memory lane.

“The nurses know better than to disturb Old Donny when he has visitors. Can you please get the door?”

Shmule opens the door, and a young nurse looks at him, then at me. I notice that Shmule averts his eyes. I wonder if it’s because she’s a woman or because of the icon hanging around her neck.

Mr. Mallow always was perceptive, and thankfully I haven’t lost my touch. My eagle eyes still don’t miss much.

“My apologies, Donny,” the nurse sings. “I’ll be back later. Give me a holler if you need anything.”

She closes the door, and I see that poor Shmule is almost ready to pop. I take pity on him and turn to the date he asked for.

Dearest Diary, Donny is back.

A long night it has been. It started as usual. I slid into the rowboat and allowed the breeze to wash over me. I managed to keep the torch dry and lit as I started kindling the lamps.

Suddenly, a most unusual occurrence transpired. A body tumbled off the cliff and landed in my boat. A man was shouting, but I couldn’t make out the words. My torch was knocked out of the boat, and we were plunged into a stuffy blackness.

By the time I kindled a fresh taper, the man was seated across from me. He seemed to be my age, and, although he was dressed in dark clothing, I could tell he was a member of the bourgeoisie.

I reached out my hand and introduced myself. He responded in kind and declared his name was Chester. Let me tell you, Diary dearest, that man was lying. But I just smiled and asked how I could be of service.

A shiver ran through him. He shrugged. I shrugged back and welcomed him to join me on my lamplighting expedition.

We continued in an uncomfortable silence, stopping as we passed each street lamp.

Suddenly, “Chester” spoke up. “I’m being pursued by Satan. I need to speak to the priest immediately.” I looked up and saw the monastery looming over us ominously.

His clear eyes belied his crazy words. I don’t know why, but he was definitely putting on an act. I pulled over and watched him scramble up the path. He rang the large metal bell, and the door opened moments later. “Chester” slipped inside, and the door slammed shut.

The sound echoed in my ears as I dipped a muffled oar back into the river and continued off into the night.

That’s all for today, Diary dear. Until next time, Donny.

“I actually have no recollection of this, but here it is, black on white.”

Shmule thanks me warmly. I can see him processing the story.

“I must catch a ride home, Donny, but I remain indebted to you for sharing this with me. I hope we’ll meet again one day.”

“Just a piece of advice before you go, Shmule. Write everything down. I suspect it was the paper trail that led you to me, and I just gave you the next lead from the written word. In my time, everyone wrote, but the young generation seems to loathe the pencil. How terrible. True self-expression…”

I catch myself. I’m rambling again, and Shmule is hopping from foot to foot, anxious to leave.

“Safe trip,” I say.

He nods resolutely and offers his gratitude once more as he turns to go.

I look after his retreating back until he disappears from sight. I’m suddenly very tired. The nurse walks back in, and I smile, banishing all thoughts of Shmule until later, when I’ll write today’s entry.