The Clueless Companion: My Diaries with Dennis

By Frank Kusy

Dennis is a special kind of a friend. So special, Frank hasn't got a clue what to do with him.

"...very funny and thought-provoking..."
"...a real hoot with that Frank Kusy sparkle..."
"...a wonderfully entertaining read - and instructive too..."

Frank has a problem. He wants to retire, but his wife won't let him. 'What do you mean, you want to retire?' she scoffs. 'You're only 62!' With that, she encourages him to try a new career in the arena of social care: 'You're a very caring person; you'd be good at it.' Frank is not so sure: according to his late mother, he hasn't a caring bone in his body.

Enter Dennis, a young man with learning difficulties who will test Frank's caring side – and his patience – to the limit. He talks nonstop, has a 'thing' about Star Wars, and keeps 12-month-old eggs in his fridge. 
Over the course of 16 months, Frank learns a lot about the world of autism – and about himself – as he staggers from challenging (and surreal) encounters with Dennis to just as challenging yoga sessions, bridge gigs, and German beginner classes. Retirement? Frank has never been so busy!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grinning Bandit books
• Release date: Mar 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393043256

Book preview

​

​PROLOGUE

On New Year’s Eve, 2016, I tried to retire.

‘What do you mean, you want to retire?’ scoffed Madge. ‘You’re only sixty-two!’

I looked at my blond, still beautiful, wife with tired envy. No sooner had she hit 60 and lost her beloved university lecturer job in Kingston than she had bounced right back with an even more fulfilling job (part time) at an adult education college in Richmond.

‘You’re lucky,’ I told her. ‘You’re a good teacher; you’ve always known you’ve wanted to teach. I haven’t got such a talent or vocation. The only things I’ve shown any flair for are writing and – up until recently – doing business in India. But that’s all over now. I don’t know what else I’m good at.’

Madge thought for a while. Then with a triumphant expression, she smiled. ‘I know what you’re good at,’ she said. ‘But I’m not discussing it right now. Let’s eat first!’

My curiosity deepened as we took one of our bus rides to Kingston University, where we still liked to have lunch for old time’s sake. ‘Come on,’ I prodded her. ‘What’s the big secret?’

Madge sighed. ‘I wanted to tell you once we were sat down with a full plate of food, but okay, here it is: you’re a very caring person; with the cats, with Quentin, with Edna. Why don’t you put that talent to use?’

To say I was touched by this compliment would be an understatement. According to my mother, who had died 25 years earlier, I hadn’t a caring bone in my body. Nevertheless, when I thought about it, Madge was right: I had spent seven years mentoring Quentin, an anxious young man with Asperger’s, and a year longer than that driving Edna, a dotty but delightful old lady, to and from a bridge club. Edna’s sudden death a few months before had left a large hole in my life; maybe I could fill it by helping someone else?

It seemed strange that my future path was decided on top of a double-decker bus, but that’s how it happened. As we neared the university, Madge suggested an outfit called Home Instead, which a friend of hers, Susan, had worked for previously. ‘Susan really enjoyed it there,’ she told me with a smile. ‘They let her work her own hours, she met lots of lovely people, they even gave her a free training course.’

I signed up with Home Instead on February 17th 2017, and attended their training course the following Monday. It was a very interesting and thorough course – in which I learnt First Aid, the intricacies of hoisting and lifting, and the do’s and don’ts of giving medication. It did find it curious that I was the only Englishman present – all the other trainees came from Spain, Greece, and Eastern Europe – but then I figured that this kind of work was probably considered ‘immigrant labour’, too low to merit the average English person’s consideration.

On the last day of the course, Madge turned up to watch me receive my badge and certificate of completion. ‘How exciting!’ she beamed at me. ‘This is where your next job is going to be!’

But her hopes and enthusiasm were soon dashed: the pretty young Hungarian girl who briefed me said most of the jobs on offer were only for an hour or two and most of that time would be spent filling in forms, hiding the forms (if necessary) from clients who might find them upsetting, and doling out medication. There would be little if no opportunity to talk to the old folk, let alone build up a relationship with them.

We were then guided to another room with a distinctly 50s flavour – little transistor radios, quaint kitchen sets, whimsically floral table cloths – which we guessed would put prospective elderly clients at their ease. The only non-charming thing about it was the massive spreadsheet on the wall, detailing where and when the agency had people in place for work.

‘So,’ said Madge. ‘What’s there for Frank? When can he start?’

That’s when it began to fall apart. ‘Not as yet,’ said the perfectly manicured Hungarian. ‘Most of our clients are ladies, and they prefer to be cared for by other ladies.’

‘Oh,’ said Madge. ‘But Frank’s last client was an old lady. Her name was Edna and they got on so well, he thought of her as a surrogate mother.’

A wave of the hand dismissed this unwelcome interruption. ‘As for the elderly gentlemen,’ she was told. ‘They prefer to be cared for by pretty young girls.’

Madge couldn’t believe it. ‘So you have nothing for Frank?’

‘Not as yet, no,’ came the evasive reply.

‘Not as yet, never, you mean!’ snapped Madge, leading me out the door. ‘Thank you for wasting our time!’

Six months later, having heard not a peep from Home Instead, I tried again and enlisted for a caregiver course sponsored by the European Union, in collaboration with my local Social Security office. It lasted for one week and I was promised ‘a good chance of a job’ at the end of it.

They were lying.

It was a pretty piece of paper, the certificate they gave me at the end of the week, but that’s all it was – a pretty piece of paper. There were eight of us in all on that course – from a recovering alcoholic with a blue-veined nose to a nervous young man with a wife and two kids to support – and the nearest any of us got offered in the way of work was as a sub-minimum wage care assistant in Sutton Hospital, over an hour away by bus.

‘This is not working out,’ I fumed to Madge. ‘At this rate, even though I can’t afford it, I’ll have to do unpaid voluntary work. How do you feel about that?’

‘As long as it’s useful, darling,’ she reassured me. ‘I know you had your heart set on working with old people, but why don’t you spread your net further? There’s lots of people who could do with a bit of help.’

To this end, I tried the RNIB – the Royal National Institute for the Blind – and they threw up just one job for me: as a Computer Support Worker. ‘What does that involve?’ I asked them, and they said it involved going into the houses of blind or partially sighted people and helping them with their computers. ‘You know the sort of thing – spread sheets and Google chats.’

Anyone who knew me would have appreciated my horror; I barely knew where to find the off-switch on my laptop. ‘Don’t you have any work helping blind folk to the supermarket or taking them for walks?’ I wanted to know. ‘No, I’m afraid we don’t,’ they said. ‘We already have people for that.’

Desperate, I began to consider personal care. There was a lot of call for that. But the thought of cutting old people’s toenails or giving them baths was not something I felt comfortable with. And they’d know I wasn’t feeling comfortable, wouldn’t they, which would make the whole thing even more embarrassing.

‘It’s not just you,’ Madge said when I confessed my uneasiness. ‘I think people who offer personal care are saints. Hang in there, darling. You might find work as a minor apostle.’

Just then, one of Madge’s Dutch friends, Astrid, suggested I put myself out there on an online community board called Next Door Kingston.

I shrugged. It was worth a shot.

Retired gentleman, 63, with DBS and care qualifications looking for work, I posted. Part time flexible hours preferred.

Two days later, the following response popped into my inbox:

Hi there,

We are a local agency trying to keep people with a wide range of disabilities in independent living. Would the following be of interest to you?

Young man (28) with learning disabilities living in Wimbledon seeks a reliable and outgoing companion/personal assistant. He mainly requires support to access activities such as bowling, snooker, shopping and going to the cinema. Although experience is not essential, an understanding of autism would be an advantage and a patient, easy-going nature is important.

‘That sounds ideal,’ nodded Madge approvingly. ‘You love snooker, shopping, and especially the cinema – go for it!’

I had always been a cautious soul; there had to be a catch somewhere. So my first question, when I rang the agency next day, was: ‘What should I know about this guy? Any communication problems?’

There was muffled laughter at the other end of the phone. ‘Oh, he has no problems communicating. Do you want to meet up with him?’

My caution deepened. Those suppressed giggles made me fear for the worst. But then I thought: ‘Hey, what’s the worst that can happen? It’s just a job, after all.’

The following evening, January 6th 2018, I received a telephone call. It was a Cockney-sounding guy from Trinidad called Rob. ‘So you want to work with young Dennis?’ he said in a friendly tone.

‘Dennis? Is that his name?’

‘Den or Dennis, he responds to both. Though he does have a number of different names for his staff. I’m his main staff and he presently calls me Rupert.’

I smiled through my nerves. ‘So he does have a sense of humour?’

A loud guffaw greeted my comment. ‘Oh, yes he does, Frank. You’ll find that out for yourself. If, that is, he likes you.’

‘If he likes me?’

‘He’s a very sharp cookie,’ Rob said in a more serious tone. ‘He’ll be able to tell if he likes you inside of a minute.’

I had no problem with this. Having been surrounded by volcanic people for most of my life, I had being ‘liked’ – or at least being seen as non-threatening – down to a fine art. But I was rather concerned about Dennis: would I like him?

‘I’ll try and set up an interview next week, Frank,’ concluded Rob. ‘Though I do have to warn you: Dennis has just returned from a holiday in Majorca and it discombobulated him so much – threw him so far out of his comfort zone – that he might not be able to meet anyone new until he re-establishes his routines.’

Rob was right. It took him a month. And when I did finally get to meet him – on the 2nd of February – it was in the strangest of circumstances.

We’ll be with you in ten minutes Rob texted me to say. Dennis got held up.

That was annoying. I had already been sitting in the Crave Café – a dark dive full of hookah-smoking young Turks – for half an hour. Was this a pattern that Dennis was setting? Or was he just as nervous as I was about meeting for the first time?

Twelve minutes later, a short, stocky guy with a smiley face and a mop of black hair pushed into the café. ‘Hi, I’m Rob,’ he introduced himself. ‘You must be Frank.’

I said that I was and looked enquiringly over his shoulder. Where was Dennis?

‘Dennis is hiding round the corner,’ explained Rob. ‘He has issues with strangers.’

Steeling myself for what promised to be a tense encounter, I exited the café with Rob, looked to my right, and stopped dead in my tracks. A ghoulish figure with a bald head and one arm eerily extended was lurking in the shadows. ‘Oh my God!’ I silently panicked. ‘It’s Nosferatu!’

Any semblance to the German silent movie vampire was dispelled a second later when the figure bounded into the light and strode towards me with a manic grin. ‘Hello!’ it said sprightly. ‘I’m Dennis!’

To say I was surprised would be an understatement. As the extended arm lowered and began vigorously pummelling my right hand I was in fact in a state of shock. For one thing, this guy was painfully thin – I could have pinched that arm of his between my thumb and forefinger. For another, with his boyish features and lively blue eyes, he looked more like eighteen than twenty-eight. But it was his teeth that attracted my main attention – the wide goofy grin exposed two rows of broken, crooked fangs that might have belonged to a prize fighter.

‘We’re not staying here,’ announced Dennis, suddenly letting go of my hand. ‘The Crave people were very rude to me. We’re going to Krispy Crème instead.’

Krispy Crème? I had heard that name somewhere, but couldn’t quite place it.

‘It does doughnuts,’ Rob helpfully interjected. ‘Dennis likes doughnuts.’

I took a quick look at my watch. I hoped Krispy Crème wasn’t too far away. I had a Buddhist meeting to get to at 7.30pm.

Luckily, a bus turned up almost immediately, and while Dennis scooted upstairs (yes, once again my future was being decided on the top deck of a bus), Rob stayed discreetly downstairs.

Then it turned weird. As I watched on, Dennis went from seat to seat inspecting each one in turn before finally finding one he liked. ‘Which version of Jumanji did you like better?’ he interrogated me as I perched uncomfortably next to him. ‘I liked the first movie better because it had Robin Williams in it!’

Whilst wondering what was special about this particular bus seat, I was searching in my mind for common ground, of which there appeared to be little. In the few moments of the 15 minute ride that I got a word in edgeways it transpired that Dennis wasn’t interested in Buddhism, he wasn’t interested in going to the gym, and he was definitely not interested in cats.

‘I have a blue flashing light in the garden which scares away cats,’ he said with a malevolent grin. ‘Cats and me do not get on.’

That was a shame. I was just about to give him a book about cats I had written. I slipped it back in my pocket.

‘So how come you’re looking for new staff?’ I changed the subject. ‘What happened to the old ones?’

Dennis rose to the occasion. ‘Some people take advantage,’ he confided darkly. ‘They turn up late without telling me, or they don’t turn up at all.’

‘That’s terrible,’ I assured him. ‘How rude!’

An energetic nodding of Dennis’s head told me that I had said the right thing, and that the first part of the interview had gone well.

The second part of the interview took place in the tacky, brightly-lit eatery known as Krispy Crème.

‘Before we start,’ Rob turned to me with a serious look, ‘there are some do’s and don’ts you need to know about Dennis. One: don’t interrupt him or speak over him when he’s talking. Two: he doesn’t eat lamb – he’s very fond of lambs and sheep. Three: he doesn’t eat prawns.’

‘I don’t like any seafood,’ Dennis interjected. ‘Unless it’s fish and chips.’

‘Four,’ continued Rob. ‘He doesn’t drink alcohol and he must have two straws with his soft drinks.’

Two straws? Okay, I could live with that.

‘Five,’ Rob ticked off the last finger on one hand. ‘If he gets upset, leave him alone for a bit. Then, when he’s calmed down, try to talk to him.’

I gave a short nod of understanding. Twenty two years with my wife had made me an expert in talking down upset people.

‘One last don’t is the most important,’ Rob drew my instructions to a close. ‘Den has to do things at his own pace. He’s doesn’t like to be...’

‘Rushed?’ I hazarded a guess.

‘Exactly!’ Dennis clapped his hands together. ‘You just read Rob’s mind!’

Rob’s next comment met with rather less success. Bending low as to not be overheard by other diners, he told me: ‘Den has a family of toys – soft fluffy rabbits – which he might introduce you to when he gets to know you better.’

My brain swam as I tried to process this piece of information. ‘I had a family of soft fluffy toys once,’ I blurted out. ‘I was about three years old and I found a pair of my mum’s nail scissors and I cut them open and disembowelled them.’

Rob’s eyebrows raised and stayed on hoist. Something told me I wouldn’t be seeing Dennis’s ‘family’ any time soon.

Fortunately, the interview went rather better after that. I pretended to like the chocolate doughnut that had been purchased on my behalf (I hadn’t had such a calorie bomb in years!) and Rob pretended not to take my off-the-cuff attempts at humour too seriously.

As for Dennis, he seemed to sense a kindred spirit in me: another Peter Pan, perhaps, who didn’t want to grow up. Or it could have been the fact that I listened to everything he said without interruption for over an hour.

‘I’m sorry I was late meeting up,’ he said as he polished off his third doughnut and prepared to leave. ‘But I got caught on the phone by the drug addict who lives upstairs. He’s even more chatty than we are!’

A short time later, as I headed back to Kingston for my Buddhist meeting, my phone pinged with a text message from Rob:

Hi Frank, it said. Thanks for coming down today really appreciate it. One thing I forgot to mention. Dennis has an issue with ladies’ hair. I think it’s a fobia of his.

A phobia? About ladies’ hair? This was getting weirder and weirder.

Then came the second message:

Please could you start with Dennis on Thursday 8th time 4 – 8pm Also Dennis will be making as he told me to tell you. Ham pasta.

Ham pasta? Ooh, that sounded nice. I decided to starve myself Thursday, to take advantage of this unexpected largesse.

Back home, Madge was not so impressed. ‘He’s making you ham pasta? Call that a job? You should be making him ham pasta!’

​February 2018

Ham Pasta and Devil Women

––––––––

Thursday 8th February

Not since travelling round India with a character called Kevin 33 years ago had I been inspired to keep a diary. Kevin and India had been that stimulating. Now, if last week’s encounter with Dennis was anything to go by, I was about to be stimulated in an even more challenging way. To this end, I put my diarist’s hat on again. My 63 year old life was getting a reboot.

Today was my first date with Dennis. At around 3.30pm, I set about finding him. And when I say ‘finding’ I mean that he was a movable feast: every time I phoned to establish his location, he had shifted to a different one. First, he was in his flat, then he was somewhere on Burlington Road – wherever that was – and then he was back to Krispy Crème. I finally caught up with him on a busy roundabout on the outskirts of New Malden, where he lightly reprimanded me for being ‘twenty minutes late’.

We took a bus to his flat, which was located in a quiet cul de sac at the back end of Wimbledon. I had no idea what to expect; just that I was supposed to ‘entertain’ him for four hours.

And what a surreal four hours it was. I did manage to escape the confines of the small, rather claustrophobic, living room twice – once to hide in Den’s undersized bathroom for a pee, once to shiver outside in the cold for a much-needed fag – but otherwise I was pinned to my chair by a non-stop barrage of stream-of-consciousness chatter. It reminded me of my Hungarian mother, who could also be super-chatty, though to Dennis’s credit he did ask a lot of questions, which my mother never did. ‘Do you like Star Wars?’ was his opening gambit, and when I said, ‘not really, I prefer Star Trek’, he said ‘I love that scene where Princess Leia floats away with that light sabre; what did you think about that?’ He was momentarily miffed when I said I had no opinion on the matter – that I had in fact only seen two Star Wars films and the most recent one for only eight minutes – but it didn’t stop him telling me all his other favourite scenes from the long-running franchise in enthusiastic detail.

Then, as I turned to adjust my seat, we moved onto the subject of my head.

‘I’ve got to tell you something, Frank,’ said Dennis.

I spun round. ‘What?’

‘You look much younger from behind,’ he observed with a giggle.

‘What?’ I said again.

‘Yes, much younger. I think it’s your head.’

‘My head?’

Dennis’s giggles erupted into loud, braying laughter. ‘It’s true! Your head looks much younger from behind!’

But the main subject of conversation concerned Dennis’s upcoming assignation with speed dating.

‘It’s next Thursday,’ he told me. ‘And I know I’m going to be good, because I have personality. Good looks aren’t everything, are they? You’ve got to have personality.’

I gave him an encouraging nod. ‘Yes, I know all about personality. My wife looked at me on our first date and thought: Who’s this ugly git? Long bare face, ultra-thin body, high balding forehead, and thin, almost sinister, lips. Not my type at all!’

‘Then you showed her your personality?’

‘Yes, over twelve rum and cokes apiece. Though I think she would have liked anyone’s personality after that.’

Then came the warning signal, which I completely missed. ‘So,’ Dennis enquired innocently, ‘what are you going to eat back home?’

Thinking he meant later that night, I returned him a casual reply. ‘Oh, I’ll probably rustle up a sausage and egg sandwich. If I have room.’

I had no idea how much room I would be needing. Minutes later, having laboured over it for an hour and a half, Dennis appeared with a huge, steaming plate of pasta loaded with cheese and ham.

‘Mmm, that looks good,’ I thought, my taste buds already watering. ‘But why only one plate?’

Then it dawned on me. There was only one plate because Den was going to eat it all himself. Which he did, with great gusto, right in front of my famished face.

Then, to compound my grief, he went back in the kitchen and returned with a second heaped plate. Which he also polished off all by himself.

I could not believe this. It was so wrong on so many