All the Dennises

Short story about a man who has lost his identity over the latter part of his life. Quite sad.

The bespectacled gentleman, his skin shinning with the flaky ruddiness of old age, opened his mouth as if to say something.  Nothing came out except a dry, impotent exhalation.  He wasn't even sure there was anyone there to hear him.  They had wheeled him over here a while ago but he hadn't heard much since.  His spectacles were smudged, greasy finger marks adorning the one glass.  The other had gone missing years ago.  It didn't matter: he was blind. Had been for some years now but there was something about the glasses (or 'bins' as they used to call them round his way) that connected him to himself.  That helped him remember who himself was, despite most of it being stripped away, his ticket clipped and clipped as his went through the various stations of life.  

First to go was the job, of course - that's how these things always start.  The last day was the usual cake at lunchtime with awkward speeches.  Northerners aren't known for their elaborate expressions of affection.  Polite drinks after the office closed, people starting to disappear after the second-drink-mark was passed - unwritten rule satisfied, guilt averted.  It's not that Dennis wasn't popular - in fact he was lovingly referred to as Pops by some of the younger members of the department.  He went out of his way once in a while, when the mood took him, helping out, encouraging or simply stopping to have a chat.  His natural manner somehow made people feel they could open up to him and when he moved on they felt some kind of change, a small but still palpable one.  But everyone had their own stuff going on: dates to meet, family to get home to, yoga classes to attend.  They gave enough time to work stuff and, as much as they liked Dennis, he was 'Work Dennis' not 'Friend Dennis' or 'Date Dennis'.  Definitely not 'Yoga Dennis'.  He'd say it was all 'claptrap'. So he went home, quite relieved for a quiet send off.  He could put off for another night, another weekend, the thought that he'd no longer walk that strip carpet down the side of the pods.  He'd never again battle with 'that bloody machine', burn his hand on the dripping coffee maker.  Have ready access to people.  Of course some people he didn't fully get on with, but in a way he'd miss the run-ins, the careful tip-toeing around issues, positioning.  Weight on the back foot but slightly leaning forward, brandishing the weapon but never striking first.  Showing the hand but not playing any cards.  At least not until he's seen everyone else's.  But that's how it worked in the DWP.  

The garden lost it's appeal after the summer ended.  If he was honest with himself, he was only really doing it for something to do.  He wasn't filling his time with a passion.  He'd quite happily sit in the garden sipping a G&T but he didn't want to do that all day - it would be a slippery slope.  Besides, it was no fun on your own.  Day drinking with someone was fun, a little bit naughty.  Knowing that everyone else was going about their business - working, looking after kids, food shopping, 'doing the messages' and generally adulting while you were getting a bit sozzled added to the whole experience.  But on your own it was just sad.  It made him sad anyway.  It was one thing if you were used to it, but Janey had not long gone then and he wasn't used to it yet.  Not yet.  Never really did get a chance to in the end.  It was Janey who'd introduced him to the gin.  He wasn't sure at first having been a 'Best' man all his adult life, but he grew to love those sunny evenings with the juniper and lime bubbles tickling his nose.  When he did have one or two on his own, he'd talk to her.  Not by mistake like he normally did.  Forgetting.  Thinking she was just in the kitchen brewing up a 'nice cuppa tea for ya there' or upstairs 'picking up after your fine self'.  But actually talking.  Out loud.  Imagining her talking back.  Laughing together.  Getting annoyed with him.  Her 'what are we gonna do wichya' expression which didn't need any words.  He was 'Date Dennis' then.  'Husband Dennis'.  Not just 'Work Dennis', 'Neighbour Dennis' but someone who meant something.  Someone who'd be missed.