NEEDLING

I’ve never had much luck with cleaners, laundry people in general. At one point while still living in Paris, working this job I thought was going to get me places—supposedly a production company, turned out they were con artists—I ate well for almost a whole year, took the taxi a lot, went out to restaurants, flew to Poland three or four times, drank a lot of booze that I hadn’t paid for, and bought nice shirts for the first time ever. I also started to take my laundry to a laundry-mat where somebody else did the laundry for me. What a concept! I dropped off some shirts, came back the next day, and they were clean, folded, inside plastic bags, and looking like new. This experience was a pleasant one to me. I partook almost weekly until my last visit, the one that made me mistrust cleaners for a long time to come. I walked down the little alley from my work early in the morning before opening the office, one of those tiny streets between buildings so small nothing can go through them except bikes, pedestrians, mopeds, and one very small car at a time. I dropped off my shirts and picked them back up that evening. The lady was as usual very friendly, joking even, calling me by name, making chitchat, not acting as if I should be particularly worried about anything. Each shirt had its own bag. Each folded neatly ready to be put on the shelf. I took them home happy as a squirrel, got up the next day, and grabbed the shirt from the top of the pile. It took me a few days to get down to the bottom. When I got there, to my dismay as I took the shirt out of the plastic bag and unfolded it, I discovered that the right sleeve was burnt, that the holes had been hidden by the way it had been folded, that the shirt was lost and good for the trash. It had been a week, I had thrown away the receipt, there was no proof except my word, and I didn’t want to fight this one. I let it go, but never went into another cleaner again. Well, it’s not so clear, really. A few weeks later I quit that job because they hadn’t paid me in over a month. A couple of month later, I went on the dole for the following few years. Never really needed to visit a dry-cleaning business again until just recently. This morning, I stepped into the dry-cleaners just three doors down from my store. I was in a good mood, all bubbly, having spent a good weekend with my friends visiting from Berlin and so forth. I hadn’t unlocked the door to the liquor store so I was encumbered with my backpack, my wad of shirts needing cleaning, my sweatshirt, and the leash to my dog, Brutus. I set all the stuff down and tied Brutus to the post before walking in.

“Good morning, how ya’ll doing?” I bubbled out all happy, “I’ve got some shirts needing cleaning.”
“What’s your name?”
“Needles.”
“First name.”
“Francois … I’ve never been in here before, this is my first time.” I was still all happy.
“That’s all right. Is that your dog?”
“Yes, it is!”

The lady behind the counter was an older lady, overweight, and short. She didn’t smile. She didn’t take me down at first, because I was so elated. I was being overly friendly, overjoyed, though I didn’t mention why … it took me over a week of pondering to make the decision. I was all smiles, proud of myself. For the last couple of months now, I’ve been buying some nice shirts, having fun wearing them … next week, I’m going back to Paris for my six day paid vacation, and I want to look good, so I decided to visit a dry-cleaners. Out of convenience, I picked the closest one, the one three doors down from my place of employment. Nothing could go wrong.

“You take him to work with you?” Her tone was dry and not friendly, but I ignored it.
“Sure do … everyday … he’s such a good boy.”
“Where do you keep him? In the back room?”
“No, he stays up front with me behind the counter.”
“You keep him up front!”
“Sure, he doesn’t say a thing. He just hangs out. Everybody loves him that comes into the store.”
“That’s against the law,” she said nastily. I start taking note of her tone of voice. My shirts are in her bag now, and she’s printed out the receipt.
“What?”
“I’m going to have to call the Board of Health and tell them about it.”
“What!!!” This is like a brick falling on my face.
“It’s absolutely illegal to take a dog to work.”
“What are you talking about? There’s nothing illegal about it. I’m not doing anything wrong. My manager’s okay with it, so is my boss … I’m not trying to hide anything from anybody.”
“You can’t take a dog into a grocery store, can you? No you can’t. The other day, some man took his dog to the coffee shop, and he sat them on the chair with him. The attendants at the coffee shop asked him to leave, and he refused, so they called the pound to come take his dogs away.”
“What are you talking about? You’re going to call the cops on me? You gonna call the board of health on me?” I was starting to raise my voice. I was getting upset.
“No … no, I mean …” she was backing off a little bit, “I would call them just to ask them, to be sure,.”
“You going to call the BOARD OF HEALTH ON ME, I’m not doing anything wrong! I don’t sell food, I don’t prepare anything ...”
“I don’t want to argue with you, sir.”
“So what are you saying?”
“You can’t take your dog to work. If I knew of a place that let dogs in, I would never do business with them.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“No.”
“Give me my shirts back.” I said, my voice shaking.
“There’s no need to get upset.”
“You’re going to call the cops on me, and … forget it, just give me my shirts back. Come one, I want my shirts back, please.”
“Hold on, I got to get them out of the bag.”
“Give me my shirts back, please.”
“Okay, okay.”

I took my shirts and walked out of there. After work, I dropped the shirts at another dry-cleaner down the street. It was a younger woman behind the counter. She was very nice. I started taking my credit card out to pay.

“Don’t worry, you can pay whenever you pick them up tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
“You have a great day, sir.”
“You too.”

I know where I’ll be going from now on.