Park Tower Cleaners

As a child, I remember endless trips to the dry cleaners. We’d pile into the car, a load of soiled laundry in the trunk. From the back seat, I’d watch the city rolled by while my younger brother tried to attract my attention. Sometimes he’d succeed, and my mom would threaten us with death-​stares reflected in the rear view mirror.
Sooner or later, we would arrive, and mom would struggle to carry the load of clothing while keeping close watch on us.
I still think of dry cleaners as unpleasant places; hot and sweaty and smelling of industrial clean (which ranks down there with hospital clean). There’s a counter not to hang from, and chairs not to sit in, and «johnny spaceman» plastic sheeting that will suffocate and wire hangers perfect for putting out an eye or digging into a hand. For little kids, such places are the stuff of boredom and nightmares.
The dry cleaner is a place of diminishing returns. Clothing gets clean but is never as nice as it was pre-​chemical assault. Pants get shiny and shirt-​buttons get crushed. Ties are just better given to Goodwill.
As a child, the dry cleaner was thus a little defeat. It was also something that grownups did, thus very very cool.
Today, I’m a professional who works in an office with a dress code. I don’t mind laundry, but hate ironing like a politician hates built-​in camera phones. Park Tower is close-​by, and relatively affordable. It is run by two charming ladies who speak little English, but are friendly and remember you even when you forget your claim ticket.
When I first started using their services, I was most impressed. Shirts came back clean and on-​time. Occasional bigger jobs (sweaters, dress pants, and the like) came back nicely finished. The apex of our relationship involved a rush hem-​job on a set of pants before an ill-​fated vacation.
Since then, the bloom is off the rose. Further tailoring jobs left me with pants that were just too short, and over time my shirts grew dull and dingy.
I’ve taken laundry duty back in-​house, and invested in a cleaning lady who irons. My shirts look better and I think I’m ahead a few bucks.
I still drop off the occasional item, especially when I need something back to point of purchase for alterations. The ladies at the counter remember me, and write «Mr. Jonathan» on the ticket. I smile, feeling all grown up.