Lennie (The Drycleaner Delivery Man)

When I first left my children home alone, I would always tell them do not answer the door. And then I would add do not even go to the door—keep quiet so no one knows you are home.

One of the best things about living in Garden City, particularly when my children were babies, was that every business in town delivered. One could be a complete agoraphobe—there was never a need to leave the house. My diapers and formula were delivered by Chateau Pharmacy. My food was delivered by The Food Basket. My wine came from Madigans. And my dry cleaning was picked up and delivered by Bestever’s which later sold to Adelphi Cleaners.

Life was good—convenient. The bell rang and the delivery men were at my service. All of them were nice but one in particular was just a little too nice—to the point of abject irritation.

    

Lennie was a man of short stature and build. He did not know the line between casual interest and nosiness. If he were female he would have been called a yenta---or maybe better yet: a menta.

So when the bell rang with the dry cleaning I was faced with two dilemmas—shutting Lennie up and keeping Jasper (my not-so-friendly Wheaten terrier) from tearing him apart from limb to limb. At no point did Lennie ever get the hint that I did not want to chat it up with him or that my dog had channeled Cujo.

It got to the point that I would lock the door, shut the lights and duck below my kitchen countertops so I could pretend that I wasn’t home when he arrived.

This went on for several years. I was a prisoner in my own home.

But certainly not soon enough, it occurred to me that maybe I should use a different drycleaner. This was silly. Grown women should not be hiding from little Jewish delivery men who talked too much. There were other drycleaners who were more than capable of both cleaning my clothing, delivering it,  and keeping quiet. 

   

So finally Lenny was gone---along with the badgering dentist. I fired both of them on the same day.
  

And now if I leave my children home alone, despite the fact that they are old enough to answer the door they chose not to do so—they know whomever is at the door isn’t there for them. They would have gotten a phone call or text message first.

And the new drycleaner delivery man is sometimes Korean and sometimes Hispanic—it depends on the delivery cycle. But neither man speaks English very well—and it’s good.  They just nod and say thank you. And that is exactly the way I like it.