Never Press the Lapels

Hanging wrong all winter had creased his summer sports coat so badly that one lapel flopped over all the way down to the middle button and looked like hell. He slipped into another coat, lifted the disabled garment onto his shoulder and started for the new cleaners/laundromat place on the corner. Distance alone differentiated one of these places from another--none was worth a damn--so he used the closest one. The new place was hot and steamy inside, machines slushing and spinning along the walls; it was like any other. The girl came over.

"I'd like to have this cleaned," he said, holding up the coat. She bent down, hunching over the order pad, before he could get the rest out.

"Name?"

"Larson."

"Address?"

"Three-forty-three East Blake."

She wrote it out, tore off the tickets, stuck one on the spindle and reached for the coat.

"See how this lapel is," he said, taking it in his hand as if it were a broken wing. "It folds all the way down to the middle button." She looked on. "It's supposed to come straight, like this." He held the collar and the lapel straight. "And roll, not fold, above the top button. See what I mean?" She nodded. "If they don't understand, it'll come back just like it is."

"I'll tell them."

"Yeah, all they have to do is press out the wrong crease, then shape the collar. But, whatever they do, don't let them press the lapels."

"I'll tell them. That's all I can do." She took the coat and he went out. If she understood him, she deserved first prize for hiding it. She was either very bright or very dumb. (continued on page 162)Never Press The Lapels(continued from page 107) She hadn't even asked how to spell his name. He looked at the ticket. The name was written "Las," then a straight line. The address was 343 East State. She was sharp, all right--like a bowling ball. All he could do was wait.

When he went back three days later, the bowling-ball girl was there alone. He gave her his ticket and 80 cents. She brought out the coat and laid it across the counter and, right through the plastic bag, he could see it was wrong. While she rang up the bill, he removed the plastic and found that, although the coat was cleaned and pressed, the lapel was still loose and flopping.

"This isn't right. They'll have to take it back," he said.

She looked at him blankly.

"The coat isn't right," he said, lifting it.

"What is it you want?"

"See this lapel?" She seemed to be looking through the lapel--through the coat, through him. "It begins to roll right above the middle button. It's supposed to roll up here above the top button. Now, the way you get it to do that is to press all this front flat, to take out the wrong crease." He put his hand on the front and held it flat. "Then press this part of the collar around the neck, like this." He pinched the collar and the lapel rolled up, nice and easy, above the top button. "But you don't press the lapels. Only the collar. Don't let them take it back and press the lapels flat."

"I'll tell them," she said; she scrawled something on the ticket and pinned it to the coat. "Wednesday," she said, tossing the coat onto the pile. He left, feeling empty. What was on the ticket? That would be something to see. He should have made her show him.

Wednesday, a fat, dumpy woman was behind the counter. Bowling Ball was in the back, bundling up laundry.

"Hello." the fat one said, as if he were a special person in her life.

"Hello." He gave her the ticket. She got the coat and laid it on the counter.

"All paid for," she said. Through the bag, he could see the lapels pressed nice and flat above the top button. Steamrollered. He took it out of the bag.

"This isn't right. They pressed the lapels."

"Didn't you want them to stay up?"

"Sure, but you don't get them to stay up by pressing them down. They're supposed to roll." It looked like a little boy's jacket in a cheap department store. It couldn't be worn.

"That's the way you make them stay up, sir."

"No, it's not. Not if you do it right. Look at this coat I've got on. See how these are?" He displayed the lapels. "You press the collar--not the lapels."

"That's different material."

"No, it's not. And even if it were, that one could be done just like this."

"That's the best we can do."

"Then I want a refund."

Her head snapped, as if a shot had been fired. "I can't," she said, turning her fat body straight at him and narrowing her eyes.

"Then I want to see someone who can--the manager."

"I'm the owner."

"Oh. What do I have to do--go to the Better Business Bureau?"

"Whatever you like. That's all we can do."

"You can refund my money. I've got to pay again to have it done right."

"It is right."

"It is not. You don't press lapels, I tell you."

"We sent it back once. That's all we can do."

"So I'm out eighty cents and have to pay again. Is that fair?" She didn't answer. "That's not fair. I wouldn't do this to you."

"We did our best."

"That's not very good." He took up the coat and walked out. She had his 80 cents and he'd never see it again. But it wasn't the money. He could throw 80 cents in the street and never know it was gone. It was having to spend his time and energy getting the coat fixed, while she sat in there, without a second thought, positive he was wrong--nothing but a stupid, fussy customer.

Two days passed and it was time for the laundry. He hoisted the bag onto his shoulder and started down the stairs. He could load it into his car and drive three extra blocks to another place and get even. Would she know? Would she suffer as he passed by? Grieve as he drove all the way back? Turn her books inside out each week, searching for his three dollars? No. He wasn't going out of his way for her.

"You came back," said the bowling ball when he went in.

"Yeah, but not for coats anymore." She smiled. The smile of an infant. She didn't understand any of it. He wanted to grab her and pound it into her head. Nobody could pound that hard.

The next evening, he went in to pick up his laundry. Fatty was there.

"Hello," she said musically.

"Hello," he said, holding out the ticket. She took it and went to get the bundle.

"Are you in a better mood today?" she said, dropping the bundle onto the counter.

"Better than what?" He gave her two dollars.

"Well, last time--the jacket."

"That had nothing to do with my mood. I feel the same. You want to start that again?"

"Oh, no. One customer says, 'Please, don't talk to me today. I'm in such a bad mood.' He-he." She got a kick out of it.

"That's nice. But I was in a good mood. The jacket was wrong. You don't press lapels."

"Yes, well, the material." She opened the register.

"That's got nothing to do with it. You don't press lapels--ever."

"Yes, well, we just send them out to the plant."

"Right. I understand. They have their problems, but anybody that knows how can do it. Just get the front flat, then shape the collar. Anyway...." He waved it. away.

"Yes, and the material." She gave him his change.

"Sure."

"Anyway, we're friends now," she said as he went out.

Damn her--and the material. The goddamn material. She wouldn't quit on that. He was getting tired of it. She had his 80 cents. He had flattened lapels. He ought to take it right into court. Sue for 80 cents, court costs and an admission that the lapels were wrong. Some case.

Two days later, he had a suit to be cleaned. What was he supposed to do now--take the pants one place and the coat another? The lapels on the coat were all right. They wouldn't press them if he didn't say anything. He decided to take it in. But he was weary of the nonsense. It had better stop.

One customer was ahead of him and a woman was sitting on the bench next to the counter. Fatty took care of the customer and turned to him.

"Good morning, Mr. Larson," she said.

"Good morning." He gave her the suit.

"How are you this morning?"

"Fine. And you?"

"Very fine. Very fine." She wrote out the ticket.

"Mr. Larson and I fight, Martha, but he's one of my best customers," she said.

"Not quite," he said.

"Oh, my, I'd better shut up." She laughed. She and Martha looked at him, glowing, empty-headed, as if he were their little grandson, and wasn't he cute? He felt tiny and stupid. As he went out, he heard something about "very sensitive." He cursed.

Not long after, he took another suit in and left it with Bowling Ball to be cleaned on special and ready the next day. The next day, Fatty told him it wasn't ready, and if he wanted it early, he should have put it on special. It was on special, he told her. No. she said, the specials came in that morning. It was, he told her. She said that she was sorry and showed him the ticket--it wasn't. It was. It wasn't. It was. She showed him the ticket again. If it were on special, she explained, the girl would have written that on the ticket. That was how it was done. He considered hammering her face with his fists. She spoke of being friends and promised to put a tracer on it tomorrow. And she didn't blame him. She'd be upset, too, if her cleaning weren't ready. He asked where she had hers done and walked out. He'd had enough.

The 'mat closed at nine P.M. For the next three nights, he managed to be strolling the area when they locked up and started home--between 9:05 and 9:10. Fatty always walked the same way, alone, through the alley. It was a perfect spot--two good-sized buildings shooting up on each side, with the thin little alley slicing through at the bottom. Light from the street angled across the mouth of it; beyond was black.

The next night he stayed in, figuring a general plan but not rehearsing. Run into her as she was leaving. His mood would carry it off. At five to nine, he got a paper clip, bent it open and dug it into his neck. Perfect. All she would feel was a sharpness. He went out and down to the corner across from the laundromat. The front lights were out already. He stood looking in the drugstore window, keeping one eye on their side door. The door opened and a sliver of light came out. He started walking. But then nothing more happened and he had to slow down. Come on. His heart was jumping in his neck. The door opened and they stepped out, said good night and went off in opposite directions. Bowling Ball walked right past him. She wouldn't have noticed him if he'd been naked. He followed Fatty.

"Oh, hello there, Mr. Larson."

"Hi," he said, big smile.

"Going my way?"

"Seems like it." They walked along. "You walk home?" he said.

"Yes. It's just a couple of blocks."

"Not afraid of the streets at night?" he said, taking the clip out of his pocket.

"Oh, my, no." They were almost to the alley.

"City's pretty tough." He got set.

"Well, the good Lord will protect. And when he wants me, he'll take me," she said.

"Maybe you're right," he said and gave her a good body block into the alley. "Oh, gee, I'm sorry," he said, going in after her. He reached out as if to help, then swung around, clamped his hand over her mouth and poked the clip into her neck. "One word and I'll slit your goddamn throat. Understand?" She was still.

"Understand?" He yanked her mouth.

"Mmmmmmm," she said and started puffing through her nose.

"OK, let's go. Side-step--one, two. That's it." He moved her farther into the alley. "I'm going to take my hand off your mouth. Say one word and I'll slice your head off and roll it out into the street." He poked her with the clip, loosened his grip and grabbed her under the chin. "Not a word." She was quiet.

"What kind of a mood do you think I'm in tonight, lady?"

"Bad one."

"Very good. Very good."

Her eyes started shifting around.

"Don't go looking around. Keep quiet and you'll be all right. I just want to have a little chat." She looked straight ahead.

"First off, I'm not your goddamn friend and I never will be. When I come into that place, I don't want to hear any more of that crap. None of it. The only thing you have to say to me is what you have to say to me. Understand?"

"Yes," she said quickly.

"And that doesn't include hello or goodbye. Take what I've got for you and keep quiet. Except for one thing, I'll tell you in a second." He took a deep breath and blew it out slow and easy.

"I want you to tell me about lapels." She was silent. "Tell me, how do you do lapels?"

"I don't know.

"Do you press them?"

"No."

"Then say it."

"You don't press them."

"OK. Now say 'Never press the lapels.' "

"Never press the lapels." Her eyes started shifting.

"Cut out looking around, goddamn it." He poked her with the clip. "Say it twice."

"Never press the lapels. Never press the lapels."

"Keep saying it until I tell you to stop."

"Never press the lapels. Never press the lapels. Never press the lapels. Never press the lapels. Never press the lapels. Never press the lapels. Never press the lapels. Never press the lapels. Never press the lapels. Never press the lapels----"

"Stop. Every time I come into that joint, every single time, you say that to me before I leave, or we'll meet again--not just to talk. Got it?"

"Yes."

"OK. I'm letting you go. Let's hear it once more."

"Never press the lapels."

"Good. Don't make any fuss. It won't do any good. Yon can't prove a thing. Play it smart and go home." They stood for a second. "Go," he said, pushing her off. She went to the sidewalk, turned and headed for home. He ran between two buildings, ducked into a coffeeshop on the main street and took a seat at the counter. That was that. He felt high and loose. Ten minutes for the whole thing. He let his arms hang, took a deep breath and let it out, deflating like a balloon. Then he went weak. His chest tingled and his leg started jumping and he couldn't stop it. He drank half a Coke and went home.

The next day, he took the coat with the pressed lapels--not that he expected it corrected, but recleaning might soften the creases--slung it over his shoulder and went to the cleaners. Bowling Hall was sitting on one side, having a Coke. He tossed the ticket for his suit onto the counter. Fatty was there and she came right over. She took the ticket and went back and looked on one of the racks. She looked at the ticket, went to another rack and thumbed through it. She removed a hanger that held a yellow bedspread-looking thing, compared tickets and put it back. A bedspread. Jesus. Mechanically, she moved on, her dull, flat face looking from the ticket to the rack, from the ticket to the rack. Then she summoned help; she waved and called to Bowling Ball, Bowling Ball, staring, sipped from her bottle of Coke, the wall that blocked her intelligence standing blankly a few inches in front of her nose.

"Hey, she wants you," he said to her. "In the back." Bowling Ball turned a dull gaze to him, apparently without any recognition. "No, thank you," she said. Finally, Fatty herself came, tapped the girl on her shoulder and curled a finger in front of her face. Bowling Ball got the idea at this point, parked the Coke under her chair and followed. Then, for a long time, they mumbled together in the depths of the shop.

It was Fatty who finally brought it out. She laid the suit on the counter and waited. He expected to see something in her face--maybe an expression of wariness, or curiosity, at least--but there was nothing. She didn't even look at the coat to see how it had come out. He lowered his eyes slowly. The lapels, by God, had not been touched by the presser. They had a neat roll to them. They were perfect. He handed her two dollars quickly and she rang it up on the register.

Then he noticed that the trousers had a heavy double crease in them. A red mist came in front of his eyes; the muscles knotted in his throat--but, in a few moments, he managed to control himself. He did not kill her.

"Never press the lapels," Fatty said in a mechanical voice and dropped three quarters into his hand. She reached for the coat he had brought in with him, but it swirled of! the counter just under her hand, slid through the door and went off down the street, where, three blocks away, it presented its flat chest before another counter.

Behind that counter, another woman--with bleached-blonde hair--was saying in a dull voice, "Huh? What's wrong with pressing them?"