THE DRY CLEANER
A one-act play
by R.M. Usatinsky
CHARACTERS:
YOUNG MAN – Late 20s/early 30s. Disheveled, anxious, dressed in wrinkled clothes. In the second section, he's visibly older (late 40s/early 50s), grayer, heavier, wearing reading glasses.
SHOPKEEPER – 60s-70s. A religious Jew. Warm but bounded by his obligations. Tired but kind.
THE SON – Late 30s/early 40s. Well-dressed, searching.
SETTING:
A dry cleaning shop in Chicago. A counter separates the customer area from the work area behind. Racks of plastic-wrapped clothing. A clock on the wall. A sewing machine visible in the back. Display shirts hang in the window. The space feels like it hasn't changed in decades.
TIME:
The present. Then, years later.
Lights up. YOUNG MAN bursts through the door, slightly out of breath, clutching a wrinkled suit in a dry cleaning bag.
YOUNG MAN: Thank God you're open.
SHOPKEEPER: (looking up from paperwork) I'm not sure God approves of my working so late on erev Shabbos, but all the same, how can I help you young man?
YOUNG MAN: I need this cleaned. (holds up the suit) I have an interview—a job interview—at four o'clock. Dream job. I mean, not a dream job, but—it's important. I need this cleaned.
SHOPKEEPER: Four o'clock? What day?
YOUNG MAN: Today! Your ad said one-hour Martinizing.
SHOPKEEPER: (gentle smile) Ah. Where did you see that?
YOUNG MAN: In the phone book. Yellow pages. My mother's apartment—I'm staying there temporarily—I found it under the sink.
SHOPKEEPER: That must be a very old phone book.
YOUNG MAN: Old? I don't know. Does it matter?
SHOPKEEPER: It matters because we haven't used that slogan in... (thinks) fifteen years? Twenty maybe? One-Hour Martinizing. That was the process—a specific chemical process, very effective. But it has to be done at the plant.
YOUNG MAN: So you can't do it here?
SHOPKEEPER: This shop is what we call a depot. You leave your clothes, we send them to the plant, they come back cleaned. Usually two, three days.
YOUNG MAN: Two or three days?
SHOPKEEPER: Sometimes next day if you pay extra. But today is Friday. The plant closes early. Everyone goes home for Shabbos. Believe you me, if it was Thursday I'd love to upsell to the one-day price, but it's Friday and you need your suit today. And that's a problem.
YOUNG MAN: (beat, processing) But the ad said one hour!
SHOPKEEPER: The ad was true, it took an hour from start to finish. Once upon a time. You were in knee pants, no doubt. When we had the equipment here, when my father ran this place. But things change. Costs go up, regulations change, the machines break down. Now it's easier to send everything out.
YOUNG MAN: (looking at the clock) Look, I have three hours.
SHOPKEEPER: I understand.
YOUNG MAN: Do you? Because I moved back to Chicago three weeks ago after my girlfriend—after I lost my job. This interview is the first real chance I've had to—(stops himself) I can't show up looking like this.
SHOPKEEPER: (sighs, comes around the counter, examines the suit) Let me look. (holds it up to the light, makes a face) Oy. When was the last time this saw a pressing?
YOUNG MAN: I don't know. A year? Two?
SHOPKEEPER: Two years. In a bag under a sink with the Yellow Pages at your mother’s place, I'm guessing?
YOUNG MAN: My mother's hall closet.
SHOPKEEPER: Even worse. (sniffs) Smells like... what is that, mothballs? No, something else. Regret, maybe.
YOUNG MAN: Can you clean it or not?
SHOPKEEPER: Can I? Sure. With a plant, with equipment, with time—I'm a miracle worker. Will I have it ready by four o'clock today? (shakes his head) I'm good, but I'm not the Chief Rabbi of Minsk or Pinsk.
YOUNG MAN: There has to be something you can do.
SHOPKEEPER: (thinks, taps his chin) Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Maybe... (goes to a rack in the back, starts flipping through plastic-wrapped garments) I might have something.
YOUNG MAN: (hopeful) You can clean it fast?
SHOPKEEPER: No, no. Better. A loaner.
YOUNG MAN: A loaner?
SHOPKEEPER: People leave things, they never come back. After ten years—by law, you understand—it becomes mine. I have a whole section. (pulls out a suit jacket, holds it up) Look at this. Beautiful. Pressed, cleaned, ready to go.
YOUNG MAN: (examining it) It's... brown.
SHOPKEEPER: So? Brown is classic.
YOUNG MAN: It has shoulder pads.
SHOPKEEPER: You don't like shoulders? What are you, a starving artist? Shoulders give you authority.
YOUNG MAN: (takes the jacket, holds it against himself) It's too big.
SHOPKEEPER: So we take it in. My wife, she does alterations in the back.
YOUNG MAN: How long does that take?
SHOPKEEPER: (waves hand) An hour, maybe less. She's very fast.
YOUNG MAN: (checking watch) Okay. Okay, that could work. Where is she?
SHOPKEEPER: Home. Preparing for Shabbos.
YOUNG MAN: (stares) You just said—
SHOPKEEPER: I said she does alterations. I didn't say she was here. Friday she doesn't work. She has to cook, clean, get everything ready before sundown.
YOUNG MAN: Can you call her? Tell her it's an emergency?
SHOPKEEPER: An emergency? You think my wife is going to leave her kitchen, her challah rising, her chicken roasting, because a young man needs his jacket taken in?
YOUNG MAN: I'll pay extra.
SHOPKEEPER: (shakes his head, amused) You think this is about money? You can't buy Shabbos. It comes whether you're ready or not.
YOUNG MAN: (frustrated) Then what am I supposed to do?
SHOPKEEPER: (considers) Try it on. Maybe it's not so bad.
YOUNG MAN reluctantly puts on the brown jacket over his wrinkled shirt. It hangs loose on his shoulders, the sleeves too long. He looks at himself, defeated.
YOUNG MAN: I look ridiculous.
SHOPKEEPER: You look... (tilts head) like a man who borrowed a jacket.
YOUNG MAN: Exactly.
SHOPKEEPER: But at least it's clean. And pressed. (gestures) Turn around, let me see.
YOUNG MAN turns. The SHOPKEEPER studies him, then suddenly points.
SHOPKEEPER: Wait. What's that?
YOUNG MAN: What's what?
SHOPKEEPER: Your shirt. You're missing a button.
YOUNG MAN: (looks down, realizes) Oh. Yeah. I thought the jacket would cover it.
SHOPKEEPER: Your old jacket—the double-breasted—sure, it covers. But this? (gestures to the brown jacket) This is single-button. It falls open. Everyone will see.
YOUNG MAN: (increasingly desperate) Can you sew a button on?
SHOPKEEPER: Me? I'm a dry cleaner, not a tailor.
YOUNG MAN: But you said your wife—
SHOPKEEPER: —is home. Making Shabbos.
YOUNG MAN: Right. Of course.
SHOPKEEPER: (snaps fingers) But wait! Shirts. We sell shirts.
YOUNG MAN: (looks up, hopeful) You do?
SHOPKEEPER: Of course! (gestures to the window display) Right there. Beautiful white dress shirts. Look at them—crisp, professional, exactly what you need.
YOUNG MAN: (moves to the window, examines the shirts) These are perfect. I'll take one.
SHOPKEEPER: Wonderful! What size?
YOUNG MAN: Fifteen and a half, thirty-three.
SHOPKEEPER: (writes it down) Fifteen and a half, thirty-three. We'll have it ready in three weeks.
YOUNG MAN: (freezes) Three weeks?
SHOPKEEPER: Maybe two if we rush it. These are bespoke shirts. Made to order. You see what's in the window? Those are just the fronts—display models. No backs, no sleeves. Like a movie set. Looks beautiful, but you can't wear it.
YOUNG MAN: You're telling me those shirts in the window aren't real shirts?
SHOPKEEPER: They're real—they're just not finished. We take your measurements, send them to our shirtmaker, he cuts the fabric, hand-stitches everything. It's an art form. You can't rush art.
YOUNG MAN: I don't need art. I need a shirt. A regular shirt. From a store.
SHOPKEEPER: Then go to a store! There's a Men's Wearhouse on—where is it—Milwaukee Avenue? Twenty minutes, maybe.
YOUNG MAN: (checks watch, panicking) I don't have twenty minutes. I barely have two hours.
SHOPKEEPER: So you have time! Go, buy a shirt, come back, I'll steam the jacket for you while you're gone.
YOUNG MAN: And then what? The jacket still doesn't fit.
SHOPKEEPER: So it doesn't fit perfectly. You think the people interviewing you are fashion critics? They want to know if you can do the job, not if your jacket is tailored.
YOUNG MAN: You don't understand—
SHOPKEEPER: (gently) I understand more than you think.
YOUNG MAN: (voice cracking slightly) Everything has to be perfect. Everything. Because if it's not—if I show up and I look like I just crawled out of my mother's closet, which I literally did—they'll see it. They'll see that I'm... (struggles) that I'm not who I used to be.
SHOPKEEPER: And who were you?
YOUNG MAN: Someone who had his life together. Someone who didn't lose his job and his girlfriend in the same week because he was too stupid to see what was right in front of him.
SHOPKEEPER: (softly) So you think a clean suit fixes that?
YOUNG MAN: I think it's a start.
SHOPKEEPER: (nods slowly) A start. Okay. I can respect that.
Pause. The SHOPKEEPER looks at the clock, then at the YOUNG MAN, then sighs deeply.
SHOPKEEPER: Alright. Sit down.
YOUNG MAN: What?
SHOPKEEPER: Sit. (points to a chair) I'm going to tell you something, and you're going to listen, because I have to leave here in forty-five minutes and I don't have time for arguments.
YOUNG MAN: I don't need advice, I need—
SHOPKEEPER: A suit. I know. But first, sit.
The YOUNG MAN reluctantly sits. The SHOPKEEPER leans against the counter.
SHOPKEEPER: My father opened this shop in 1952. He came here from Poland with nothing—less than nothing. He didn't speak English, he didn't know anyone, but he knew how to press a shirt. So he worked. Sixteen hours a day, six days a week. And slowly, he built something. This shop. A name. A life.
YOUNG MAN: That's great, but—
SHOPKEEPER: I'm not finished. When I was your age, maybe younger, I told him I didn't want the shop. I wanted to be a doctor. Can you imagine? A Jewish father's dream, right? But he said no.
YOUNG MAN: He said no?
SHOPKEEPER: He said, "You want to be a doctor, be a doctor. But don't do it because you think it's better than this. This shop fed you. This shop kept a roof over your head. You think that's nothing?"
YOUNG MAN: So you stayed.
SHOPKEEPER: (shakes his head) No. I left anyway. I went to school, studied pre-med, got accepted to Northwestern. And then, three months before I was supposed to start, my father had a heart attack. Oh, he survived—barely. But he couldn't work anymore. Couldn't stand for long hours, couldn't lift the heavy equipment. So I came back. Just for a little while, I told myself. Just until he got better.
YOUNG MAN: But he didn't get better.
SHOPKEEPER: Oh, he got better. Took about a year, and then he was fine. Strong as ever. But by then... (shrugs) I was already here. The shop needed me. He needed me. And I told myself it was temporary, that I'd go back to school eventually.
YOUNG MAN: And did you?
SHOPKEEPER: (small smile) What do you think? Here I am, forty years later, still pressing shirts. Still explaining to people that one-hour Martinizing is a thing of the past.
YOUNG MAN: (quietly) Do you regret it?
SHOPKEEPER: (long pause) Every single day. (beat) And also, not at all.
YOUNG MAN: That doesn't make sense.
SHOPKEEPER: No, it doesn't. But that's life. You make a choice, and then you live with it, and some days you think you made the right choice and some days you're sure you made the wrong one. But either way, you're still here. Still living.
YOUNG MAN: I just want to get the job.
SHOPKEEPER: I know. And maybe you will. Maybe you'll walk in there in your borrowed jacket and your shirt with the missing button, and they'll see past all that and hire you anyway. Or maybe they won't. But either way, your life doesn't end at four o'clock today.
YOUNG MAN: It feels like it might.
SHOPKEEPER: (kindly) That's because you're young.
Another pause. The SHOPKEEPER checks his watch.
SHOPKEEPER: Listen. I have an idea. It's meshugeneh, completely crazy, but maybe it works.
YOUNG MAN: What?
SHOPKEEPER: You stay here. Help me close up the shop. It takes maybe thirty minutes—we bring in the racks, lock the register, turn off the lights. Then you come with me.
YOUNG MAN: Come with you where?
SHOPKEEPER: To my house. For Shabbos dinner.
YOUNG MAN: What?
SHOPKEEPER: My wife, she's making enough food for an army. We have no guests tonight—our son... (waves hand) he doesn't come anymore. So it's just us. You'll come, you'll eat something—you look like you haven't had a decent meal in weeks. You'll sit, you'll relax.
YOUNG MAN: And then what? How does that help me?
SHOPKEEPER: Maybe it doesn't. Maybe you just eat a good meal and remember what it feels like to sit at a table with people who aren't trying to get something from you.
YOUNG MAN: I don't understand why you're—
SHOPKEEPER: (interrupting gently) You're one of us. I can tell. I know a Jew when I see one.
YOUNG MAN: (caught off guard) I... yeah. I mean, I had my bar mitzvah at Temple Sholom. Went to Camp Ramah for three summers—suffered through three summers of pizza with green pepper pieces too small to pick off.
SHOPKEEPER: (laughs) Ramah! You see? I knew it. What year?
YOUNG MAN: '09, '10, '11.
SHOPKEEPER: My son went in the nineties. Hated every minute. Came home early the second summer, said the counselors were meshuga.
YOUNG MAN: They were.
SHOPKEEPER: (smiles, then more serious) So. You're Jewish. When's the last time you had Shabbos?
YOUNG MAN: (uncomfortable) I don't know. Years. My family wasn't really—we were Reform. We did High Holidays, sometimes.
SHOPKEEPER: Reform, Orthodox, Conservative—it doesn't matter. Shabbos is Shabbos. You come, you eat, you rest. That's all I'm offering.
YOUNG MAN: But my interview—
SHOPKEEPER: Is at four o'clock. It's one-thirty now. (gestures to the window) Men's Wearhouse is twenty minutes away. You go, you buy a shirt, you come back here, you change, you still have time. Plenty of time.
YOUNG MAN: And the jacket?
SHOPKEEPER: Wear the jacket. Don't wear the jacket. I'm telling you, it doesn't matter as much as you think it does.
YOUNG MAN: It matters to me.
SHOPKEEPER: I know. (softly) But maybe what matters more is that you stop running for a minute and figure out what you're running toward.
YOUNG MAN: I'm not running. I'm trying to—
SHOPKEEPER: Get your life back. I heard you. But let me ask you—the life you had before, with the girlfriend who cheated, with the boss who... what happened with the boss?
YOUNG MAN: (bitter) They were sleeping together. I found out, confronted them both, and he fired me the next day. Said I was "creating a hostile work environment."
SHOPKEEPER: Mamzer. (beat) So that's the life you want back?
YOUNG MAN: No. I want a new life. A better one. That's why this interview matters.
SHOPKEEPER: And you think medical device sales is better?
YOUNG MAN: It's a start. It's something. (frustrated) What do you want me to say? That I should give up? Stay at my mother's apartment forever? Work at some dead-end job because I missed one interview?
SHOPKEEPER: I want you to say what you want. Not what you think you're supposed to want.
YOUNG MAN: (stands up abruptly) You know what? This is crazy. I came here for a suit, not a therapy session.
SHOPKEEPER: So go. The door's open.
The YOUNG MAN moves toward the door, stops, turns back.
YOUNG MAN: Why do you even care?
SHOPKEEPER: (quietly) Because I have a son. And when he was your age, he came to me with problems, and I gave him advice, and he didn't listen. And now he doesn't come at all.
YOUNG MAN: (softer) What happened?
SHOPKEEPER: (shrugs) The usual. He wanted one thing, I wanted another. He thought I didn't understand him, I thought he didn't appreciate what he had. We said things. Stupid things. And then one day he stopped calling, stopped visiting. That was... (calculates) eight years ago. Maybe nine.
YOUNG MAN: You haven't seen him in nine years?
SHOPKEEPER: I see him. Sometimes. On the street, from a distance. Once at the grocery store—he saw me first, went down a different aisle. (beat) My wife says I should reach out, call him, apologize. But apologize for what? For caring? For wanting him to have a good life?
YOUNG MAN: Maybe he has a good life.
SHOPKEEPER: Maybe. I wouldn't know.
Long pause. The YOUNG MAN sits back down.
YOUNG MAN: What did you fight about?
SHOPKEEPER: This shop. He didn't want it. Said it was old-fashioned, a dying business, that nobody uses dry cleaners anymore. He wanted to sell it, take the money, start something new. Some tech thing, apps, I don't even understand. And I said no.
YOUNG MAN: Why?
SHOPKEEPER: Because this shop is all I have. My father built it, I kept it going, and someday—I always thought—someday my son would... (trails off) But he doesn't want it. And I can't make him want it.
YOUNG MAN: So what are you going to do?
SHOPKEEPER: (looks around the shop) I don't know. I'm seventy-two years old. My back hurts, my eyes are going, and every year there are fewer customers. But I keep coming in because... because what else would I do? Sit at home? Wait to die?
YOUNG MAN: That's depressing.
SHOPKEEPER: (laughs) You're telling me.
The clock ticks. The SHOPKEEPER checks his watch again.
SHOPKEEPER: Two o'clock. You should go. Get your shirt.
YOUNG MAN: Yeah. (doesn't move)
SHOPKEEPER: Or stay. Help me close up. Miss your interview.
YOUNG MAN: Why would I do that?
SHOPKEEPER: I don't know. Maybe because running to the next thing isn't always the answer. Maybe because sometimes you need to stop and... and just be somewhere. With someone.
YOUNG MAN: (shakes his head) I can't. I have to go.
SHOPKEEPER: So go.
YOUNG MAN: (still doesn't move) It's just... I've been preparing for this interview for two weeks. I researched the company, practiced my answers, memorized their mission statement. And now I'm sitting here in a dry cleaner talking about your son.
SHOPKEEPER: Life is funny that way.
YOUNG MAN: It's not funny. It's frustrating.
SHOPKEEPER: Also true.
The YOUNG MAN stands, takes off the brown jacket, hands it back to the SHOPKEEPER.
YOUNG MAN: Thank you. For trying to help.
SHOPKEEPER: You're not taking the jacket?
YOUNG MAN: I'll figure something out.
SHOPKEEPER: With the missing button?
YOUNG MAN: I'll keep my jacket closed. Or I'll... I don't know. I'll figure it out.
He starts toward the door again, stops.
YOUNG MAN: Can I ask you something?
SHOPKEEPER: Of course.
YOUNG MAN: If you could go back—to when you gave up medical school, to when your father had his heart attack—would you make the same choice?
SHOPKEEPER: (thinks for a long moment) I don't know. Some days I think yes, some days no. But it doesn't matter, does it? I can't go back. None of us can. We can only go forward.
YOUNG MAN: That's not very comforting.
SHOPKEEPER: No. But it's true.
The YOUNG MAN nods, opens the door. Light floods in from outside.
YOUNG MAN: I hope your son comes back.
SHOPKEEPER: (softly) Me too.
The YOUNG MAN hesitates in the doorway.
YOUNG MAN: What if... what if I stayed? Just for an hour. Helped you close up. And then went to the interview after.
SHOPKEEPER: You'd be late.
YOUNG MAN: I'd call. Reschedule. Say there was an emergency.
SHOPKEEPER: And Shabbos dinner?
YOUNG MAN: (small smile) I don't know about that. But... I could help you close. If you want.
They continue working. Time passes. The shop grows quieter, more intimate. The YOUNG MAN's phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, looks at the screen.
YOUNG MAN: It's them. The company.
SHOPKEEPER: Answer it.
The YOUNG MAN answers, turns slightly away.
YOUNG MAN: Hello? Yes, this is David. (pause) Yes, I was planning to... (longer pause) Oh. I see. (pause) No, I understand. (pause) Yes, of course. Keep me on file. Thank you. (pause) Yes. Thank you.
He hangs up. Stands there holding the phone.
SHOPKEEPER: Nu?
YOUNG MAN: They filled the position. Someone internal applied at the last minute. They said they'll keep my résumé on file in case something else opens up.
SHOPKEEPER: I'm sorry.
YOUNG MAN: (laughs bitterly) "Keep my résumé on file." That's what they always say, right? It means nothing.
SHOPKEEPER: Maybe. Maybe not.
YOUNG MAN: No, it means nothing. (looks around the shop) All of this—the suit, the panic, the missing button—none of it mattered. They were never going to hire me anyway.
SHOPKEEPER: You don't know that.
YOUNG MAN: Yes I do. (sits down heavily on the chair) This is my life now. Moving back in with my mother. Scrambling for jobs that don't exist. Trying to clean suits I can't afford to clean.
SHOPKEEPER: David—
YOUNG MAN: I'm sorry. I know you're trying to help. I just... (runs hands through his hair) I thought if I could just get this one thing right, if I could just show up looking professional and competent, then maybe everything would fall into place. But it doesn't work that way, does it?
SHOPKEEPER: No. It doesn't.
YOUNG MAN: So what do I do?
SHOPKEEPER: (sits down across from him) You keep going. What else can you do?
YOUNG MAN: That's not very helpful.
SHOPKEEPER: I know. But it's true.
Silence. The clock ticks.
SHOPKEEPER: How long have you been looking?
YOUNG MAN: Three weeks. Since I got back.
SHOPKEEPER: And before? What did you do?
YOUNG MAN: Sales. Software sales. I was good at it, too. Made quota every quarter, won awards, got promoted. And then... (shrugs) then I didn't.
SHOPKEEPER: Because of the girlfriend.
YOUNG MAN: Because I was stupid. Because I trusted people I shouldn't have trusted. Because I thought if I just worked hard enough, everything would be fine.
SHOPKEEPER: And now?
YOUNG MAN: Now I'm sitting in a dry cleaner on a Friday afternoon with no job, no girlfriend, and no prospects. (looks at Gil) You must think I'm pathetic.
SHOPKEEPER: I think you're young.
YOUNG MAN: That's just a nicer way of saying pathetic.
SHOPKEEPER: No. It means you still have time. Time to figure things out, time to make mistakes, time to start over.
YOUNG MAN: I don't want to start over. I want to go back.
SHOPKEEPER: To what? The girlfriend who cheated? The boss who fired you?
YOUNG MAN: To when things made sense. To when I knew what I was doing.
SHOPKEEPER: (gently) You never knew what you were doing. None of us do. We just pretend better when we're younger.
The YOUNG MAN almost smiles.
YOUNG MAN: You're full of depressing wisdom, you know that?
SHOPKEEPER: It comes with age. (checks watch) Five-twenty. I really do need to go soon.
YOUNG MAN: Yeah. Sorry. I should let you—
SHOPKEEPER: David. Can I ask you something?
YOUNG MAN: Sure.
SHOPKEEPER: What would you do if you could do anything? Not what you think you should do, not what would make the most money. What would you want to do?
YOUNG MAN: (thinks) I don't know. I used to want to be a teacher. English literature. I loved books, loved discussing them, loved the idea of... I don't know, helping people see things differently.
SHOPKEEPER: So why didn't you?
YOUNG MAN: Because teachers don't make any money. Because my father said it was a waste of my degree. Because sales was practical and teaching was... a fantasy.
SHOPKEEPER: Your father sounds like my son.
YOUNG MAN: How so?
SHOPKEEPER: Always thinking about what's practical, what makes sense on paper. Never thinking about what makes you want to get up in the morning.
YOUNG MAN: Maybe he was right. Maybe I should have listened to him.
SHOPKEEPER: And been miserable in a practical job instead of miserable without one?
YOUNG MAN: (slight laugh) When you put it that way...
SHOPKEEPER: David, let me tell you something. When my father opened this shop, people told him he was crazy. "Who needs another dry cleaner?" they said. "The neighborhood is full of them." But he didn't care. He knew how to press a shirt better than anyone, and he took pride in that. Every shirt that left this shop was perfect. Not good—perfect. And people noticed.
YOUNG MAN: That's a nice story.
SHOPKEEPER: It's not a story. It's a lesson. He didn't get rich. He didn't become famous. But every day he came here, he knew what he was doing mattered. To someone. Even if it was just making their shirt look good.
YOUNG MAN: I don't know how to press a shirt.
SHOPKEEPER: (waves hand) That's not the point. The point is—(pauses) Actually, I don't know what the point is. I'm an old man rambling in a dry cleaner. Ignore me.
YOUNG MAN: No. I get it. You're saying find something that matters. Do it well. The rest will follow.
SHOPKEEPER: Maybe. Or maybe I'm just trying to justify spending forty years in the same building doing the same thing every day.
YOUNG MAN: Do you need to justify it?
SHOPKEEPER: (looks around the shop) To myself? Sometimes. To my son? Apparently yes. To my wife? (shrugs) She stopped asking years ago.
Beat.
SHOPKEEPER: David. I'm going to say something, and I want you to think about it before you answer. Okay?
YOUNG MAN: Okay.
SHOPKEEPER: I need help. Here. In the shop.
YOUNG MAN: You need a dry cleaner?
SHOPKEEPER: I need someone who can talk to customers, keep track of orders, answer the phone, learn the business. Someone smart. Someone who can eventually—(stops himself) Someone who can help me keep this place running.
YOUNG MAN: You're offering me a job?
SHOPKEEPER: I'm offering you a chance. To learn something new. To have a reason to get up in the morning. To not sit in your mother's apartment waiting for companies to call you back.
YOUNG MAN: Doing what, exactly? Taking people's dirty clothes?
SHOPKEEPER: Running a business. Meeting people. Solving problems. It's not as simple as you think.
YOUNG MAN: I don't know anything about dry cleaning.
SHOPKEEPER: So? You didn't know anything about software sales either, I'm guessing. You learned.
YOUNG MAN: That was different.
SHOPKEEPER: Why? Because it paid better? Because it sounded more impressive at parties? Or when you filled out the dating app profile.
YOUNG MAN: I never said anything about a dating app.
SHOPKEEPER: (shrugs) You didn’t have to. The suit spoke for you.
YOUNG MAN: (defensive) What's that supposed to mean?
SHOPKEEPER: It means the suit has been in a bag for two years. Nobody keeps a good suit in a bag for two years unless they stopped needing it. And nobody stops needing a suit unless they stopped trying to impress people. Until suddenly, they need to again.
YOUNG MAN: You got all that from a wrinkled jacket?
SHOPKEEPER: I've been in this business fifty years. You learn to read clothes like a detective reads clues. The stain on a tie, the worn-out knee on pants, the jacket that's been hanging in a closet so long it smells like sadness. (gestures to the suit) Your suit? It smells like hope that gave up and then suddenly remembered itself.
YOUNG MAN: (quietly) That's... surprisingly accurate.
SHOPKEEPER: I told you. I'm observant. It's the job.
YOUNG MAN: So what else do you observe?
SHOPKEEPER: You want the list?
YOUNG MAN: Why not. I've got time.
SHOPKEEPER: (leans back, considers) You're smart but you don't trust it. You apologize too much. You came in here desperate but polite—that means good upbringing, probably Midwestern. The Camp Ramah thing confirms it. You've got a college degree—I'm guessing somewhere good but not Ivy League. Northwestern? DePaul?
YOUNG MAN: Madison.
SHOPKEEPER: Okay, so a party school. You had some fun. You bite your nails. You check your phone every thirty seconds even though nobody's calling. And you accepted a stranger's invitation to Shabbos dinner because you're lonelier than you're willing to admit.
Long pause.
YOUNG MAN: (shaken) Are you always this direct?
SHOPKEEPER: Only on Fridays. The rest of the week I'm shy.
YOUNG MAN: (almost laughs) I don't believe that.
SHOPKEEPER: Good. You shouldn't believe everything people tell you. That's probably how you ended up with the cheating girlfriend.
YOUNG MAN: (winces) Ouch.
SHOPKEEPER: Too much?
YOUNG MAN: No. You're right. I ignored a lot of signs. Told myself I was being paranoid, that I should trust her. Turns out paranoia is just pattern recognition.
SHOPKEEPER: So you'll be smarter next time.
YOUNG MAN: If there is a next time.
SHOPKEEPER: There will be. You're young, you're not bad-looking, you went to Madison. Women like Madison boys.
YOUNG MAN: (surprised laugh) How would you know?
SHOPKEEPER: My wife's cousin married one. Lasted three years. Nice guy, terrible with money.
YOUNG MAN: That's not exactly a ringing endorsement.
SHOPKEEPER: I'm just saying you have options. Even if it doesn't feel like it right now.
Beat.
YOUNG MAN: This job you're offering—
SHOPKEEPER: It's not a career. I'm not promising you the world. But it's something. A paycheck. Structure. A reason to put on pants in the morning.
YOUNG MAN: What does it pay?
SHOPKEEPER: Not enough. But enough to get your own apartment. Enough to stop living with your mother.
YOUNG MAN: How much is not enough?
SHOPKEEPER: Thirty-five thousand to start. Forty after six months if you're any good. Plus you keep whatever tips people give you, which isn't much, but it adds up.
YOUNG MAN: Thirty-five thousand. (laughs bitterly) I was making ninety in software sales.
SHOPKEEPER: And how much are you making now?
The YOUNG MAN doesn't answer.
SHOPKEEPER: That's what I thought. (stands, brushes off his pants) Look, you don't have to decide now. Think about it. Come back Monday if you want, we'll talk more. Or don't come back. Either way, the offer stands.
YOUNG MAN: Why are you doing this?
SHOPKEEPER: Doing what?
YOUNG MAN: Offering me a job. You don't know me. I walked in here fifteen minutes ago and I've done nothing but complain and feel sorry for myself.
SHOPKEEPER: (considers) You remind me of someone.
YOUNG MAN: Your son?
SHOPKEEPER: (shakes his head) Me. Forty years ago. Standing in this exact spot, telling my father I didn't want the shop, that I had bigger plans. And he looked at me and said, "Plans are nice. But sometimes what you need is just a place to stand."
YOUNG MAN: And you think this shop is that for me? A place to stand?
SHOPKEEPER: Maybe. Maybe not. But right now, you're drowning. And I'm offering you a rope. You can grab it or you can keep swimming. But the water keeps getting deeper and besides, you look tired.
YOUNG MAN: (long pause) What would I have to do? Specifically.
SHOPKEEPER: You'd open the shop at eight. Take in orders—people drop off their clothes, you write up tickets, tag everything, sort it by type. Shirts go in one bin, suits in another, delicates separate. At ten, the truck comes from the plant, you load yesterday's orders, unload today's cleaned items. Then you spend the afternoon matching tickets to clothes, calling customers when their orders are ready, handling pickup. We close at six, except Fridays when we close at two.
YOUNG MAN: That's it?
SHOPKEEPER: That's the basics. But there's more—learning to spot stains, knowing which fabrics need special treatment, dealing with customers who swear they brought in five shirts when they only brought four. It's detail work. Boring to some people. But if you pay attention, if you care about doing it right... (shrugs) it can be satisfying.
YOUNG MAN: Satisfying.
SHOPKEEPER: Don't make that face. Not everything has to be glamorous to be worthwhile.
YOUNG MAN: I know that. It's just... I studied literature. I read Proust and Joyce and Faulkner. I wrote a thesis on the unreliable narrator in postmodern fiction. And now you're telling me I'll find satisfaction in... sorting dirty laundry.
SHOPKEEPER: (amused) You think I don't read? You think because I press shirts I'm an ignoramus? I've got Sholem Aleichem upstairs, I've got Singer, I've got Roth. I read. I think. And then I come down here and I sort dirty laundry. Because that's how life works—you do the things you need to do so you can do the things you want to do.
YOUNG MAN: And your son didn't understand that?
SHOPKEEPER: My son understood it fine. He just didn't want it. He wanted more. Bigger. Better. And who can blame him? Every father wants his son to have more than he had. (sits back down) The problem is, I wanted him to have this andmore. I wanted him to take the shop, build on it, make it something new while keeping what was good. But he just saw it as a trap.
YOUNG MAN: Maybe it was.
SHOPKEEPER: Maybe. Or maybe he was just scared it would be enough. That he'd stay and discover he didn't need the bigger, better things after all. And then he'd have to admit his father was right.
YOUNG MAN: Is that what you think happened?
SHOPKEEPER: I don't know what happened. He stopped talking to me, so I stopped knowing.
Silence.
YOUNG MAN: Gil, can I ask you something?
SHOPKEEPER: You keep asking if you can ask. Just ask.
YOUNG MAN: Do you actually need help? Or are you just trying to save me?
SHOPKEEPER: (long pause) Both. I'm seventy-two years old. My hands shake when I write the tickets. Last month I mixed up two orders—gave Mrs. Goldstein Mr. Chen's shirts. She was very understanding. He was less so. (rubs his eyes)I need help. Real help. Someone with good eyes, steady hands, a brain that still works.
YOUNG MAN: And you think that's me?
SHOPKEEPER: I think you're smart enough to learn and desperate enough to try. That's a good combination.
YOUNG MAN: What happens when I'm not desperate anymore? When I find something better?
SHOPKEEPER: Then you leave. I'm not asking you to marry the shop. I'm asking you to work here. Maybe for six months, maybe for a year. Maybe longer. We'll see.
YOUNG MAN: And if I say yes? If I show up Monday morning?
SHOPKEEPER: Then I teach you. Everything my father taught me. How to read a stain, how to talk to a customer who's angry, how to remember who likes extra starch and who's allergic to certain chemicals. How to run a small business that nobody thinks matters but somehow keeps going anyway.
YOUNG MAN: (shakes his head) This is crazy.
SHOPKEEPER: Why? Because it's not impressive? Because you can't put it on Linkin?
YOUNG MAN: Linked-In.
SHOPKEEPER: Linked in, shminked in, same difference.
YOUNG MAN: Because I met you an hour ago and you're offering to... what? Adopt me?
SHOPKEEPER: (laughs) Adopt you? I'm offering you a job, not a family. Though... (more serious) though I suppose in a way, a shop like this is a kind of family. You spend enough time with someone, learning from them, working beside them... it becomes something. Not quite family, but not quite not-family either.
YOUNG MAN: You miss your son.
SHOPKEEPER: Every single day.
YOUNG MAN: And I'm supposed to fill that space?
SHOPKEEPER: No. Nobody fills that space. (looks at him) But maybe we both have spaces that could use... company. Does that make sense?
YOUNG MAN: (quietly) Yeah. It does.
The clock ticks. Five thirty-five.
SHOPKEEPER: Okay, now I really have to go. My wife is definitely going to kill me. (stands, grabs his coat) So what do you say? Monday morning, eight o'clock?
YOUNG MAN: I...
SHOPKEEPER: Don't answer now. Think about it. Sleep on it. Talk to your mother. Just... think about it.
YOUNG MAN: Okay.
SHOPKEEPER: Okay. Good. (heads for the door, stops) And David?
YOUNG MAN: Yeah?
SHOPKEEPER: Come to Shabbos. Even if you don't take the job. Come eat. Sit with people. Don't spend Friday night alone refreshing your email.
YOUNG MAN: (small smile) Is that what you think I do?
SHOPKEEPER: It's what I would do if I were you.
YOUNG MAN: Gil, before you go—what was his name? Your son.
SHOPKEEPER: (stops, turns back) Jacob. We called him Jake.
YOUNG MAN: What did he do? After he left?
SHOPKEEPER: (sits back down, clearly wanting to tell it) He went to California. Silicon Valley. Worked for a startup—something with apps, social media, I could never understand it. He'd call sometimes in the beginning, very excited, telling me about funding rounds and venture capital. I'd say, "That's wonderful, Jake," and I'd mean it, but I didn't understand half of what he was saying.
YOUNG MAN: Did the startup succeed?
SHOPKEEPER: For a while. Then it didn't. Then he started another one. Then that one didn't either. Last I heard—and this is from my wife's sister who has a friend in San Francisco—he's working for someone else now. Some big company. Making good money, apparently.
YOUNG MAN: So he's okay.
SHOPKEEPER: Financially? I suppose. But okay? (shakes his head) I don't know. How can I know? I don't talk to him.
YOUNG MAN: Have you tried? Recently?
SHOPKEEPER: I call every Rosh Hashanah. I leave a message. "Jake, it's your father. I hope you're well. Call me back." He doesn't call back.
YOUNG MAN: Maybe he's angry.
SHOPKEEPER: Maybe. Or maybe he's moved on. Maybe he has a life where I don't fit anymore. A life with people who understand what he does, who speak his language.
YOUNG MAN: That must hurt.
SHOPKEEPER: (looks at him) You know what hurts more? Knowing that if he walked in right now, I wouldn't know what to say. After eight years, after all this time... I still don't know what words would fix it.
YOUNG MAN: Maybe there aren't any words. Maybe you just... start talking. About anything. The weather. The shop. Whatever.
SHOPKEEPER: You think it's that simple?
YOUNG MAN: No. But maybe it doesn't have to be complicated either.
The SHOPKEEPER considers this.
SHOPKEEPER: You're smarter than you look.
YOUNG MAN: (laughs) Thanks, I think.
SHOPKEEPER: (stands again) Alright. Now I really am leaving. My wife is lighting candles in fifteen minutes and if I'm not there, I'll be sleeping on the couch for a week.
YOUNG MAN: Go. I'll lock up.
SHOPKEEPER: You'll lock up?
YOUNG MAN: Yeah. I mean, if that's okay. You showed me how. I can do it.
SHOPKEEPER: (studies him) You're staying?
YOUNG MAN: For a few minutes. I need to... I need to think. And I don't want to go back to my mother's apartment yet.
SHOPKEEPER: (hesitates) You have the brown jacket?
YOUNG MAN: (picks it up from the chair) Right here.
SHOPKEEPER: Good. Wear it. It's cold out. Walk around the back through the gangway but make sure to put the stick back in the hole in the gate so the stray dogs can’t push it open, they eat my wife’s rhubarb. We're on the first. I'll leave the door unlocked.
YOUNG MAN: First floor. Stick in the gate. Got it.
SHOPKEEPER: And don't be late. Dinner is at six-fifteen, but come at six so you can wash up, meet my wife properly. She likes to know who's sitting at her table.
YOUNG MAN: I'll be there.
SHOPKEEPER: (hand on the door) David?
YOUNG MAN: Yeah?
SHOPKEEPER: Thank you. For staying. For helping. For... (struggles for words) for letting an old man talk too much on erev Shabbos.
YOUNG MAN: You didn't talk too much.
SHOPKEEPER: My wife would disagree. (smiles) Gut Shabbos, David.
YOUNG MAN: Shabbat shalom, Gil.
The SHOPKEEPER exits. The door closes. The YOUNG MAN stands alone in the shop. He looks around—at the racks of clothes, the counter, the sewing machine in the back, the clock on the wall. He puts on the brown jacket. It hangs loose on him, the sleeves too long. He rolls them up slightly. He walks to the window, looks out at the street. The light is fading. He checks his phone—no messages. He puts it back in his pocket. He stands there for a long moment, just breathing. Then he moves to the counter, finds the keys where Gil left them, picks them up. He turns off the lights one by one. The shop grows darker. He moves to the door, looks back one more time, then exits.
The shop is empty. Dark. Silent.
Pause.
FADE TO BLACK.
When the lights rise again, the shop looks almost identical—same counter, same racks, same sewing machine in back. But there are small changes: the clock is newer, some of the signage is different, a computer has been added to the counter. The overall feeling is of a place preserved but slightly aged.
The YOUNG MAN—now visibly older, perhaps late forties or early fifties—stands behind the counter. He wears reading glasses pushed up on his head. His hair is grayer, thinner. He's heavier around the middle. He wears a simple work shirt, comfortable shoes. He's writing something in a ledger, occasionally glancing at the computer screen. The movements are practiced, automatic. This is someone who has done this ten thousand times.
The door opens. THE SON enters. He's well-dressed—business casual, nice coat, messenger bag over his shoulder. He looks around the shop as if trying to place a memory.
THE SON: Excuse me.
YOUNG MAN: (looks up, smiles professionally) Yes, how can I help you?
THE SON: I'm looking for the owner.
YOUNG MAN: (straightens up) I'm the owner.
THE SON: (confused) You are?
YOUNG MAN: Yes. David Rosen. Is there something I can help you with?
THE SON: I... there must be some mistake. My father owns this shop. His father before him.
The YOUNG MAN goes very still. He takes off his reading glasses slowly.
YOUNG MAN: Your father?
THE SON: Gil. Gil Levine. This is his shop. His father opened it in 1952.
YOUNG MAN: You must be Jake.
Long pause. The YOUNG MAN and THE SON look at each other across the counter.
BLACKOUT.
© 2026 R.M. Usatinsky