The Cleaner Every year there is less glitter left on the cleaner’s place. Taking it out of the box wears it away. Still, you can always tell which one is the cleaner because it’s long and flat. When you walk by the door it smells like airplane cement. I don’t understand how something so stinky can go on fancy clothes without wrecking them. I do like how the bags shimmer and make that crinkling whooshy sound when the lady’s hand brushes over them looking for mother’s black skirt. I remember my mother complaining in the spring and fall when it was time to put one set of clothes away and get out the other: “All that money to clean just one dress.” Eventually, she washed everything that wasn't wool so we wouldn’t line the cleaner’s pocket any more with my father’s hard earned cash. It all worked out o.k., so I never again believed those “Dry Clean Only” tags. When Woolite came along, mother was sitting pretty.