I’m not one of those hoity-toity Heebs with an Upper East Side penthouse. I don’t need the door held for me when I come home. I don’t need someone to hail me a cab in the rain. I can do for myself.
But my dry-cleaning? Without supervision, it’s like a retarded foundling in the woods — it could just go off with anybody. For the love of perchloroethylene, doormen, do not strike!