Hooray for Ben Zuckerman

For those who’ve wondered, that was not Ben Zuckerman atop a tank in Moscow the other day, shouting defiance at the junta that threatened Soviet freedom. That was someone else.

It was also not Ben Zuckerman who challenged the power of Hurricane Bob on America’s Northeast Coast and helped save the bewildered tourists stranded in its path.

Ben Zuckerman is rarely in the news.

You’ll find him most of the time aboard an ancient panel truck clanking through the hills of Studio City, wondering why there are so many street names that begin with Dona.

Dona Rosa, Dona Maria, Dona Emilia, Dona Lisa, Dona Cecilia, Dona Evita, Dona Pepita . . .

“There must be 25 Donas in these hills,” Ben was saying the other morning, peering through the streaked windshield of his ’69 Chevy. I didn’t tell him Dona means Lady in Spanish. He’d just wonder why there were so many street names that began with Lady.

It wasn’t important. What was important were the two half-gallons of nonfat he had to leave at one house, and the pint of cottage cheese and pound of butter at another. Service was important, not street names.

Ben Zuckerman is the last of a breed, both in terms of the convenience he offers and the business he runs. He’s a milkman.

It occurred to me one day there must be more to this town than actors, chefs, architects and whores. There must be shoe repairmen and feed store operators and tree trimmers. There must be milkmen.

They rarely lead parades, and are therefore rarely in the news. I wanted to correct that.

I chose Ben to write about because he takes me back to a time when the rattle of bottles on the porch meant a milkman, not a Molotov cocktail. Icemen were around then and junkmen who drove the streets shouting, “Rags, bottles, sacks!” and bought with pennies what they could peddle later for nickels.

Ben personifies that era. At 48, he’s been a milkman 23 years. The truck was almost new when he bought it and has gone through six engines, four transmissions, two differentials and God knows how many clutches, tires, batteries, fan belts and spark plugs.

It is an extension of the man himself, amiable in its duty, struggling to keep up in a world that seems to have passed them both by.

“Adohr used to have 100 routes in the Valley and now it has 10,” Ben said as the truck rattled its way up narrow, winding streets toward Mulholland. He’s a pink-faced man with a quick smile and an accommodating manner.

“There aren’t many of us left. My future? One of three things. Either I’ll go out, the truck will go out or the dairy will go out. I just hope it doesn’t happen soon.”

Adohr is the fourth company he’s worked for. The other three have gone under. Ben is a one-man business, doing whatever’s necessary to keep the truck going and commerce alive. He works 12 hours a day, five days a week to service 180 customers.

“He’s 100% perfect,” one of them said as we stopped to drop off her order. It was a morning laced with fog. Ben had been up since 5 a.m.

“He’ll do anything for you. I can’t say enough good about him.”

Not that it’s an easy job. There are 200-foot driveways he’s got to hustle up loaded with dairy products. Sometimes rattlesnakes get in the way. When Tom Brokaw was an L.A. anchorman, Ben delivered to his house. Halfway up a walkway, a rattler blocked his path.

“What’d you do?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Put the milk down just below the snake and left.”

Brokaw hasn’t been his only celebrity. This is a milkman to the stars. He’s delivered cottage cheese and yogurt to such as Sally Fields, Gena Rowlands, Sally Kellerman, Glenn Campbell and others. He went to a Christmas party last year at the home of “Knott’s Landing” star Kevin Dobson.

As we bounced along in the open-doored truck, its hood bounced in rhythm. Someone had jumped on it years ago and left it twisted and ajar. Ben has no plans to fix it.

“I used to take my sons on the route when they were little, but it was too much for them,” he said between stops. “It wore them out. No one wants to be a milkman anymore.”

I asked Ben what perils he faced, other than an occasional snake in his path.

“Well,” he said, “I’ve been bitten by dogs three times. There used to be a terrier always after me. One day I opened a gate with a strong spring and let it go on him. The dog must have flown 10 feet through the air and landed in a swimming pool.”

Ben smiled. “He never bothered me again.” The truck rattled up Dona Dolores, past Dona Teresa and into the past.