Thin fingers that move with lifeless precision.
Slippered feet that shuffle as if Sing Lee were yawning.
A smell of starch, wet linen and steam mingles with an aromatic mustiness.
The day's work is done. Sing Lee sits in his chair behind the counter.
Three walls look down upon him. Laundry packages--yellow paper, white
string--crowd the wall shelves. Chinese letterings dance gayly on the
yellow packages.
Sing Lee, from behind the counter, stares out of the window. The Hyde Park
police station is across the way. People pass and glance up:
Sing Lee, Hand Laundry,
5222 Lake Park Avenue.
Come in. There is something immaculate about Sing Lee. Sing Lee has been
ironing out collars and shirts for thirty-five years. And thirty-five
years have been ironing Sing Lee out. He is like one of the yellow
packages on the shelves. And there is a certain lettering across his face
as indecipherable and strange as the dance of the black hieroglyphs on the
yellow laundry paper.
Something enthralls Sing Lee. It can be seen plainly now as he sits behind
the counter. It can be seen, too, as he works during the day. Sing Lee
works like a man in an empty dream. It is the same to Sing Lee whether he
works or sits still.
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