The world of collars, cuffs and shirt fronts does not contain Sing Lee. It
contains merely an automaton. The laundry is owned by an automaton named
Sing Lee, by nobody else. Now that the day's work is done he will sit like
this for an hour, two hours, five hours. Time is not a matter of hours to
Sing Lee. Or of days. Or even of years.
The many wilted collars that come under the lifeless hands of Sing Lee
tell him an old story. The story has not varied for thirty-five years. A
solution of water, soap and starch makes the collars clean again and
stiff. They go back and they return, always wilted and soiled. Sing Lee
needs no further corroboration of the fact that the crowds are at work.
Doing what? Soiling their linen. That is as final as anything the crowds
do. Sing Lee's curiosity does not venture beyond finalities.
* * * * *
Sing Lee is a resident of America. But this is a formal statistic and
refers only to the automaton that owns the hand laundry in Lake Park
Avenue. Observe a few more formal facts of Sing Lee's life. He has never
been to a movie or a theater play. He has never ridden in an automobile.
He has never looked at the lake.
Thus it becomes obvious that Sing Lee lives somewhere else.
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