When I moved into my first, proper apartment on East 12th Street as a slovenly single guy with barely a modicum of capable domestic abilities, I started taking my soiled garments to a place called Sunshine Cleaners on University Place. They were a slightly longer walk than the nearest dry-cleaners, but I remember trying to go to that place (long closed) one early evening with a bagful of laundry and the guy closing (and locking) the door in my face. So, yeah, Sunshine it was.
It was originally staffed by two Chinese ladies — one tall, impeccably formal and serious, and the other tiny and cheery. For whatever reason, after several years, the very formal lady (whose name I never learned) moved on, and the cheery lady (named Ms. Lee) became the sole proprietor, aided by two or three diligent delivery guys.
When I got married and moved to East 9th Street, I continued to give Sunshine my patronage. Not only would they tackle our dry cleaning, but Ms. Lee could capably replace any number of buttons that seemed to routinely torpedo themselves off my clothes. When our children were still little, Ms. Lee would scurry out from behind the front counter and out onto the sidewalk to greet them, positively beaming and chatting with them. She was always unfailingly polite and seemingly genuinely pleased to see me whenever I entered the low-ceilinged interior of her little shop with an armful of unfortunate shirts.
Last night, I was crestfallen to find that evidently during the dark of night, Ms. Lee had packed up her things and split, leaving behind a sad little note. With her business largely stymied by a pandemic that rendered freshly-pressed office-wear unnecessary and her rent cruelly escalating, she could no longer make ends meet.
Sunshine Cleaners, after all these years, is gone, and so is cheery, little Ms. Lee.
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