A Letter from Your Cleaners- 30
The Path – Part 2
October 25, 2018
The faint moon and the solitary streetlamps that had beautifully illuminated my workspace during the early hours of the dawn evaporated into pure nothingness the exact second the sun broke over the earth. Eclipsed by the frantic, crushing speed of a busy day’s labor, those lights leave not a single shred of an imprint within my active memory. Tracing that reality, I find that this sort of forgetfulness is by no means a sudden or remarkable defect unique to my aging mind. Across the vast, sweeping tapestry of the decades I have lived so far, those faithful lights have relentlessly stood at their designated stations every single morning, solely to bless and welcome the breaking dawn of my workspace.
Perhaps it functions exactly like the boundless warmth and quiet protection continuously bestowed upon my life by the Divine, my family, and my neighbors—sacred graces that I so frequently fail to actively recall or helplessly let slip into the hidden chambers of my unremembered days.
A full two consecutive years have rolled by since my beloved mother-in-law departed this earth to take flight toward heaven, and during these seasons, I have thoroughly enjoyed the most exceptionally relaxed, unburdened chapters of my entire life since immigrating to the United States. Let me lay bare the naked truth: this tranquility didn’t blossom because our household finances had suddenly become extraordinarily prosperous, or because my hands were gifted with a massive, surplus mountain of free time. Rather, it was simply born from a profound, quiet shift within my spirit—resolving to throw my whole-body flat upon the current, choosing to calmly ride wherever the river of time desired to carry my soul. For I had finally arrived at a wise, seasoned threshold of age where I confidently comprehended that I possessed absolutely zero power to ever reverse the flow of time, and that the very impulse to battle against its current was nothing short of an absolute, reckless vanity. It was a sacred season when I open-heartedly and completely embraced the realization that the dry cleaning trade was, and had always been, my true, rightful heaven-sent calling.
During that precise chapter of rest, the sweeping redevelopment and architectural remodeling of our shopping center was moving forward with a rapid, yet agonizingly slow speed [pdf: 0.1.8]. And right amidst that transition, a massive, highly precarious hurdle abruptly crashed into my shop. Long before the construction crews could officially strike the ground with their first shovels, an urgent directive came down from the corporate landlord, demanding an immediate, comprehensive environmental inspection of our premises. In the process of securing a massive commercial bank loan to fund the multi-million-dollar construction, the corporate real estate executives were legally mandated to provide definitive, rigorous environmental contamination measurements for any business operating within the complex that utilized chemical materials.
Back in that particular era, this was an extraordinarily sensitive, terrifyingly explosive issue that kept the entire Korean-American dry cleaning industry locked in a constant cage of anxiety. The central chemical solvent utilized for traditional laundry processing—namely, perchloroethylene, or “Perc”—had newly been codified by strict federal laws as a hazardous, high-level environmental pollutant. Under these relentless legal matrices, if a commercial property’s soil or groundwater returned an official “contamination” verdict, the business owner was legally forced to launch an absolute, full-scale site remediation and environmental cleanup operation. The trouble, however, was that long before these modern, iron-clad environmental protection laws were ever drafted or enforced, the vast majority of older dry cleaners had operated across the decades without exercising any microscopic caution regarding how they managed or handled their Perc solvents. Consequently, the universal consensus operating among industry experts back then asserted that if any historical, long-running dry cleaners underwent a modern underground soil inspection, the results would almost invariably return a devastating verdict mandating an absolute site cleanup. My own dry cleaners was by no means an exception to that structural hazard.
The sheer magnitude of the financial terror was absolute. The bare minimum cost required just to execute the initial underground testing and chemical soil analysis ran into tens of thousands of dollars. And if the site officially returned a positive contamination verdict, the total financial liability required to fund the full-scale environmental remediation could easily balloon to a staggering one million dollars. Under the standard commercial lease frameworks governing our trade, the absolute legal and financial responsibility for that cleanup operation fell entirely upon the shoulders of the individual dry cleaners tenant. In my unique case, because the inspection was being executed solely to satisfy the bank loan requirements of the landlord, the initial testing fees were fully covered by their corporate pockets; yet, if those deep soil samples returned a contamination verdict, the entire one-million-dollar remediation fee would instantly curdle into an absolute, crushing debt slapped directly onto my name.
Following that official notification, a team of specialized engineers marched into my shop. They drilled multiple deep, echoing holes straight through the concrete floors across both the front and back of my dry cleaners, plunging deep into the earth to extract raw core samples of soil and groundwater to bring back to their laboratories. Nearly two full, agonizing months crawled by before the final official laboratory analysis reports were finalized and transmitted back to us. Yet, during those exact weeks of waiting, the supreme lesson I carved into my soul was the art of absolute, serene relaxation. I quietly told my spirit: ‘Let it go. Let us simply ride the current, wherever the river flows.’
And when the letter finally arrived, the final verdict returned with a narrative of pure, unadorned grace: “Just absolute gratitude!” The report officially published that while a microscopic, faint trace of chemical residue was indeed detected deep within the soil, the volume was extraordinarily negligible, falling well below the threshold that would ever legally mandate a site remediation or cleanup.
The exact second that precarious hurdle was safely bypassed, a magnificent, completely unsolicited opportunity marched straight into my shop. It didn’t blossom because I had strained my nerves or launched any aggressive business campaigns; rather, it was a grand gift that simply fell right into my hands from the heavens. The human vessel chosen to deliver that blessing was Mr. Louise Kai—a proud, second-generation Chinese-American who was independently operating the absolute oldest and most widely renowned dry cleaners in our local town.
Having proudly inherited the enterprise from his late father, Mr. Kai had meticulously managed the shop since the very dawn of his college graduation; yet, both he and his brother had recently crossed well past the grand threshold of their seventies, and they were quietly wrestling with the heavy question of retirement. Through a sudden twist of fate, a prominent real estate developer purchased the entire plot of land surrounding their store to build a massive commercial retail plaza, allowing Mr. Kai to successfully sell his historic building and neatly step into retirement after seventy full years of his family’s continuous trade.
And it was right on the eve of his departure that he walked into my shop and handed me an extraordinary proposition. Without demanding a single cent of financial payout, and free from any complex legal strings or hidden conditions, he open-heartedly and completely gifted his entire corporate clientele, every major commercial contract, and every single piece of usable, valuable material remaining inside his shop straight to me. It was a total, absolute windfall given completely for free. The massive commercial accounts he gracefully slung onto my shoulders included the municipal city government, the regional police headquarters, and the local universities—massive, rock-solid entities that instantly multiplied our business volume. At the time, our personal relationship had barely spanned a brief five or six years. Our historic initial connection had been born years prior out of a sudden, desperate phone call he had dialed to my shop out of the blue: “Mr. Kim, my commercial shirt-pressing machinery has abruptly suffered a catastrophic breakdown… until the specialized technicians can arrive to repair it, would you be open-heartedly willing to process our daily shirt volume?” Without a single moment of calculation or demanding any extra premium, I had readily welcomed his request. And after those seasons of quiet time rolled by, that small seed of simple kindness returned to my life as a magnificent harvest.
For nearly two full consecutive years leading up to our eventual relocation into the newly redeveloped storefront, and just before the sudden hour when my beloved father-in-law suffered a severe fall that altered his health, I thoroughly loved, tasted, and enjoyed the supreme pleasure of playing upon the currents of time.
Losing myself along the walking trails, embarking on beautiful journeys, wrapping my family in unhurried hours of pure togetherness, and above all else, deeply investing my whole heart to savor the daily conversations with the customers crossing our counter—that rhythm was my absolute joy.
Even a horrific automobile accident that our couple tragically endured right at the closing edge of that peaceful era arrived in our chests accompanied by nothing but a quiet, resilient chuckle. What follows is a transparent archive of the private internal diaries I carved out during those unforgettable months:
July 21, 2018
After a long separation, John stepped back into my shop today. Possessing proud Swedish heritage, John is an irreplaceable, lifelong friend and a magnificent teacher of my soul. Though it currently stands entirely vacant and quiet, the retail commercial space located directly adjacent to my dry cleaners used to be a bustling Radio Shack store. And Malmstrom John was the brilliant, dedicated General Manager who single-handedly directed that store for decades.
All the way back when I first established my very first dry cleaners in Newark decades prior, John was already standing at his post as the Radio Shack Manager. He was an extraordinarily kind, open-hearted man. To a young immigrant like me, who had just launched a raw business amidst an environment where every single layer of daily life felt thoroughly foreign, terrifying, and unstable, John never once failed to pour out the most meticulous, protective, and loving business counsel. On the historic afternoon when the massive flatbeds first arrived to unload my heavy dry cleaning machinery and pressing equipment, I remember the exact words he delivered to my soul with an absolute, crystal clarity: “My dear friend! Look at these magnificent new toys you’ve just acquired! It is my most sincere prayer that you make an absolute mountain of money with them, and that you find the strength to thoroughly enjoy your life to its absolute peak!”
For vast stretches of history, we lived our days as intimate neighbors, friends, and mutual mentors, exchanging bright, smiling greetings with every single breaking dawn; yet, on a sudden afternoon, a distant note entered our rhythm. Due to the ruthless shifting of corporate retail structures, John abruptly lost his lifelong career. The moment his powerful presence vacated the store, the neighboring Radio Shack seemed to instantly forfeit its vibrant energy, drifting into a quiet decline until its doors were permanently shut.
Untiringly, with every approaching July, John hosts a massive, grand outdoor barbecue festival at his beautiful private estate, extending warm invitations to all his closest neighbors. Before many years had rolled by, our couple seamlessly transformed into beloved, mandatory fixtures on his guest list. Yet, across these last few consecutive years, due to a tangled maze of complex overlapping schedules and personal duties, we had hollowly missed his celebrations. John had stopped by my dry cleaners this morning solely to deliver a firm, loving command: that we must never dare to miss his grand gathering scheduled for the end of this month.
When I gently pitched the ordinary inquiry—”John, how exactly have you been managing your days lately?”—the seventy-five-year-old gentleman let out a radiant, booming laugh and returned a beautiful, witty line: “Well, you know how it is, Mr. Kim! I’m just spending my days beautifully converting the hard-earned money I saved during my youth into cash for my prescription medications! I’m doing great!”
Watching his large frame turn to gracefully exit my shop, his face still lit by the residual traces of that cheerful clown mask he so thoroughly loved to wear, my spirit was suddenly transported back across the vast canvas of our thirty-year history. Gazing at the solitary line of his back, my soul was completely enveloped in an indescribable, bittersweet cocktail of profound sorrow and absolute happiness. It was a sharp, piercing melancholy over the undeniable fact that no human being on Earth can ever escape the heavy, decaying shackles of time—beautifully paired with a radiant, dancing joy over the realization that I am blessed to live a life where an irreplaceable neighbor stubbornly preserves my name inside his heart.
Yesterday, the white cumulus clouds dancing across the blue sky were extraordinarily gorgeous.
July 29, 2018
John’s sprawling private garden is an absolute portrait that mirrors his own soul with a flawless, shocking precision—right down to the herd of mischievous goats grazing along the fence. Standing beside him on the grass, a profound thought brushes through my chest as I observe him and his grown son side-by-side: Ah… before we realized it, the father and the son are beautifully growing old together.
November 9, 2018
“I’m okay! Shucks, Mr. Kim, I’m really quite alright! Seriously, I’m completely okay!” – As his voice continuously repeated that desperate, defensive refrain, my spirit chose to receive it with an entirely separate, deep note of aching sorrow. Inside his heavily bloodshot eyes, a thick layer of raw tears had already well up, threatening to spill over his cheeks. I quietly reached out my hand. I wrapped my small palm tightly around his massive, rugged hand—or rather, I simply, gently laid my fingers directly upon the rough skin of his knuckles. The single reality that arrived as an incomparably more devastating, heartbreaking weight than the smallness of my hand was the absolute, clumsy bankruptcy of my own short speech—realizing that my tongue felt completely tied, utterly bereft of a single, adequate word of profound comfort to offer this grieving father.
Mr. Early has been a faithful, beloved regular customer of my dry cleaners for roughly twenty-five consecutive years now. True to the literal heritage of his family last name, he is a man who relentlessly steps through our front doors during the absolute earliest hours of the morning. Hailing from proud Polish ancestry, he and his vibrant wife had spent decades transforming our early mornings into a sanctuary of bright laughter, leaving behind a beautiful trail of witty banter, light jokes, and simple stories of their daily lives. Standing a few years senior to me, he single-handedly operates a small, highly successful architectural consulting firm. Nearly seven or eight full years have rolled by since the very first morning he let out a gentle chuckle and tossed out a familiar line: “Hey, Mr. Kim… exactly how much longer do you plan to keep grinding through this hard labor? My blueprint is to permanently retire by next year or the year after…” Yet, untiringly, that exact same joke continues to echo across our counter to this very day.
Across these last few consecutive years, a beautiful transformation had multiplied across his weekend routine, as he would frequently march into my store proudly letting his young grandson lead the way.
And then, just this past weekend morning, my wife was pulling the counter shift when Mr. Early walked into the shop. The moment he left, she walked into the back, her face completely drenched in thick, streaming tears as she delivered the narrative to my soul: “Oh my goodness, honey… I just don’t know what to do… Mr. Early just came and went… His son passed away suddenly… He was only thirty-one years old… I was so utterly stunned, my chest felt so completely suffocated that I couldn’t even claw out a single, proper word of deep condolence to give him… His poor wife was standing there trying so desperately to maintain a numb, stoic mask… but Mr. Early… that strong man just broke down right at the counter, weeping like a helpless child…”
On this chilly morning, as a grey autumn rain falls persistently against the pavement, I stand by the glass to watch him slowly drive away—his bloodshot eyes still straining to force a polite, defensive smile onto his face to spare my feelings. Turning my face to gaze out at the landscape framing our store, a heavy realization takes hold of my spirit:
Ah… sometimes, the raw theater of human life arrives as an extraordinarily bleak, desolating, and dreary portrait.
December 9, 2018
All the way back on the historic dawn when I first pushed open the heavy front doors to launch my very first dry cleaners in the city of Newark, my late father had knelt down to offer a solemn prayer, delivering a beautiful line that remains permanently anchored within my soul: “My beloved child! The name of this historic city is Newark, meaning it literally spells out New Ark—the New Ark of Noah. It is my most sacred prayer that this very shop may transform into the new, protective ark of your existence.”
Before I realized it, that narrative has already slid past the grand threshold of thirty full consecutive years, dissolving into a hazy, distant chapter of the unalterable past.
During these current, peaceful seasons, I have unlocked a magnificent, private fountain of profound joy. I thoroughly love and enjoy the rhythm of taking long, unhurried strolls through the winding paths of this historic city, actively hunting down and savoring the sweeping, hidden beauties of the landscape that I had completely failed to notice or contemplate during the busy decades of my youth.
Let me lay bare the naked truth to my own heart: my feet are by no means embarking on these long walks out of some sudden, disciplined desire to execute a strict pattern of physical exercise. For I am a man who has never once allowed himself to indulge in formal athletic sports across his entire existence. Rather, standing firmly at this momentous threshold of time where I am rapidly approaching the grand age of seventy, these walks serve as a sacred time machine. It is a sanctuary that allows me to step back into the past to warmly meet, embrace, and reconcile with the various versions of myself that occupied those unreturnable years. It is an open space where I can engage in an absolute, transparent dialogue with my own soul, while quietly meditating upon the chapters of time that have yet to unfold, and contemplating the mysterious horizons of that ultimate, transcendent country that we must all eventually encounter.
Losing myself along these trails, beautifully enveloped by the pristine, quiet grandeur of nature, my entire spirit is continuously wrapped in a thick, magnificent basket of pure, boundless gratitude.
And it is this very gratitude—this raw, honest rhythm of contemplation—that injects a delicious, nourishing energy into my soul, beautifully fattening the quality of my life with every breaking dawn.
This morning, as my feet pased along the lush, winding paths of the Newark Reservoir trail, my late father’s ancient, sacred blessing suddenly roared back into my consciousness with a radiant, blinding clarity.
My heart can do nothing but throw its whole frame flat upon the floor in absolute, joyful submission: It is, and has always been, just absolute gratitude.
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