The guy at Leed's, some old Chinese man with a highly improbable goatee, would not let her in. She had to produce Mr. Tan's name card (which simply states, "Gabriel Tan" and his phone number) in order to convince him she's the one tasked to fulfill this errand. When the man saw the card, he was immediately transformed from being a snooty proprietor to submissive, even obsequious, man-servant. "Come in, madam," he ushered her in, bowing so low he could have kissed her shoes. "Please come in. Sincere apologies for the utter lack of grace by yours truly. Let me assure you, and by extension Mr. Tan himself, that I am as honored, as always, to serve him."
Claire looks around, awkwardly stepping into the threshold of the place. You wouldn't know what kind of business Leed's is engaged in. It looks like a haberdashery, probably built back in those days when people say the word "haberdashery" in ordinary conversations. What the hell am I dealing with, she thinks.
"I am Mr. Wong, by the way." The man extends his hand.
Claire shakes it tentatively. She's surprised by the exceptional smoothness of the man's hand. The handshake felt like she was touching porcelain. "Claire. Claire Monteverde," she says, then she realizes if she's the girl Friday of Mr. Tan, then she must represent Mr. Tan's stature. "Miss Claire Monteverde, Mr. Tan's second," she adds. Touché!
"Pleased to meet you, Miss Monteverde," Mr. Wong smiles. "Welcome to Leed's. I used to run it with my twin brother, we were known in the area as the Wong Brothers, so we used to call this establishment, 'Two Wongs can make it White.' But sadly, he died." Mr. Wong actually whimpered. "He was killed by an ill-tempered, mutated sea bass we encountered off the coast of Batangas Island."
"Sorry to hear that."
"Don't have to be sorry at all. It was a long time ago." Mr. Wong smiles. "Is that Mr. Tan's clothes?"
He accepts the bag containing Mr. Tan's "soiled" clothes (but "soiled" not in the usual peasant sense, as Mr. Tan so eloquently put it). Claire is sweaty and blushing from the hot noon sun, and the icy blast of the aircon would have been a totally welcome treat, except it is too icy that Claire felt little icicles forming in her actual lungs. So she has to stand by the corner, far from the aircon's blast, as the Leed's guy carefully examines every item of clothing from the bag.
Mr. Wong carefully pries the bag open, as if he's expecting something to spring out of it. He handles Mr. Tan's Armani suit with extreme care, as well as the trousers. Every piece of clothing is treated with utmost respect, Mr. Wong holding each item and examining it against the faint warm light of the room, which would have confused Claire even more if she knew Mr. Tan sends his clothing twice a day to Leed's, so there's no reason for Mr. Wong to act as if the business of dry cleaning Mr. Tan's stuff is God's rare gift to him.
Then when he pulls out the white, silken boxer shorts, Mr. Wong's face undergoes a paroxysm of different emotions: confusion, shock, denial, grief. "Oh. My. God."
Seeing it all from her corner, Claire is clutched by sudden fear: Mr. Wong's utter shock and dismay means Claire did not imagine it at all—that the destruction of Mr. Tan's beloved silken boxers has been total and absolute reality.
"What have you done?" It's hard to describe Mr. Wong's face, because his mouth, his eyes, his very words get distorted from the effort of processing the tsunami of emotion he is currently undergoing. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, MISS MONTEVERDE?"
"I…I, uhhh…I did not do anything!" If a moment ago Claire was on her high horse, now she's back to her lowly, besieged self, trying to explain away the horrendous spectacle before them.
"What did you do to Mr. Gabriel Tan's Holy of Holies? His beloved underthing, this silken work of art whose provenance is blurred by time and history?"
"I…uhhh…"
"Why is this all drenched in blood, destroyed, never to be used again, never to be able to embrace the hallowed crotch of its owner?"
Claire is speechless for a while, then for some reason, upon hearing the phrase "embrace the hallowed crotch of its owner," she bursts out laughing. She laughs so hard Mr. Wong is just standing there, completely taken aback. And yet, Claire Monteverde laughs and laughs, finding levity in the very moment that the only other person in the room considers the end of the whole world: the ruination of Mr. Gabriel Tan's beloved silken boxer shorts.
"Are you even serious?" Claire manages to say in between giggling fits. "That's a pair of boxers, for pete's sakes! It's not a holy freaking relic!"
"How dare you say that about Mr. Tan's boxers! Surely, you are not privy to his most cherished feelings!"
And are you? Claire wants to ask. But through the misty cloud of her insane laughter, through the sheer ridiculousness of her situation, Claire wonders if she has accidentally slipped into some asylum, and everyone here is either incredibly brilliant or just flat-out insane.
"That's a pair of boxers! Big deal! I'm sure Mr. Tan has a gazillion other boxer shorts in his wardrobe mansion."
Mr. Wong shakes his head, as if he's witnessing the saddest, most hopeless spectacle he has ever witnessed in his life. "You have no idea, Miss Monteverde. This is NOT just a pair of boxer shorts. This is a piece of history. This came from a very long line of owners. And you bringing it here with the full knowledge of your horrible crime means your arrogance is without parallel. Worse, you're bringing bad feng shui upon Leed's! You're bringing bad feng shui upon Mr. Tan's mega-business!"
"Oh my God, are you even serious?" Claire is not laughing now. "Are you serious? That underwear is THAT important?"
"Do I look like a guy who isn't serous? Is the other critical half of 'Two Wongs can make it White' never to be taken seriously? Ask yourself, Miss Monteverde. Ask yourself!"
I am asking myself, Claire wants to scream at him. But stifling another tsunami of uncontrollable laughter, Claire makes a deep breath. She tries to regain her composure by focusing on any other mundane thing in the room: the banal furniture, the sickly, lone fake palm tree in the other corner, the way the word 'Leed's' is carved on the wooden desk. Anything to focus her attention on that would help her not laugh. "Okay," she finally says. "But can't you clean that? Isn't it your job, after all?"
Mr. Wong stares at her as if she just said the most ridiculous question. "Can you un-squeeze a tube of toothpaste? Can you unexplode a nuclear bomb?"
"It's just an ink stain, for pete's sake, Mr. Wong! It's your job to remove that stain! If you can't, then why would Mr. Tan send me to you?"
Mr. Wong opens his mouth to rebut, but a thought strikes him: she's right. Mr. Tan has always trusted his business over the years because he provides the most excellent service. If he cannot fix this problem with a pair of boxers, then why does Leed's even exist?
He sighs and takes a long hard look at the ink-stained silken boxers in his hands. "Maybe I can try to perform a miracle."
"Attaboy, Mr. Wong," Claire says, even if deep inside, in her heart of hearts, she seriously doubts anything can still be done with it. "You go now and do your stuff while I circle around the block, have some lunch, and I'll be back here before you even know it."
"Return in three hours," Mr. Wong says.
"That's what I said," Claire says, exasperated that she will have to wait that long.
Her stomach grumbling for not having eaten anything at this hour, Claire steps out of Leed's feeling light-headed. Now where does she eat? No, rephrase that: where can she find the cheapest place to have lunch? Anything that resembles grub will do. But before her is the concrete jungle, a place that's still completely unfamiliar to her. But little does she realize finding a place to eat would be the least of her problems—that today would be marked in her personal story as one of the worst days of her life.