Page 30 - Demo

3:23 pm. A Sunday. I wrestle with black rubber, elbow-length gloves to begin my daily routine of heaving stacks of chipped porcelain plates, smeared with congealed, grainy leftovers. Absently, I transfer mound after mound from the groaning cart to a fizzing, frothing hot soup of chemicals.
As I navigate the cramped kitchen, my right sandal slips. I lose my footing and an abrupt twist of my back sends a searing, sharp pain shooting up from the base of my spine. My throbbing arms can no longer support the weight of the shuddering twenty odd plates. I watch, helplessly, as the tower of my income releases an ominous crunch, and then, the inevitable cacophony of clatters and clangs resound throughout the cha chaan teng.
“You useless woman! You don’t know how to appreciate the opportunity to work here! Get out!”
Angry, vulgar slurs dissipate. The heart-wrenching memory of my five-year-old daughter, Hope, sobbing inconsolably at her father’s cremation is conjured like a ghostly apparition.
Be strong.
I raise my gaze and open my mouth to form the necessary words to defend myself. But as my pleading stare meets the unyielding glare of my superior, I hold my tongue. My livelihood has become shattered plates.
I struggle to my feet, slowly take off the black rubber gloves and leave.
Numb to the chaotic commotion of restless Sham Shui Po, to the rickety-racket of street carts jostling all who dare stand in the way of stooped over elderly, to the mingling loudmouthed wrangles of street vendors. Defeated. Directionless. I allow my weary body to get swept up by the tide of swarming crowds.
I teeter at the edge of a pavement, waiting for the green man’s arrival when brightly-colored ribbons of paper flutter from the lamp post next to me, beckoning me. Job advertisements? I blink. Opportunity? A flickering flame
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