said no one, ever.
said no one, ever.
"The Map Room is my time of bar."
But yeah, I think it's a little creepy to get a letter from the Office of the Secretary of State of Illinois addressing me as "Dear Friend."
They used to say, "If a man says 'shit' in front of a lady, what does he say when he has a flat tire on the Brooklyn Bridge?"
On hold with Southwest Airlines yesterday, I heard a recorded advertisement for their cargo service: "We get ship done."
If corporations are going to swear like truck drivers, what will truck drivers say?
My 1950s Movado self-winding watch went through the washing machine in December. It was my dad's. I was going to fix it no matter what the cost.
I took it to a Chicago jeweler reputed by Yelp to be good at this. There should be a Yelp for Yelp. Two months and many unreturned phone calls later, I showed up at the jeweler on Saturday and waited in line for nearly half an hour for a chance to demand the watch back.
But she didn't have it. She'd outsourced it to another repairman, who was scouring the world for a new movement. She didn't have his address, and there was no use calling him because he didn't work on Saturdays.
I performed the obligatory truculent rant, in front of a whole store of customers who seemed weary, as if they had seen my performance before, on the same stage, and performed by better actors.
The owner promised to deliver the watch, unrepaired, to my home on Monday. On Monday, I got a text:
"I am so sorry for your ordeal. The thing that I like most about my job is restoring customers' jewelry and watches, although my treatment of your job sends a totally different message. I really do apologize and wish the outcome could be otherwise. I'll call you as soon as I'm back in Chicago."
Then another text. "I have wonderful news!" The watch, lo and behold, is fixed!
The subcontractor had found a movement for it and just forgotten to tell her!
She would bring it by later, charging me cost, $150.
But on her way, she texted me that it would be no charge.
Because, she explained, there was no new movement after all. The old movement is in a plastic bag, and, unauthorized by me, the repairman had replaced the self-winding innards with Quartz.
Nor did I authorize anyone to replace the glass on the watch, which I noticed after she'd left, that they'd done. So though the watch is shiny and nice to have around my wrist again like my dad's big hand, it doesn't look right. Like somebody else's dad's hand.
Emotionally punch drunk, I consider my options. But before I can come to a conclusion, I discover in my jacket a three-page, single-spaced letter "to our family of customers," that the watch-store owner had apparently handed to me during my swirling performance on Saturday.
It tells the story of the store, which from its founding in 1948 thrived in its charming small scale. "Its diminutive size allowd for only one showcase, and it shared its rear space with a nearby grocer's fish cooler. My mom and dad ... put in twelve hour days, and customers ducked and weaved in those close quarters while fish purveyors burst through the curtained divider, their finned parcels hoisted on their shoulders."
Things got tough in the late 2000s, when her parents died (the father, she specifies, of heart disease and liver cancer and the mother of advanced colon cancer). At the same time, the economy tanked, Internet competition came on strong.
"Although many of our long suffering clients, waiting in long lines for a battery change or band shortening, or weeks for repairs to be completed, may assume that we're doing a booming business, the past four years have been a struggle financially, personally, and operationally."
And then she turned to introspection:
"I was an art major; I came to the business with a love for design and aesthetics ... Although I am admittedly not a business person, it was never a problem; my mother handled the financial aspects of the business .... With her passing, and our ever increasing workload, my inefficiency has resulted in over sights which have caused frustration and bad feeling with customers and others ...."
All of which to announce that the store is severely scaling back its service and its hours. She lists a couple dozen regular customers by name: "We've shared your joys and suffered your losses, welcomed new generations and extended farewells upon retirement."
And now the store itself is mostly closing. "Hopefully we will be able to work with you again in some capacity in the future," she concludes. "If not, thanks for trusting us to serve you, and for being part of our business family."
Overwhelmed by the weirdness and sadness of the whole thing and not wanting to get any further involved in that dysfunctional business family than I already am, I'm left gazing down at my compromised watch—it's now a Timex in a Movado case—in a kind of wonder.
Does anybody know a good watch guy in Chicago?
The more grinding the task being conducted in a group email, the more exclamation points!
I'll get the proofs too you right away!
I appreciate it!
Okay, it's now updated!
This is going to be a great project!
Shoot me now.
A "suggested post" I received last week:
CALLING ALL MURRAYS!!
Because you're so Badass we had some designs made just for you! Limited Edition while stocks last.
They're trying to sell me a hoodie that says, "Team Murray: Lifetime Member."
But how do they know how Badass I am? I know. Big data.
Have been having a lot of these lately. They're effing barbaric.