Today I discovered that my beautiful Anne Klein watch, black band and white face, had "water bubbles" inside it. I thought maybe it was rain or something at first, but no, it was definitely on the inside. Quite beautiful, these bubbles, as they weren't sloshing around or anything, but were completely smushed between two plates, so they looked like preserved crystals. Still, they were obscuring the face, so I knew I had to get it fixed.
It was 2:30, on a Thursday afternoon. I had class at 4:10. I started looking for watch repair stores in New York City. This was challenging in and of itself. Things like "watch repair stores" are much easier to seek out in a town like Lincoln, Nebraska, where everything is more or less in the same place, the phone book makes sense, and some entries in the phone book don't look completely skeezy and possibly criminal. I don't have a NY phonebook. I have... the internet. Of course, there's nothing remotely close to Barnard College. But on citidex.com, this pseudo-internet-phonebook site, one store said it was located at 47 W. 65th St., at Lincoln Center: Center Watch Repair. Great, I thought, it only takes 10-15 min. to get down to Lincoln Center. I could totally go, drop it off, and get back to Columbia in time for Chinese.
Love of colors, sounds and words, is it a blessing or a curse?I write down the address, pack it in my bag along with my Chinese books and my Globalization and International Politics reading on "Principle and Pragmatism in Strategies of International Justice", my cellphone, my ID, and my wallet. I told Lucia, who was chirping about something or other, where I was going.
"Dude, it's 3:00, you're not gonna make it back in time!"
"It's 2:45."
"You're just gonna drop it off?"
"Probably."
"Okay, then, go!"
As I walked to the front door I passed by my room again, where Kim was still freaking out about a sweater that she couldn't find: "where is that damn sweater!" Yeah, we understand OCD. You see, I could have taken the watch to a repair store some other time, but I knew that until I got it fixed I would be unable to stop worrying about it. And yes, I do think I have a problem. But, meh, what are you gonna do, right? I'm already on Zoloft.
These are supposed to be OCD children, or something? Stupid internet.So I headed to the subway. And here my problems began. I tried to refill my Metrocard. Unfortunately, the machine said "metrocard not eligible for refill" - whatever that meant. I didn't think Metrocards expired - what's the point of them expiring? I was quite proud of having had this particular card for almost a year - I'm saving the environment, right? Right? Okay, so I don't think old trash Metrocards choke baby dolphins. I didn't fight the machine, threw the card away, and got a new card, put $10 on it ($12 worth of rides) and headed downstairs.
The train came immediately. Being the naive person I am, I thought this meant I would have a string of good luck that afternoon. The way to Lincoln Center was fine. I managed to find a seat, took out my reading, and started highlighting away. I had already gotten the jist of the author's argument from what I'd already read, so the reading wasn't too difficult to do while on the train. Of course, I ended up feeling slightly ill from motion sickness, but it wasn't too bad. I read 10 pages on the train, with about 10 pages left for the return journey. I got off at 66th street, took the 65th exit, and saw myself in the bustling artsy-academic Upper West Side, next to the opera houses and music schools of Lincoln Center. It was 3:00 pm.
I had made note that 47 W. 65th Street would be East of Broadway, so I got to 65th Street and walked East, crossing Columbus. I found myself on one of those clean, deserted alleys that's mainly frequented by limousines and moving trucks. There was a restaurant. Then there was a yoga center. And... crap, the yoga center was definitely 37 W. 65th. And the restaurant had no number. But further down after the yoga center, the numbers got smaller. I was going the wrong way, apparently. A little confused because of the Google map I had seen that clearly showed 47 W. 65th Street on the East side of Broadway, I turned back and walked the other way - I had my doubts, since this area was dominated by construction of Lincoln Center performance spaces, and my doubts were confirmed when I saw the numbers jump up to 153, and grow.
The house flails against the corporation.Great... I walked back to the security guard protecting the construction area, who immediately made eye contact and bent his head down to listen to me.
"Hi, do you know where 47 W. 65th Street is?"
"47 W. 65th Street?" He looked momentarily confused, then pointed down the alley I had just been at... the East side of Broadway. "Down that way."
"That way? But..." I pushed it aside. Maybe I had just been deluded or hallucinating before. I have been known to miss important street signs when I'm jittery (and God, I'm glad I hadn't had coffee this afternoon). "Okay, thanks!"
It was 3:10 pm. I crossed Broadway again and went back down past the restaurant, past the yoga center... and to some "center" where there were lots of nervous, angry old white people congregating along with a lot of laughing black security guards. It was 15 W. 65th Street. I didn't really want to stop there, but I had to ask again. One of the security guards once again saw me make eye contact and sobered up to listen to my question.
"Hi, do you know where 47 W. 65th Street is?"
"47 W. 65th Street?" The security guard sounded dumbfounded. "Well, down there's 37 W. 65th..."
"Yeah, but I'm looking for 47..."
"Uh..." he called over one of his colleagues. "Where's 47 W. 65th Street?"
"47?" The colleague, a happy guy in dreadlocks, was not the bearer of good news. "I don't think there is a 47 W. 65th Street."
"There's not?" I could feel my insides lurching. They shook their heads. "Okay, thanks anyway."
I knew the best thing to do was call the number of Central Watch Repair. Of course, I did not have this number. So I resolved to call one of my friends who'd be at home with their computer, and have them look it up online for me. I made the mistake, of course, of conducting this conversation on Broadway. I tried Kim first, but there was no reply, just the sad, "Hi, guys, this is Kim..." voicemail that always sounds like she's very disappointed to be herself. Then I tried Lucia, who picked up with a goofy, lilting "Hello-o?"
"Hey man, so I'm in Lincoln Center. Um, can you look up the address for Central Watch Repair online?"
"Yeah." She started muttering to herself, and I remembered then that Lucia's computer is bug-ridden and shouldn't really be trusted to handle anything - it's probably going to die any moment. "Okay, it says it's at 66 W. 47th Street." Oh my god. "Are you serious? 66 W. 47th Street?" That would mean another 20 blocks down. I quickly glanced at the street signs to make sure. Yup, I was on 65th Street now. I couldn't walk that many streets down.
Don't even ask.Had I actually just written down the address wrong? But I had seen the Google map that citidex.com had linked me to! It clearly marked it at Lincoln Center!
"No, wait, I don't think that's it, cuz that's Center Watch Repair, I think it's different... um..." she tried searching for a while. "I can't find it! Damn it!"
"Just try 'watch repair New York City'."
"Okay... okay, here we go [I condense the conversation somewhat to save space]. It's not Central Watch Repair, it's Center Watch Repair." Oops. "It says it's at 47 W. 65th Street."
"Yeah..." I looked at the street signs again. "Do you have the number?"
"Yeah. Do you want it?"
"Yeah."
"Are you ready?"
"No." I eventually was, however, ready, and I took down the number. "Thanks so much, dude."
"Yeah, no problem, good luck man." I hung up and dialed the number she'd given me, hoping and praying that the place didn't close at 3 pm. Eventually a woman in some undiscernable accent answered the phone. "Hello?" Is that how must businesses answer the phone?
"Hi, is this Center Watch Repair?"
"Ye-es...?"
Poor schizophrenic Van Gogh... enraptured"Um, hi, can you tell me where you are?"
"Where I'm located?"
"Yes?"
"We're at 66 W. 47th Street." FUUUUCCCKKK... "Who's calling?" Is that normal for a business to say on the phone?
"Um, I'm looking to get a watch repaired," I replied. "Can you tell me what cross street that's on, 66th and what?"
"Uh, say that again, I can't hear you." "What cross street are you on, what avenue?" "We're between 5th and 6th Avenue."
"Between 5th and 6th? Thanks so much." I hung up, looked at my watery watch, and looked at the 66th St. street sign. If I go home, I'll have spent $4 for no reason. If I keep going, I could possibly spend $6 to drop off my watch. However, if I go home I will for sure make it to Chinese class on time, and if I keep going, it's far less certain. I sigh. I can't do it. I just can't give up. I've come this far.
With extra resolve now I cross Broadway once again to go to the subway. I make a decisive turn away from the Uptown station and head for the Downtown entrance instead. It's 3:25. Luckily, the subway ride doesn't take too long, although there is an unpleasant amount of kids just getting out of school and being loud and obnoxious. There's no time to read my article now. Too busy biding my time to jump out of the subway at 50th Street.
When this finally occurs I make quick progress in the area between Rockefeller Center and Times Square - unfortunately, tourist central - simultaneously pissing off half of New York's cab drivers in the process as I stand in their way, run out in front of them, etc. I also snarl at tourists who stop in the middle of the crosswalk, curse the on-going construction, and laugh at the movie poster for the sequel to The Librarian: Quest for the Spear. Oh yes, can you believe they're making another one? Me neither. I walk past a homeless-people-collection-jug and finally start walking down 47th street, otherwise known as cheap jewelry road. Here family-owned businesses with sketchy names line the blocks from Broadway on down to 5th, their interiors grotesquely lit with neon white lights, bouncer-like Italians with greasy hair standing outside chuckling to each other, black cars lining the crowded streets.
Titled something like "Laughter despite the insanity of war"I quickly walk past all of them until I reach 66. Of course, 66 does not say "Center Watch Repair". Never fear though - there are a multitude of little kiosks inside, and I see a sign on the upper floor that says "watch repair", so I head on in through two cramped doors. The salesmen and women at opposing kiosks are yelling at each other, spraying cleaning liquid on their shiny glass displays, casting me strange and hostile instead of eager and clerk-like looks when I glance at them. I look upstairs. It doesn't look gated off, so I go up, and look around at all the signs. Diamond repairs... custom watches... I don't see watch repair, per se... I walk past a security guard, who evidently feels that I'm suspicious and a possible shoplifter, because this time he brings up what I'm looking for.
"Center Watch Repair?" I suggest.
"Center Watch Repair?" At his ambivalence, I laugh nervously. No one seems to know what I'm talking about these days, do they? But he walks around the kiosks and points at a place that said on its main sign Center Watch, and on a taped sign below, "watch repair". I thank the security guard and go over.
The woman behind the counter turns out to be this peculiar old lady named Ming Santiago. She's wearing some garrish dragon-lady-style eyeshadow, and working with her is a toothlessly-grinning old man hunkered over some tiny mechanical cog-like pieces. Ming clearly speaks with a Chinese accent, but she snapped back at the old man in Spanish, so I make no assumptions.
I tell her who I am - "I just called!" "Oh!" - and show her the watch. "I don't know what happened, I just looked at it this morning and it was like this..."
"Ohh... water!" she says immediately with a tut-tut voice. "That's water damage?"
"Yes." As if to say, duh. "Did you wear it while taking a shower?"
"No... I think I was washing dishes, though." She takes the watch from me and immediately hands it the old man, who makes some nonsensical half-ecstatic sound when looking at it and starts taking it apart immediately. Ming continues, "You have to leave it here. For the drying, the cleaning, whole watch..."
"So you can't just... dry the front part..."
Ming was adamant about that. "No! The watch will stop!"
"But it's running now..."
"It's going to stop any minute." I'm not an expert. "Okay, so how long will that take?"
"What's today, Thursday?" She glanced back at the calendar. "Next Wednesday or Thursday. What day works for you?" She had started writing out a receipt at this point.
"Oh, either day works fine, I mean..." Ming started looking exasperated. "Just say what day is convenient for you!" See, this is called a New York City salesperson. They yell at you for not making a decision that they will, trust me, abide by. Being nice and accommodating back doesn't get you anywhere.
"Okay, um, Thursday!" I was thinking of my Globalization and International Politics lecture.
"Okay!" she started writing it down, and then shouted, "No! Thursday is Thanksgiving! We are closed on Thursday! Wednesday!"
I call it the Last Temptation of Eve, for no good reason."Okay!" It's okay, my class is cancelled on Wednesday anyway.
"It will be twenty-five dollars."
"That's fine." I think about it - I was actually having nightmares while rushing down the dank, steam-filled streets of paying $200 to fix this baby. "Actually, that's wonderful."
She cast me a look. "Yes, but you have to take care of it." Ming is really into chastising me for getting the watch wet. I suppose I have it ground into me. Whenever I think I'll wash dishes with it on, I'll hear her tsk-tsk-ing. "I know," I say, nodding.
"What's your name?"
"Nadia Bulkin... N-a-d-i-a... B-u..."
"No, no, that's fine..." she waves the rest of my name away with a decisive sweep of the hand. "Phone number?"
"402-..."
"212?"
"No."
"What area code?"
"It's Nebraska... but it's okay, I have a cellphone..."
"Well, then give me your cellphone number!"
"That is my cellphone number!"
"Oh, okay, okay..." Ming also gave me her card. "Because you don't know my address," she says, chiding me.
"Well, it said your address was 47 West 65th Street..." I try to defend myself.
Ming rolls her eyes and throws up her hands in desperation. "That was fifty years ago! I tell them over and over to change it, but... ah! You know, that building doesn't exist anymore! They tore five buildings down!"
I thanked her profusely and she brushed me away like all good Chinese mothers are wont to do, and I looked at my wrist as I left the building, then almost slapped myself for not remembering that I had just admitted my watch to a watch-hospital. It's a habit by now, turning my wrist to look at that friendly, sharp black dial. It's going to be a rough week without it. I checked my cellphone. It was 3:40. I had time, I had time.
Rain is a good thing. Rain is a doing verb.I plugged myself into my iPod, Nova, and started power-walking back the way I had come, past the skeezy bouncers in front of the too-shiny jewelry stores, and then across the morass of tourists. I also accidentally walked past Broadway and toward 8th Avenue, which is a long block, by the way, because I forgot that 7th Avenue morphs into Broadway somewhere along the way. Ah, New York geography, fuck it, man! Especially the avenues.
I knew I was back on the right path because I saw the homeless-people-jug and then, the subway station crowded with yet more high school students that's the same one me and Kim came out of when we go to Kinokuniya (we usually ended up going down the wrong station entrance and ending up in the downtown platform instead of the uptown platform when we wanted to go home). The train takes a miserably slow time coming. I take out my article and start highlighting wildly right there in the subway station, holding the papers up against my hand for backing. It's 3:50. My class starts in twenty minutes.
What the fuck did you do this afternoon, Nadia? You just can't leave well enough alone. Well, I say, that's true. I can't. I have to resolve problems right as they spring up - nipping in the bud, I believe it's called. Still I can't shake the feeling that if I told most of my friends this - if not all - they would think I was crazy for leaving school an hour before class to go to Lincoln Center, and then failing that, lower down than Rockefeller Center. I could have just gone home... I would have actually done my makeup before class and then I'd be able to put my hair in pigtails like I wanted to. Now I'm going to be running to Chinese and getting there late anyway, during the unit that the teacher thought was so hard to understand she sent us the powerpoint ahead of time. Why do I do this to myself? As Basement Jaxx says in their great song "Where's Your Head At?", I "don't make it easy on [my]self". Since I'm listening to my Disney playlist while waiting for the train, this song struck a particular chord with me - "Belle" from Beauty and the Beast:
Disney surveillance.Look there she goes, that girl is strange, no question
Dazed and distracted, can't you tell?
Never part of any crowd
'Cause her head's up on some cloud
No denying she's a funny girl that Belle
Look there she goes that girl is so peculiar
I wonder if she's feeling well
With a dreamy far-off look
And her nose stuck in a book
What a puzzle to the rest of us is Belle
But behind that fair facade
I'm afraid she's rather odd
Very diff'rent from the rest of us
She's nothing like the rest of us
Yes, diff'rent from the rest of us is Belle
Look there she goes a girl who's strange but special
A most peculiar mad'moiselle
It's a pity and a sin
She doesn't quite fit in
'Cause she really is a funny girl
A beauty but a funny girl
She really is a funny girl
That Belle I got to Chinese only five minutes late, and I wasn't even the last one to get to class. She was just finishing up asking the class what month and day it was, a new thing this chapter. My "pengyou-men" (friends) are looking either sharp (Ryan), asleep (Stephanie), or totally bored (Ridley). The cold, damp wind is blowing in behind me through the open window, messing up my hair, blowing the pages of my "Zhongwen shu" (Chinese book). I can't believe that ten minutes ago I was at 47th street. For some reason the sheer ability to have survived this afternoon made me proud of myself... even though I brought it on myself. I'm a weird one, I.
