My watch stopped Saturday at 9:30 a.m. I know this because, well, that’s when my watch stopped. I panicked a bit. This wasn’t a repair I could do by myself. I own a Swiss Military-brand watch, and not even a Swiss Army knife could pry open the back. And I haven’t had a lot of luck in the timepiece department.
Let’s wind back the hands a little: It started with my first “grown-up” watch, an Omega that had belonged to my grandpa Jack. (Prior to this I favored cheap Armitron digital watches. I still get a warm feeling seeing that company’s name at Yankee Stadium, though it now adorns an analog model.) My uncle had passed the Omega down to me. I was tremendously fond of that watch, even though I had to wind it every day. As time wore on, though, the winding wouldn’t last a full 24 hours. Something was awry. But an old man in an old shop on Spring Street in Manhattan (Ennio, if I’m recalling correctly) did a nice job cleaning out the gears, and the old boy was soon happily ticking again.
I employed this gentleman’s services on a few more occasions, until alas, his shop closed. And it was only a question of time before the Omega broke down again. Luckily, a store called… um… A Question of Time had opened on nearby MacDougal Street. An Eastern European couple ran the place, and also did nice work. Yet, despite doubling as Rosenberg’s Jewelers which blew up in Men in Black, A Question of Time also went out of business.
By now I had given up on the ancient Omega. It was an emotional decision, but the frequency of repairs had gotten just too great. So I moved on to the aforementioned Swiss Military watch. Now I was in the modern world. No more winding. A cool-looking black face. Glow-in-the-dark hands. Day-of-the-week, day-of-the-month displays. Waterproof to 100 meters (for Swiss Navy SEALs?).
But no winding mechanism meant a battery that would die at some point. Which it did. So I took it to the nearby Swiss Army store on Prince Street. No, no, the Aryan woman behind the counter sniffed at me, that is a Swiss Military watch, and this is a Swiss Army store. I was about to draw her a Venn diagram when she produced a form which I could fill out and mail in with my watch, and shooed me out of the store. (Their website confusingly explains, “Victorinox Swiss Army Watch SA does not make the Swiss Military watches, a company called Wenger does. However, since summer 2005, Wenger is now part of the Victorinox family.”)
I was not going to mail away my watch. I like looking at my wrist and knowing what time it is. And I don’t realize how often I do that until I’m not wearing a watch. My fill-in watches, a Timex Ironman and a chintzy knockoff Clinton/Gore inauguration model, were not cutting it. My life was off-kilter. I needed to bring the Swiss Military watch back to life immediately.
Joon Lee Gifts on Hoboken’s main drag saved the day. And all remained calm until 9:30 a.m. last Saturday. Which I knew was, coincidentally, the shop’s last day in business. On a previous visit to purchase a calculator battery (I’m a dork, OK?), the proprietor had explained that the rents had gotten too high, so he was retiring. Or was he just too polite to mention… the Silbert Watch-Repair Curse? At any rate, I rushed to the store, as I didn’t know what time he was closing. Nor what time it was.
I was too late. They had packed up the batteries. He kindly told me somewhere else to go, but his accent was too thick, so I just nodded and thanked him.
Great, now I had to find another watch-repair shop. I did some Googling that night and set out the next day. A new jewelry shop, advertising watch repair, had opened in downtown Hoboken. I walked over, but they were closed on Sunday. So I walked to another jewelry store in midtown Hoboken. A handwritten note on the door said that “Vicki” was at their uptown location that day. I schlepped up there… and it was also closed. So I high-tailed it back downtown to a weird combination jewelry/comic-book shop. They were open on Sundays… but closed at 4 p.m. It was now 4:15, according to my phone. Had I really become one of those animals who check the time on their phones?!?
The next morning, on my way to work, I tried the new jewelry store again. The door was locked. A woman inside mimed to me that they’d be open in one hour. And how was I supposed to calculate that? Follow the sun’s passage across the sky? So I crossed into Manhattan. And there, on Hudson Street, was a place I had probably passed 100 times but never noticed:
Shoes and watches. Normally that might have given me pause for thought, but, when you’ve seen jewelry and comic books intermingling, everything’s fair game. I stepped inside. It looked like they’d been there a while. In the back, an older fellow worked steadily at what I have to imagine was some sort of shoe-repairing machine. A wide assortment of shoes, belts, and handbags lined sagging plastic shelves. An old glass case held a variety of polishes. In the front of the shop, on the right side, sat a younger bearded fellow sporting a yarmulke. He was surrounded by watches and clocks—cuckoos, “Drink Pepsi,” you name it.
I handed him my wounded watch. He asked if I wanted to wait…or come back later. The anxiety of being without my watch for even another moment began to rise, but I calmly inquired how long the wait would be. “Eh, five minutes,” he shrugged. Now, I know New York City has a reputation for being fast-paced, but are there really people out there who wouldn’t wait five minutes?
“The band is very worn, would you like me to replace it?” he asked. Oh, here it comes: the upsell. I didn’t want to get suckered into some fancy-pants New York wristband. “How much would that cost?” I replied. “Twelve dollars,” he said, which seemed totally reasonable. But before I could even say yes, he added, “I could let you have it for ten.” Were we now haggling, or was I just receiving the “Tribe” discount? (And I hadn’t even expressed interest in joining the mincha minyan advertised on the front door.)
I casually mentioned that I needed a 20-millimeter band. (It was that same impulse where, at the auto mechanic, you reassert your threatened manhood by referring to any car parts you know the name of.) Then, to while away the five minutes, I turned to my left, where I finally noticed a large display of bright, whimsically patterned plates, bowls, and cups. I was getting accustomed to the shoes and watches—they’re both vaguely in the “accessories” family, and they both dig leather—but this threw me for a loop. There were PETA signs, photos of Moby; it all felt very… goyish. But as it turns out, David’s Shoe & Watch Repair shares storefront space with Rose & Daisy’s. And why not? Tight real estate makes for strange bedfellows. I love this crazy city.
Five minutes later, I knew I was exactly 18 minutes late for work. And all was right in the world.
Jack Silbert, curator