Salt on Hands

Sunday night, my hard drive died. I wasn’t overly concerned—I have an external drive and something called “Time Machine” that supposedly backs up my data. And cost wasn’t an issue; after much effort (including zooming in on an upside-down photo of the bottom of my computer to read the serial number) I learned that my AppleCare account was up-to-date and repairs should be covered. Really, my main worry was whether I’d have my iTunes back in time to do my rinky-dink Tuesday-morning internet radio hour. It is a bit of pleasure in my life.

Monday morning, I spoke with Apple phone rep Brandon, and he was a totally nice guy. (Have you encountered an Apple employee who wasn’t super nice? With the exception of Steve Jobs, of course.) Brandon confirmed that I should bring my iMac to the Genius Bar of an Apple Store. Not my closest Apple Store, because that would mean carrying the 800-pound computer into Manhattan on the train, or paying the $12 tunnel toll plus parking. So Brandon made an appointment for me at the Garden State Plaza in beautiful Paramus, New Jersey. (Brandon would later receive a “very satisfied” rating from me in an emailed survey.)

Lex, who checked me in at the Apple Store, was ridiculously nice, as was Jay, the genius assigned to my case. Scanning the room, I saw a heavily whiskered, floppy-emo-haired young Apple employee happily chatting with a senior-citizen customer. I thought to myself, this is a special place. Why can’t society be more like an Apple Store?

Now I was in a shiny mall with a lot of free time on my hands. Take the computer out of the equation and it really frees up the day. Sure, I could look things up on my smartphone, but mobile internet is really only useful and convenient up to the point when you genuinely need to look things up on the internet. Then the touch screens and itty-bitty places to click become an amazing pain in the ass. Oh, you say, then carry around this large rectangular iPad—problem solved! No, we made phones small so we could conveniently carry them around. Smaller and smaller we made them. But now we’re making them bigger and bigger again. We are idiots and have no goddamn idea what we’re doing.

Jay had told me that my computer might be ready by evening (in time for Tuesday’s radio show!) or if not, then tomorrow (not in time!).

It was kind of nice to walk around a mall. It’s only in the last several years that I haven’t been a regular mallgoer, and I find them vaguely comforting. Hmmm, Monday late morning: Is this where I’d find those desperate housewives I’ve heard so much about? Have loved food courts since I was a little kid—it is the dream set-up for a picky eater. And at this one, or at least at 11:30 a.m. before the lunch rush, the various ethnic meat-and-two-sides merchants were handing out chicken samples on toothpicks. I got four little pieces of chicken, not bad! But I spent my money at Taco Bell. For the past couple of months, ever since a friend sang the praises of the Doritos Locos Taco on Facebook, I have wanted to try one. Now was my chance. It was well worth the wait.

Monday evening came and went with no word from Apple. I came to terms with not doing my morning radio slot. But I wanted to be up and ready as soon as that call came in. Wait, would it be a call, or an email? My home phone was connected to the internet, so would that even work? I constantly pressed the stupid tiny little refresh button on my phone’s email app.

I had other worries. Torrential rain was forecast for Tuesday afternoon. Was this the ideal time to pick up an expensive piece of electronic equipment? I packed an umbrella in my backpack.

At 1:11 p.m., the word came in: My product was ready for pick-up. I hadn’t eaten, due to bad time management and a lack of food in my apartment. Hmmm, maybe another Loco taco? But I’d have to eat before I got the computer, as the iMac is freaking heavy. Once I picked it up, there’d be no time for monkey business. I drove the rainy half-hour to Paramus and found covered parking. That alleviated my water-damage worries. I carefully consulted the “You Are Here” map for the most efficient route back to the parking structure.

I gave up my taco dreams. Logic won out: I still had no idea if the external-drive back-up transfer would go smoothly, and rain might still be a concern once I got back to Hoboken. It was best to get the computer and return home as quickly as possible. Do not pass go; do not collect $200.

But maybe a pretzel? Certainly I had time for a pretzel. Auntie Anne’s, or Wetzel’s? Wetzel’s. There was a Wetzel’s stand on my planned route. But… $3+ for a pretzel? Forget it, Wetzel. Onward to the Apple Store.

I was steps away when I noticed a group of people coming my way, all wearing lanyard name tags. I wondered what their affiliation was. Convention-goers? But were there convention facilities in the mall? And then a thought occurred: Now that I didn’t have an office job and wouldn’t be attending conventions, would I ever wear a lanyard name tag again?

As I was lost in this wistful musing, a petite attractive woman, with long dark hair, seemingly called out to me. But was it me? The name-taggers were mid-stream; she could’ve been talking to any of them. Maybe she was with them. But no, they continued to their unknown destination, and she was still summoning me. The computer could wait.

Arrgh, trapped. It immediately became apparent that she was a kiosk employee. Selling, what? Hand creams and such. No!!! This stuff is boring. I’m a Dial Gold soap guy; I am brand-loyal. And I need to get my computer. And it’s raining. I protested (methinks too much), but she said it would only take 10 seconds. Clearly my reputation precedes me.

“You are Jewish?” she asked, in a thick middle-eastern accent that indicated I didn’t have to ask her the same question.

“What is your name?” she followed up. When she seemed unsatisfied with “Jack,” I added “uh… from Jacob.”

She placed a spoonful of sea salt in my palm. Then, as I held my hands over a small white bowl, she sprayed them with water. I was told to rub the salt all over my hands. She sprayed the residue into the bowl.

“See? It exfoliates. Look at all the dead skin.” I looked in the bowl but didn’t see much. After all, I had just showered. I wanted to look nice for my Apple pals.

I was handed a paper towel to dry off, but then phase two began. She opened another jar and put some shea nut butter in my palm. I almost made a reference to Shea Stadium but thought the better of it. Rub it in, rub it all over. Oh I was sad. My hands were all greasy (or “greazy” as we referred to one guy’s hair in college) and they smelled all pretty.

Then my Tel Aviv temptress moved in for the hard sell. “I give you nice discount because you’re Jewish.” I knew from our secret newsletters that we controlled Hollywood and international banking, but did we run the skin-care industry as well? She led me by the hand to the cash register. “Here, I show you. Regular price for sea salt, $70. But because you’re Jewish…” I didn’t see what she hit on the keyboard: Control-alt-David Ben-Gurion? But $70 suddenly became $25 on the electronic screen.

“I don’t know,” I said, “Doesn’t salt cost, like, two dollars? In the supermarket.” She shook her head at me—oh you silly boy—and continued to explain what a great deal this was.

“But it costs zero if I don’t buy it,” I claimed. Now she was growing slightly frustrated with me. “Hey, I am Jewish,” I meekly offered as explanation.

At long last, I stood up for myself. I told her that I was preoccupied with my computer, I was really only here to pick it up, but if she would give me a business card, I’d… well, I’d be free to leave. I will have wriggled off the hook. She returned to her keyboard, typed in a string of characters, and printed out a small receipt. What was this? The URL for the Protocols? “My email,” she said with a resigned smile.

And just like that, I was—in the words of Allen Dershowitz—the vanishing American Jew. Arrgh, but my hands were all gross. Everyone is so friendly in that Apple Store; I hoped no one would want to shake hands. Hey Lex. Hey Jay. A new guy signed me in. Should I explain that I don’t normally smell all fragrant? And what if the computer slipped out of my slick hands and smashed into James Frey-like fragments? Would AppleCare cover that?

And why did she give me her email? Did she want me to ask her out? It was an exciting thought. Though Paramus is kind of far. And our politics are probably very different, Israeli Jews often on the conservative side of the ledger. (She had mentioned that my purchase would “help Israel.”) But I’d have such nice hands. No, wait, I asked her for a business card, and she gave me the email. This was a business transaction and nothing more.

I got a decent grip on the computer’s thin foam wrapping (those Apple guys think of everything) and headed out. I couldn’t divert from my highly efficient route, so I had to pass by the sea-salt kiosk again. Maybe she wouldn’t see me if I went the long… she saw me. She smiled and called out something. I didn’t hear what it was. I just smiled and kept moving. Best to put it out of my mind, until Mossad agents abduct me in the middle of the night.

I got back to the car and drove straight home. Well, not straight home. I was really hungry by this point. And I’d be passing Secaucus. Many years ago, my friend Joe and I had read in the Star-Ledger that Giovanni’s Deli in Secaucus had the state’s best mozzarella. We made a road trip but it was closed that day. This could be my chance. I pulled off the highway, googled “secaucus mozzarella,” used GPS directions to find the place (OK, OK, the smartphone can be handy from time to time), and ordered a prosciutto-and-mutz sandwich. Back in the car I unwrapped the wax paper and dove right in. It was an amazing sandwich. The fresh cheese was so good, so buttery. Although, maybe that was just the shea nut on my hands.