Watch Repair

I went to the mall last weekend – a place I don’t frequently go, despite being female and having, supposedly, an innate homing response to bring me there. My watch band was broken, and there’s a watch repair shop located in a kiosk, somewhere between the JCPenney and Nordstrom anchors. You can tell by these two stores that the mall has never really found its identity. Not like the new competitor, just a few miles away, with Neiman Marcus, Louis Vuitton, Jimmy Choo, Hermes, and Ferragamo – and, of course, no lowly watch repair kiosk in the middle.

So off I go on a downpour-style rainy Saturday afternoon, tucking this task in between two other errands. My husband was working, my son was busy, so it was just me, filled with free time I could have filled with anything, but, instead, I have to take my watch in.

It’s only October, and the mall parking lot is full. Who are these people, I want to know, who willingly come here? I get it’s awful out, and not a lot to do outdoors, but, really, is there no better place to hang out?

Anyway, in I go, and I quickly find the kiosk, and the beleaguered young man who works here, by himself, in a kiosk, in a mall. He’s got his head hung over a blue leather watchband, and has four customers before me. The first is an elderly woman and her companion – they’re here for the blue watchband. I know a bit about old women, and no transaction is a quick one. So I settle in to my spot behind a tall, nondescript, mustached man, and begin to sigh loudly, breathe audibly, shift my weight from foot to foot, look disparagingly at the still-broken timepiece on my wrist, and generally make my misery public. The kiosk guy looks up and apologetically mumbles he’ll be with us shortly. Perhaps clear diction is contraindicated for kiosk work; perhaps I’m just testy.

My pessimistic presumptions are challenged, as within just a few minutes the blue watchband lady is finished. Then the stylish, trendily-bald man presents his bold, gold, chunky metallic watchband for service. Eventually an older couple comes in line after me, and we make small talk. Just this tiny bit of human connection is enough to make me stand up straight, stop sighing, and begin to engage in dialogue that is pleasant. They bring me back from the edge, restore me to my preferred version of myself – wherever you two folks are today, please accept my thanks.

We talk, we chat about nothing, we make small moments of light laughter, and then it’s the guy in front of me who’s up. The kiosk guy looks over in my direction, and I’m thinking it’s a total victory – I’m gonna be next, I’m gonna get out of here before noon, I can finish up with the other errands and get home for something pleasant to do before the day is up. The older couple has wandered into a neighboring store, and come back, leaning on the kiosk counter. The guy in front of me is done, it’s just about to be my turn, and the older man launches into his repair request while I’m staring, gaping open-mouthed and speechless, thinking I’ve just been skunked and they’ve stolen my place and it’s totally not fair. I stammer (perhaps just proximity to kiosks steals linguistic capacity) that I was here first, and it’s my turn, and the couple and the kiosk man are instantly apologetic. The couple offer up their reason for stepping forward in front of me – they are not, it turns out, skunk-like people. They thought I was with the last customer, and that it was their turn after “we” were finished. They thought I was his wife.

They see two people out for the day at the mall. The couple doesn’t speak to each other. The guy’s turned away from his mate the whole time she’s standing next to him; the woman’s broadcasting every possible message of boredom and irritation. The nice couple (remember, these are the two who had redeemed me just minutes prior) and the kiosk guy see all this, and draw the natural conclusion: these two are married.

“What a miserable marriage that would’ve been,” I joke. We’re all laughing, and of course, the kiosk guy fixes my watch quickly – for no charge – and I cheerily say goodbye to him and the nice couple, who finally have their turn. We’ve all found our words and our better selves through this funny instance of mistaken perceptions.

Had my actual husband been with me on this errand, he wouldn’t have been in line with me – he’d have seen the time requirement and excused himself to browse the really cool knife and cigar shop. But before he’d have left, it’s likely he would have stood by my side, spoken directly to me while looking at me; heck, he might have even held my hand, or stood close with his arm around my waist, letting me lean into him the way I like to (better for me to stay balanced while perched on one foot). Our vibe would have reflected something like pleasure for a small moment of connection.

I hope this is the way my marriage always looks and feels – not a testy/bored/couldn’t-care-less/keep-your-expectations-low union that’s lost its luster - even when we’re just running errands, in line at a kiosk, in the dreaded mall.