I love my watch

I love my watch

When I was in college I had an inexpensive Timex watch with a Speidel expanding watch band. I am right-handed so, in keeping with accepted styles, I wore it on my left wrist. In those days, when you learned to drive a car you also learned the hand signals: left hand out the window at a right angle upward to signal a right turn, left hand straight out the window to signal a left turn and left hand out the window at a right angle downward to signal that you were stopping. In warm weather I used hand signals as well as directional signals (which had been standard in cars for about ten years by the time I was driving). Once, needing to make a left turn, I appropriately stuck my hand out. A few blocks later, stopped for a red light, I discovered my watch was gone and realized it had flown off a few blocks back when I signaled for the left turn. I drove back to that corner to find my watch completely crushed by some unknowing driver’s tire. I wasn’t unhappy but definitely felt foolish.

I bought a new Timex. This time with a leather band. And, although I no longer use hand signals, I have, since that day, always worn my watch on my right wrist and have never again had an expansion bracelet.

I continued to wear that watch or another similarly plain and reliable time-keeping device. I am not sure which watch or watches I used the first seven and a half years of the 1970s, but they were probably quite modest (I had one taken from me at knifepoint while taking a lunch walk in Central Park across the street from the hospital – in those days, New York was having tough times – but that is another story for another day). I have never been attracted to fine, fancy or expensive watches. I don’t wear jewelry either except for my simple gold wedding ring.

But that all changed more than 40 years ago, on June 5, 1978.

It was the last few weeks of my 30 months of service as Acting Chairman of the Department of Pathology at the Mount Sinai Medical Center in New York. The permanent Chairman would arrive in four weeks and the department held a surprise party for me and presented me with a beautiful Omega watch which I immediately loved and still do (this seemingly clumsy pairing of words – ‘which watch’ above and ‘watch which’ here – immediately reminds me of the scene in Casablanca when the older, heavily accented couple are discussing their forthcoming migration to America with the head waiter, Carl, played by the marvelous, chubby-jowled character actor, S.Z. (“Cuddles”) Sakall. The couple are trying to practice their English skills and, in that scene, “which watch?” meant “what time is it?”).

The watch I was given, glistening gold with a spare, elegant, number-free face, highlighted by a black leather band, was the fanciest wrist watch I’d ever worn. The back of the case was inscribed with my initials, “S.A.G.” with the Latin “Amicitia et Aestimatione,” (friendship and respect), followed by “Dept. Path.” and the date, “6-5-78” The watch immediately became a part of my identity. As soon as I opened the gift box I loved this watch. Except for the key incidents I will relate to you, it has been, and still is, perfect for me and, importantly, has kept perfect time. Over the years members of my family have, on more than one occasion, asked if I wanted a new watch for a birthday or for some holiday but I never hesitate for a moment. After thanking them for their thoughtfulness, I firmly state, “Absolutely not.”

I love my watch.

In 2013 Kate, our daughter, Jennifer, and I were in Singapore when my watch stopped running. I found a jeweler who changed the battery, to no avail. It was still not running and I sensed I was experiencing a calamity of the gravest kind. Omega has a large office and repair service in Singapore and I ran over one morning and left my watch, with great trepidation and anxiety, for evaluation and, theoretically, repair. Six hours later I came to retrieve the watch and was told it could not be repaired and would have to be sent to the Omega factory in Switzerland. I remember well my disappointment and my adamant refusal to send the watch anywhere. I would take it back to New York and have it repaired there. You can find anything and everything in New York, can’t you? In the meantime, our daughter, Jennifer, had been enjoying a walk in the Singapore streets. Seizing on the opportunity to finally gift me with a new watch, she purchased a casual, yet traditional-looking plastic watch for the princely sum of approximately two dollars. That watch looked surprisingly good and worked fine. It was completely satisfactory for the remainder of our trip and for more than six months after, which turned out to be almost exactly the period of time before I would again be able to wear my cherished Omega.

In New York I took the watch to the main Omega office and repair center on Fifth Avenue. Again, the most disheartening news: it was not reparable and would have to be sent to Switzerland. This time I acquiesced. Four months later, when I was back in Los Angeles, the package from Biel, Switzerland arrived with a precisely written letter. My watch is too old, the letter advised me. A key component part for the watch is no longer manufactured. It can not be repaired.

Depressed and disgruntled I began looking in display cases of watch stores whenever I passed one. Nothing struck my fancy and, after a few days of disappointment, I decided to give repair one more try. I went to one of the biggest watch dealers in Los Angeles, on Pico Boulevard, a mile or so from my house. They have a very impressive entrance, occupying half of the street, and, inside, glistening glass cases display many fine watches. They carry and repair all the best brands, including Omega.

After keeping it for a few days they told me: it couldn’t be repaired. It was too old. There were no parts for it. The same sad saga I heard before.

I was parked across the street from this dealer and, after looking at new watches in their display cases without seeing anything I particularly liked, I left and crossed the street to my car. Looking up, I realized I was directly in front of a small shop whose modest garden-hose green awning said: “Repair, buy & sell watches & gold.” Still not ready to acknowledge defeat for my watch, I asked myself: Why not give it a try?

Mr. Hooshmand, a slightly built, gentle man of uncertain, albeit possibly ancient, age has a strong Irani accent. He opened the watch back, looked at it for a few minutes, and said, in no uncertain terms, “Come back in one week. I will fix.”

And he did.

Even when the battery runs out while I am in New York, or some other place, I wait until I can bring it to Mr. Hooshmand. He is my watch guru, the guardian of my timepiece, and the only one I trust with it. I love my watch.

Along with many other communities in America, Los Angeles had rioting after the murder of George Floyd. Mr. Hooshmand’s store windows were smashed and the long display cases inside, once filled with repaired old watches, were completely looted. I happened to need a new battery soon after that horrible event and was dismayed to see the twisted iron gates that should have prevented entry but didn’t. I was especially distressed to see the empty cases where dozens of beautiful antique watches once sat. Jewelry stores of all kinds are subject to thievery and it is not unusual for them to be assaulted in this way. Hooshmand had been robbed twice before and no longer was insured. He is, however, undefeated and determined to continue. He has a new, hopefully sturdier, gate and has begun accumulating a new stock of watches.

About two months ago, our grand Seth Thomas antique living room clock stopped. Without going into the not-so-interesting details, Mr. Hooshmand repaired it but, when we brought it home, it was running a few minutes slow each day. He came for a house call (the clock is heavy and clumsy to transport and one schlep was enough for Kate and me). He made some adjustments and it now keeps perfect time.

Some days after that my Omega also started losing time. My watch batteries usually last for almost two years and, since it was less than a year since Mr. Hooshmand last replaced the battery, my worry gene popped into action. What if it’s not the battery? Singapore instantly came to mind. I ran to the watch shop and, indeed, when Mr. Hooshmand tested the battery it was fine. He said he would keep the watch and work on it. I picked it up two days later. He had cleaned it and he said it would be okay.

Ten days later it was again losing time. Back to Hooshmand’s. This time he changed the battery, although the one in the watch still had a charge. He then showed me the mechanism of a different watch he was repairing. He pointed to a small lever. In mechanical watches, he explained, the lever mechanism is used to adjust the timepiece. Move the lever this way, he gestured with his delicate forceps, it will go slower and move it the other way it will go faster. Battery watches, such as mine, don’t have the same device. Then, peering over his half-frame glasses, his voice solemn and slightly lowered, he told me my watch was old. I didn’t respond and, in the silence of the shop, he also paused. Then he said, in a tone befitting a caring and compassionate surgeon relating a decidedly poor prognosis to a desperately anxious relative, there may not be anything he can do the next time if has a problem.

“Crestfallen” might be the way Jane Austen would describe my feelings at that moment, but that wouldn’t capture the anguish, the agony, the despair I felt. Gently delivering the final blow, he whispered, “You need new watch.”

In a semi-trance, I drove home to tell my wife, and eventually my children, of my heartbreak, emphasizing to each of them, “I really love this watch.” Still, the watch was working fine when I first sat down with Kate. As she and I chatted in the living room I could see the watch starting to lose time. First, a minute. Then two. I checked the time on the grand Seth Thomas. Then I checked it on my iPhone. No doubt! My watch was losing time. When it was four minutes slow I walked into the bedroom and put the Omega on top of my bedside table. I opened the drawer and took out my back-up, slightly gaudy, watch, which I definitely do not like very much.

What I am about to write is something I don’t really believe so you shouldn’t either. The magical realism style of writing is not something I especially enjoy (except perhaps for One Hundred Years of Solitude) but now I find myself compelled to employ it.

As I was fastening the backup watch to my wrist I found myself staring as the hands of my Omega began steadily creeping forward to precisely the correct time.

And now, seven full days later, as I write this commentary, it continues to maintain perfect time.

I love my watch and have determined that I need to tell it so every day.


Post script:

This paean to my watch is posted 8 days before the 250th anniversary of the birth of Ludwig van Beethoven (December 16, 1770 – March 26, 1827). More to come.