Two Watches

I can tell you the time. Honestly, the big hand, the little hand, and so on. I can definitely tell the time, but a moment came a few years ago when I discovered… why bother?

One side-effect of the rise of mobile phones, PC’s, and tablets was that analog clocks became decorative and watches irrelevant. As years passed, and my own life transitioned from blood and air to thumb and screen, the need for their very existence became questionable. If I needed to tell the time, I would glance to the top of whichever piece of glass I was using.

Yet as the need for watches has waned, the passion for them has remained. And, in certain circles, it soars. The author Gary Shteyngart detailed his obsessive love of watches in an essay in The New Yorker, Confessions of a Watch Geek, published in 2017, shortly after Donald Trump had been elected president. “In a society hopeless and cruel,” he explained, “the particular and the microscopic were the only things that could still prove reliable.”

“A watch was merely a watch until mobile phones arrived,” says Bill Prince, editor of GQ Watch and Jewelry, “whereupon it was assigned many more attributes, not least the ability to define the wearer’s taste and social standing.” He continued, “For men, hard-to-find vintage models by Rolex, Audemars Piguet, and Patek Philippe have become the nearest a man can get to owning an It bag – and occupy the same role: confirmation that he is someone who understands current trends, and has the resources to do so. At Browns, (the iconic British fashion and luxury goods boutique with two locations in London), sales of MAD Paris Watches (reworked Rolex, Patek Philippe, and Audemars Piguet models) average at one a week – the most recent sold for $150,000 (American).”

A little history

Some years ago, my now ex-wife (also known as the ex-narc) invited families I did not know (and could not afford) to our house throughout the summer to swim in our backyard pool. “The moms are really nice in Mommy and Me and I thought you would enjoy meeting their husbands.”

Translation: I hate your family. I really hate your friends. So, I will choose who I want your friends to be. In most cases, the guys were in their mid to late twenties with a job profession involving finance. I was in my early forties selling technology and had little in common, which after they left caused numerous dialogues about how I did not even attempt to be cordial.

One particularly hot Sunday, July afternoon, two families I did not recognize were in our backyard. I am socially inept but for some reason, I was feeling like a total outcast with these people I did not know. I noticed the two dads with designer haircuts were so engaged in a dialogue they completely ignored me when I attempted to introduce myself. A few moments later, they walked toward the pool after removing their sneakers and golf shirts leaving on their watches which seemed to be the size of the barbeque I had just turned on to grill the hot dogs, hamburgers, steak, and chicken my wife bought. (“I guess they’re hungry,” I mumbled to her face of “Do not embarrass me. I do not care about the cost. This can make or break me at school on Monday. After all, these are the cool moms.”)

Without starring too hard, I saw the name on one of the watches. Breitling Navitmer. I mean neighbors three houses away saw the name. They both owned the same watch. I was going to ask how a person stays afloat with something so big that it could guide a ship in from the sea but they were still engaged in their dialogue about whatever it was they were talking about and it really wasn’t worth the argument that I would receive once they left.

I did some digging of my own. Eight thousand dollars. EIGHT THOUSOND DOLLARS! For those watches. Each! I mean, granted, there’s Big Ben and then these two watches. I put a list together of what I could do with that money but my wife who would scream to high heavens if I ever considered such a purchase said, “You were so envious. No wonder they hated you. It was so embarrassing.”

“What!!!” I screamed in my head for if I had done it out loud, she would still be yelling. “First of all, I don’t know how the rafts didn’t sink. Second, I think their hair costs as much as their watches.”

Fast Forward

That day got me thinking. It turns out that I have several watches. The funny thing is I purchased none of them and not one is the size of a blue whale (average size 72.1 feet and 110,000 pounds).

I lined them up in no particular order. All of them were presented to me before I ever met The Narc. In other words, each represented something in my life prior to marriage. The funny thing was, The Narc returned such a limited quantity of my possessions after our divorce that my lawyer filed three separate motions before she handed over less than twenty-five percent of what I walked into the marriage with. One of the watches, a Tag Heuer, which I had won in a sales contest was one of the watches missing. (For the record, she informed the court under oath that it was stolen by my friend whom she allowed to pick up my property. Why didn’t I pick it up? Her attorney said, “The family fears you.” I later found out that she gifted the watch to her sister’s daughter). Monetarily it hurt as the watch in today’s market is worth fifteen hundred dollars.

For the record, had Brodi stolen the watch, we would have split the money!

On the other hand, I was wearing that watch when I proposed to her. She held back most of my photo albums but made sure to give me all pictures of the two of us. And there it was. She was wearing my engagement ring. I was wearing the Tag Heuer watch. God works in mysterious ways.

In the collection, she returned there were two Hamilton watches, both courtesy of my grandfather. The first was a self-winding rectangle that he purchased when he heard President Kennedy had one. The other was the one my father bought him when my parents were on a cruise in the Caribbean, to replace the old one. (My mother gave me both after he passed away).

Then there were two Movado’s. My mother purchased the first for my father for their tenth wedding anniversary. It had a twenty-four-carat gold band. He wore it on those occasions that he wore his tuxedo, which back in the day, was approximately six times a year. They gave me that first watch for my twenty-second birthday, with a leather band. I asked. They yelled. (You did not ask questions when I was growing up. It only caused problems). The original band became a bracelet for my sister with her initials in diamonds. I’m guessing she wanted nothing to do with the timepiece.

The other Movado came to me after my dad passed away. It was the new Movado my mother bought him for their thirtieth anniversary. By that point, the tuxedo was cut down to twice a year, but none the less he wore the new watch with pride.

This time, the watch was complete with gold band. I guess my sister knew her initials. “Your brother would just sell it, so I’m giving it to you.”

I always loved Mom’s spirit of giving.

But there were two others in the collection. Both mean as much to me as anything I ever owned.

Watch number one

The first is a Rado DiaStar. Cost: $100. Purchased in 1970 at Stanley and Sons on the corner of 37^th Street and Fifth Avenue in Midtown Manhattan, down the street from my dad’s favorite restaurant, The 37^th Street Hideaway.

I know this because some years ago, after he passed away, I was cleaning out his bedroom with my mother and we came across that very bill of sale.

He bought a second one two months later for my brother who at that time was fifteen, six feet tall, and weighing in at about 180 pounds. I cried upon not receiving one of these magnificent gems which, at nine years old, was bigger than my entire body.

I mean you get it, right? Your father and brother have something really cool and you are made to feel as if moving forward all is fine and on the next family trip just toss me in the trunk with the rest of the luggage.

The watch was labeled indestructible. My brother decided to test this warning by wearing it a year later in a pickup game of basketball. Apparently, the Rado people never met my brother. When I saw it in pieces on his dresser, I was told to “Keep your mouth shut and do not say a word to Mom or Dad.”

I suggested he place all the pieces in his draw if he didn’t want the folks to find out. I thought he was going to hit me when I started laughing upon hearing he was going to try and repair it himself. Even at ten I knew the smarter play was to just come clean.

“You can either help me or get out of here.”

The jig was up when my mother saw me walking up the basement steps and asked why I was carrying the hammer and plyers and I had no answer as she barged into his room.

I was sent to my room as if I was part of his mess. The screaming did continue in my room after our dad arrived home and yelled at my brother. I was informed that saying nothing was as bad as lying.

Ten minutes later as my tears had just about stopped my brother walked into my room and asked if I was in trouble. I told him I was. He said that I should be and walked out. The tears started again.

Welcome to the Real World

That day my mother and I were cleaning out my father’s possessions, I asked what she wanted to do with his watch. A Rado DiaStar thin black and silver with a square face. She gave it to him in 1983, again for an anniversary gift, replacing his earlier purchase.

She sat on the edge of the bed. “Steven, maybe I’ll keep it. Oh, you will never know how much I disliked that other watch. It was heavy and clunky and watches had become sleek and lean. Unless I bought him a new one, he would never have parted with it.”

And part with it he did. He told me now that I was working, I needed a watch that would be noticed. “You’d be surprised how many people asked me about it while sitting at a bar after work. A watch should be a gift. It should have a memory or some meaning attached to it. Some people earn it after many years on the job or win it in a sales contest. Let this gift be the first of many you receive. Maybe one day you’ll have a son or daughter to pass it on to along with advice you have for them.”

We would meet at The Hideaway, usually on Tuesdays and he would help me figure out my troubles, business and otherwise.

Within a year of taking a job downtown, I was living in New York City. I walked into the Hideaway with my head down. My father, halfway through his Johnny Walker Black on the rocks asked what was wrong.

“It’s the job. It’s making me crazy. Every time I turn around someone’s mad at me.”

“Everyone? Even the boss?”

“Keith? No. In fact he gave me some pretty good advice. He told me to stay a little later and familiarize myself with all the terminals. I thought he was gonna fire me. But he keeps telling me to hang in there. In fact, a few days ago he pulled me aside and said, “Showing up is half the battle. A lesser man would have quit.”

“Smart boy. He’s right. I believe the quote is something like, “Eighty percent of success is just showing up.” And I think it’s Woody Allen but don’t quote me on that. What he’s saying is it may sound easy to shrug off, but not if you look a little deeper. It doesn’t just mean show up for interviews or to work for an 80% increase in success. Showing up also means … starting.

He noticed the blank stare on my face as I sipped my Bloody Mary. (Lunch in the 80s always seemed to consist of alcohol).

“For instance, did you show up at the gym today? Just showing up means you’re 80% of the way to a good workout. The hard part of fighting yourself to get dressed in workout gear, dealing with traffic, or getting hurt is over. Now all that’s left is working out, right? Pretty simple, huh? Even a child could do it.”

He sipped the rest of his whiskey while Michael the bartender slid over a fresh one. “Same thing with opportunity. It’s easier to make significant progress on a project if you simply show up to do it. And that son, is what your boss is saying. What I like about him is he is motivating. While the others in your office who he knows have no understanding of his plan are trying to break you down to make themselves feel better, he is building you up. He has an understanding that his investment in you will pay him back one day in triplicate. He’s intelligent. When he’s running his own company one day see if he will still be a mentor because he’s too smart, from what you are telling me, to stay.”

Yeah, I think about that very piece of advice to this day. Keith had a plan which is what made him successful. Good thing my dad was there to help me understand what was going on because most days I did not see it.

Funny. To this day, I also have a problem with buying a watch. Oh, not because I have enough or everybody you see is wearing an Apple watch or as of late I don’t really wear one. It’s because of those words. Or maybe because I still remember him coming home wearing it night after night and thinking how cool it looked.

Years later, a client asked me after I bought him lunch if I would stop in with him at Tourneau Corner, the luxury watch retailer, on 52^nd Street and Madison Avenue. His watch band needed adjusting.

While waiting, a salesman asked me about my Rado. After taking a close look he asked if he could take it to the back. Upon his return, he offered me twelve hundred dollars and a watch in the four-hundred-dollar range. A few months later, my parents who were living in Boca Raton full time, were visiting.

My mother’s eyes almost left their sockets. “So, let me see your new watch.”

“I turned them down. Dad gave me this watch. I didn’t feel right about trading it in.”

My dad let out a sigh. “Oy. What did I do wrong? I’m not dead. It’s not an heirloom. That’s a month’s rent for you plus a more expensive watch. From Tourneau. I swear one day you will shock me and use your head.”

We were sitting at the bar of The Four Seasons Restaurant awaiting the rest of my family. They both turned toward the bartender and in unison said, “Another round please.”

The Other One

As I said, there is a second watch that means as much to me as anything I have ever owned. A Rolex Datejust 41. Cost: Priceless. (Well, it has a price in the three thousand dollar range, but to me, priceless). Allow me to explain.

For a short time, it was in the possession of The Narc. My gut told me she would not try to sell it but would have it appraised. The problem for her? When you turned the watch over, the back has an inscription: Steve Kaye, Graphnet, 1990.

An inscription lowers the value and this must have upset her terribly. Truth be told, she would never sell my property. Like many narcissists, she’s a hoarder. She would re-gift if it was in good enough condition, like the Tag Heuer. (Wouldn’t it have been nicer to give a Rolex?)

I look at that Rolex and the memories that go with it. Not just what it took to be awarded such an extravagant gift, but my time at the company. Who I was when I was offered a support position by the Sales Manager with no understanding of who they were or what they did and who I became when I was called up to a podium at a national sales meeting in the Poconos and handed a large green and gold box and thanked for my outstanding sales performance by the same person who hired me, now the Vice President of Sales. (Wow, that sentence deserves credit. It went way too long, just like its owner!).

Three watches handed out that night. It should have been four.

After I was called up, my frenemy, John, was called up. Our relationship, to say the least, was filled with explosiveness. Like me, he started in sales support and with a tremendous work ethic, moved into a full-time sales position earning high-performance recognition.

We were the best of friends and the worst of enemies. A short time after his move from Customer Service in the corporate office of New Jersey to the New York sales office, we could be found shutting down any number of Manhattan’s finest watering holes on most nights. We were completely and utterly hung over the next day, but we knew we had to be back in the office before the other reps. One glimpse at either of us led to the proverbial, “You look like shit. Where’d you go last night?”

My dad gave me a piece of advice. “Never ask what you did. It’s better not to know.”

We couldn’t get away with what we did back then today, not with social media. What sounds mythic, even funny, would look boorish on Instagram or Twitter.

“It would start with our friend Tom looking my way and asking, “You buyin’ or cryin’?” It was people in the office getting together after work for a cocktail or two. As the crowd began to thin, the Alcoholics Unanimous group would take over. By nine o’clock we would leave the downtown area, grab a cab and head uptown.

Sometimes Keith, now the VP of Sales was in town. Those evenings would pass into the night and sometimes early morning. One night, we were in New Jersey. The corporation was in the black for the first time in its history. After an evening of celebratory drinking, John taps me and says, “Hey, we’re outta here. Steve wants to go into the city.”

Steve, the mid-western sales manager in town for a meeting, along with a sales rep from Los Angeles in town for a training, piled into the back of our rent-a-car. John drove through the streets of New York City acting more like a drunk tour guide rather than someone in search of a parking spot.

At one of the red lights, Steve jumps out of the car without saying a word and runs into a corner bodega. John and I are laughing as the light turns green and he’s not moving. The cars are honking, drivers are rolling down their windows and cursing, before Steve returns with two six-packs of beer.

John continues his tour before driving to the Lincoln Tunnel and heading back to the VFW, site of the infamous party to get Steve’s rent-a-car. Turning into the parking lot, it is now two forty-five. We have finished the beer and see what we assume to be a drunken mirage.

Tom is standing in the empty lot talking to Keith. John turns off the engine as we get out of the car.

I looked at Tom. Neither of us appeared as if we could stand much longer. A fully hammered John looked at a stoic Keith, “Where do you guys wanna go? The night’s young.”

I start laughing. Keith, who I would swear drank as much alcohol as anyone, looked as if he was about to walk into a board meeting with the CEO. Suit pressed, tie knotted perfectly, he takes one look in our direction and says he needs to speak to Steve. Mary Alice, the Los Angeles rep says she’s on west coast time so she’s open to anything.

Understanding we offered no value, I tapped John. “I think we’re dismissed. Let’s get something to eat.”

We drove back to the city, ate a late dinner, drank more beer, and smiled when we realized the sun was rising and it was now Saturday morning.

I stared at John when he dropped me off. “So what are you doing later? Call me when you get up.”

The VP

Keith made us all better. I still think of his strategic moves, once explained by my dad and other times by Tom, promoted to manager of the New York City sales office, which helped us compete. We did not always win but we were a small outfit competing against larger companies.

The CEO, who had purchased the company months earlier, walked towards the podium as Keith was finishing his remarks congratulating the sales team on our accomplishments. He pushed him aside. It was the only time I ever saw Keith surprised.

“I have one more watch to hand out. My Vice President of Sales is the reason we are all here today. I am lucky to have him on my team.”

Keith always seemed to know the right thing to do or say. He was our leader but he was one of us. With each promotion, it was like we were now in the management loop. I mean he wasn’t a yenta. But he would tell us what we needed to know. He sat in management meetings and now a sales guy was asking the questions. He was always the smartest guy in the room. He made us, the sales guy on the street, relevant.

It wasn’t just his understanding of the technology or his sales IQ which was off the chart. It was his intellect combined with his understanding of the people who he interacted with that made him so good.

He knew when he needed revenue, he could pit John against me by calling me, early in the morning while he was driving to work. He would calmly ask how things were going and casually slip in how John was about to close a deal that would net the corporation a half-million dollars. That would be followed by a, “It looks like Johnny will finish the quarter as the number one revenue producer.”

Upon hearing me mumble, “Shit,” his job was done. He would tell me he had to go and let his psychological warfare takeover.

“We have met the enemy, and they are us”

This is a twist on Oliver Hazard Perry’s words after a naval battle: “We have met the enemy, and they are ours.” The updated version was first used in the comic strip “Pogo,” by Walt Kelly, in the 1960s and referred to the turmoil caused by the Vietnam War.

In my case, my friend was now the enemy and there were days we would go at it. Oh, we wouldn’t make it physical, but the verbal sparing and back stabbing would have made it hard for a lesser man.

Keith went so far as to place us in an office…together. Two desks next to each other. We went from envy to smiles at the drop of a hat but the results were there. And so was the revenue.

The enemy of my enemy

One rainy New York City day, I had arrived in the office as usual by seven thirty. I hung up my wet overcoat while tossing my soaking wet umbrella in the corner.

As I opened my coffee, cream only, the phone rang. I heard the background noise, I gave my normal salute, “Graphnet. Can I help you?”

There was no cheerfulness in his voice. There were no jokes. No concern for how I was. “Steven, where is the payment from National Australia Bank? They are now two months behind. I approved this application based upon your recommendation.”

The monologue continued as John walked in. I simulated my left hand into a gun and pointed it at my head.

As he removed his coat and sipped his coffee he began laughing. Our relationship was at an all-time low. (A hunch that Tom may have mentioned something in one of his many conversations with the boss).

The next two minutes saw me loosen my tie and shake my head.

“Where’s the other one?” he asked without confirming anything he had just gone off on me about.

“Right here,” I replied as I placed him on hold and hit John’s extension saying nothing in the process.

I opened my desk drawer, removed a bottle of Tylenol, and reached for my now lukewarm coffee.

I smiled as I watched John. He had little information to share as well with a stare at me like, “Thanks for the warning.”

There was no goodbye. He hung up and looked my way as I tossed him the bottle.

“Jesus Christ. What was that about? Nothing changed from last night. Screw him. You set me up?”

“Kid, I got my own problems. You somehow don’t enter the equation.”

“Okay. Lighten up.”

We were speaking infrequently the past week as I was trying everything I could to catch John on his revenue numbers. We looked at each other in amazement. We had no idea Keith was on his way into the city.

John finished his coffee and said, “I need a beer.” Before I could reply he was reaching for his overcoat.

There was a bar three blocks from the office at the South Street Sea Port that was permitted to sell alcohol at that hour of the day.

It took years for me to understand what was done to us.

As I said Keith was as much psychological as he was intellectual. A student of all things. History was one of his best weapons. Pitting us against each other brought in the needed revenue. Now was the time to clean it up.

Back to that quote

Winston Churchill, back in World War II, when the Germans invaded Russia and broke the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact, watched as Russia then joined the ally’s side in the war. It led to the creation of this: “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Russia was an enemy to Germany so with a common enemy, led that creation of the saying.

With our common enemy intact, we walked, cursed, and mumbled in the rain and drank with the electricians just coming off their overnight shift. I was reaching for my overcoat which had slid to the floor as I watched John order another beer while asking for a bowl and a box of cereal.

“What are you doing?”

Resembling a mad scientist, he began to chuckle when he poured the box of Corn Flakes into the bowl and then dowsed it with the remainder of his beer. “Breakfast of champions.”

I shook my head, drank the shot of whiskey sitting before me and nodded at the bartender who was reaching for another beer. “Jesus. Snap. Crackle. And Burp, huh?”

The ice was broken. It felt like my first laugh in a month.

Of course, we were discovered by noon where Tom, for keeping everyone’s sanity and hating the job of sales manager was as deserving of a Rolex as John or me, and Keith continued drinking with us. No mention of why we were there or our morning wake up calls. By that afternoon, we were all smiling. Mission Accomplished.

Tom sacrificed a good deal in those days. He was the first one of us in that New York Sales Office to grow up. He was married with children and worse, he gave up drinking! The late nights. The early mornings. It was not reflected in the paycheck and the battle for commission for John and me as well as himself proved futile on many occasions.

I am proud to say he is still sober with a terrific life and an even better sense of humor as we remember those days with both fondness and sadness. Jeez, we were reckless!

Two Watches, Two Men

I was at my best in those days. I was learning. I was broke. (Whenever finance was brought up to Keith, he told us we were on “scholarship.” We were learning and education is expensive. See what I mean about him being smarter than us?) I was hungover daily. And I was coming into my own led by two men.

My dad and I would meet for lunch at the Hideaway where he, now retired, would help me dissect things taking place in my life. He always told me that I needed to hustle. “Listen to the boss. Keep showing up. Never quit. He needs you to succeed. Be visible. First to arrive. Last to leave. Things will get rough. Make them notice you.”

The more I hustled, the more I learned. Keith always offered to attend sales calls with me providing a perspective that only he saw. “Most people are trying to sell. We are trying to help solve problems. Customers like that. If you put yourself in your customer’s shoes everything takes on a new meaning? Right? What will make him or her look good? What is nobody doing for them? Can we help? I don’t know, but now they’re talking to you like a consultant or a friend. See the difference?”

I think about my dad every day.

I think about how Keith conducted himself most days. Alway…Always…Always…had our backs. As I said, he was always the smartest guy in the room but never arrogant. Always thinking three or four steps ahead.

Both men made me better. I miss those days. I miss those men.

Maybe one day I can pay it forward. The jury’s still out on that one.