The Tale of Frankenwatch

Disclaimer: you know you're a nerd when someone says Frankenstein and you think to yourself, What they really meant was Frankenstein's monster. In that same vein, there may be fellow nerds out there who may be tempted to comment that Frankenwatch should really be Frankenstein's Watch, but you would be wrong. A. Frankenstein didn't create this watch, I did. B. This is my blog, and I can take some poetic license if I want.

I was making my way through an average day at work when a customer approached me. She had been given a watch from our establishment as a Christmas gift, and the band was too small. I took possession of the watch and looked it over to see what could be done. I realized that the watch was one of our *ahem* less expensive watch brands, so I knew that the chance of getting extra links from the vendor was slim to none, especially considering that the watch had an expansion (read: stretch) band. Despite this, I decided to call anyway, thinking it would at least show the customer that I was willing to go the extra mile for them.

My suspicions were confirmed, at least partially. The customer service number was set up so poorly that I would only have been able to speak to someone if I knew their name. I managed to get to a general mailbox, which also instructed me to state a name before leaving a message. I left a message with my question, name, and work number in hopes that I would at least find out their policy at some point.

At this point, I was pretty much ready to apologize to the customer and tell her that I was unable to help her. Just before doing so, however, I remembered the watch graveyard. The watch graveyard lies in a drawer, appropriately enough, beneath a layer of watch tools. Contained within are dozens of watch bands and pieces of watch bands. Their appearance in that drawer stretches back into time immemorial, and they lay there for the sole purpose of letting we jewelry ladies practice our watch band skills. It occurred to me that if I were able to find links of the same size, I could help out my customer.

I proposed my plan to the customer, who approved, and got to work. Soon enough, I found a viable donor, er, a section of watch band that might work. It wasn't exactly the same color as the existing band, but it was close enough that it wouldn't be super noticeable, especially since links would be added to the underside of the watch.  I commenced my project, feeling incredibly excited at the prospect of creating a watch hybrid.

The operation proceeded normally: cap popped off, edges pulled back, staples removed. The moment of truth was upon me. Could I successfully connect two different watch bands? Holding the two ends together, I slipped one side together. The staple fit in both sides and the edge lined up. I lifted the final staple and slid it into place. It fit. I almost breathed a sigh of relief, but I then realized something horrible. The foreign watch band was thicker than the original, and the final staple had fit in, but the edges didn't line up. I attempted to finish the operation, hoping that maybe the watch would be able to hold itself together, but such was not the case. Sadly, I turned to the customer to admit my defeat. She was understanding and thanked me for trying. Somewhat anticlimactically, I returned to my tools and put the watch together to its original condition and handed it back to the customer, who suggested that the watch would probably eventually stretch out.

So that's it. Dreams broken. Aspirations crushed. Villagers safe for another day. Oh, wait, that was the original Frankenstein's monster...