ABSTRACT
There is a watch repairman on Brighton Beach who used to be my student. I go to him once in a while when the chain on my watch bracelet slips off its hook. Every time that happens I remember my dad, a real handyman, who used to fix all the broken things—big and little—including electricity, for the entire family. Once he was gone, my household became Americanized; instead of fixing things, we started to throw them away. But the ritual of having this watch bracelet fixed in the tiny watch repair booth, squeezed in the entrance of the Russian bakery, is somehow important for me. So, I sigh—and reluctantly go.
