Near Ax Murderment Escape

Now about cameras: The last time I tried to use my venerable Nikon FG, the shutter opened and never closed again. Toward the end of June, I finally got around to taking it to Calumet on my way home from work. I’ve been treated rudely in the past there, but hoped for the best. There were a couple of employees in sight, each talking to a customer. Across the big main room, there were two guys standing near each other, one behind a counter, one in front of it, neither saying a word.

I waited a few moments for one of them to say it would be his extreme pleasure to serve me, and then I walked over and said to the one behind the counter, “I have a camera that needs to be repaired and a question about buying a new camera.” There was a period of (more) dead silence, so then I waved my hand, as if to say, “Hello! Here I am—an actual human being—right in front of you!” Once you get to be a middle-aged lady, you have to wave your hands a lot so you don’t get ignored.

Then the fellow I was addressing looked at me with an expression that clearly said, “Is that ax still nearby, or did I leave it in the break room? Because I would really like to hack you to bits and see your blood running across the carpet.” It was an expression of pure malevolence, to the point that I felt a frisson of fear. Then he coldly informed me, “I’m with a customer.”

I had assumed the second person was a fellow employee, since neither was doing or saying anything, but I gather they were sharing some silent “together” time, and who am I to judge?

I went to the other side of the floor to wait for someone else, but was, unfortunately, joined by the same person, who gave me to understand that my camera is a piece of crap no one but an imbecile would bother repairing. He said at some point, “I don’t mean to be rude,” by which he meant, “I totally mean to be rude.”

It was an extremely unpleasant experience, and I went home with the intention of complaining to the store manager and also to corporate headquarters; to the latter, I was also going to suggest they put a bike rack in the parking lot.

But by the time I got home and took a shower, I didn’t feel like stewing about it anymore—I know, strange—and even decided I might go back there to shop for a camera, after telephoning the manager to find out who the nice people are, if any.

Meanwhile, my camera was still broken. I probably won’t ever use it again, but it has sentimental value, and I didn’t like to think of it sitting on the shelf with its eye perpetually stuck open, so I decided to take it to Gassers, where I have also been treated rudely in the past; one learns to enter both camera shops and bicycle shops with a degree of trepidation.

I figured I could tolerate a brief unpleasant interaction and maybe there would be the reward of having a fixed camera, and if not, I was going to let the camera just stay as it was.

Wonderfully, the guy at the repair counter at Gassers could not have been more sympathetic and helpful. Not only did he not roll his eyes over my camera, he said it was well worth fixing, because “this is going to last longer than anything they’re making these days.” So there, Calumet. He explained everything clearly, and we also bonded over the plight of Michael Jackson’s children.

Then I went upstairs and immediately caught the eye of a salesman, to whom I confided that I was now psychologically prepared to purchase a digital camera. He showed me the basic types of digital camera, recommended one that could be considered a hybrid between an SLR and a point-and-shoot, and gave me a brochure and his card. Thus Gassers surprised me pleasantly not once but twice.

However, in the end, while Gassers did fix the FG, I actually ended up buying a camera—my first digital camera—from Calumet, after all. Gassers didn’t have the desired item in stock, and would have charged $40 more for it. I took the precaution of calling ahead, speaking to a manager, and making a date to buy the camera from a Certified Nice Saleslady, which she was. Cathy is her name.