Liquidation Sale

Eric bought my engagement ring at a swanky French jewelry store in downtown Chicago called Christian Bernard. Everything you could possibly stereotype from just hearing the name of the store is true. Fancy golden gate upon the entrance, elegant white carpeting that doesn't show the slightest hint of dirt, and a smell that perpetuates the air of superiority. My ring originally came in a elegantly carved wooden box that was in turn housed within a beautiful royal blue velvet bag, that was in another golden box with gold embossed french lettering, and that was in a bag which depicted a french colonial scene of people merely being beautiful to one another.

Once last summer I was shopping downtown and meandered in to have my rings cleaned. A woman with an incredibly thick french accent took one look at my rings and began to lecture me intensely on how poorly I was treating my rings, even suggesting that I did not deserve to have them if I were to treat them in such a vile way. She tisked and shrugged and shook her head. I mentally travelled back to 4th grade Catholic school standing in front of Sister Fintan. I left in shame and have since that moment always remove my rings whenever I even think to apply lotion.

Last week, our insurance company asked for specific detailed paperwork on the ring in order to cover it in our renters policy. Yesterday my husband Eric and I decided to walk there to get it. Christian Bernard is located in the Watertower Plaza downtown, a roughly 35 minute walk from our apartment. It was 15 degrees outside, so we walked fast.

We braved the elements, glided up the plopping water escalator and journeyed up to the 5th floor. When we got to the top, turned the corner and faced the store, we did not see the establishment at all. We saw a volcanic eruption of cardboard red, white and black signs all slapped on top on each other, vying for space to breathe and be read. LIQUIDATION SALE! EVERYTHING MUST GO! BANKRUPTCY! EVERYTHING 60%-75% OFF!

We made our way through the crowd, who were grasping for every necklace, bracelet and engagement ring as if a giant diamond pinata broke. Customers grabbing for a sales rep to help them. And the salespeople's heavy accents spoke faster, more hurried, more eager than I'd ever previously experienced. They weren't dressed as nice, they seemed more tired, the carpeting seemed trampled on and dirty. My husband's face was quite surprised. After a bit he found the exact woman who had lectured me the summer before and explained what we needed. She told him that all paperwork was sent back to the corporate office, and they would have to contact them directly. There was nothing she could do. She barely asked us our name. Eric was pissed. What my husband heard was...."thanks for spending a small fortune with us, we could give a shit what happens to you now, we're desperately trying to recover what is left of our own ass."

The walk back home seemed colder, and we were getting hungry. The thought of the leftover spaghetti from the night before and the subject topic of random friends and family members got us home before we froze solid. Eric will have to call corporate next business week and I'll no doubt have to deal with a pissed off husband a little while longer. My mind went back to all those ugly red, white and black screenprinted signs....we might as well have entered a pawn shop.

A pawn shop with french accents and a golden gate that soon will be closed forever.