There’s this coffee shop near my house that I frequent more mornings than not. I’m usually there when the doors open, and the friendly staff have gotten used to me now. So much so that they miss me when I don’t show up, or so they say. Being the first to arrive, I have my choice of seating. I pick the same table: farthest from the front door, and facing the lobby so that I can peer over my laptop to take in the wash of local humanity – secretly judging their life choices while sprinkling in a little work.
On Friday, a small, multigenerational group sauntered in wearing a kaleidoscope of layered outer clothing. The elder man, perhaps in his 60s, obediently sported a camouflage Patagonia rain jacket that looked, to me, like it was constructed with a “3-layer shell containing a fabric, membrane and DWR finish made without intentionally added PFAS.” Because, well… why wouldn’t you? Must’ve been a gift, I surmised.
The lady that I presumed to be his wife wore a brown, wool coat with a furry collar, and 6 large buttons the size of biscuits. Over her shoulder hung a hefty Louis Vuitton-esque bag that I imagined carried every essential one might need if they were stranded in a blizzard, or making an appearance on Let’s Make a Deal.
In tow were two children, a boy about ten and a girl about five, each wearing orange hoodies that subtly announced to everyone their father’s (or grandfather’s) fanatical devotion to the Tennessee Volunteers. The boy was strapped with a Minecraft backpack and the girl donned a pink Barbie messenger bag worn cross-body like a tiny fashionista prepping for a career as an Influencer.
The couple surveyed the digital menu as though they had just landed from another planet, desperate to find something familiar and simple. “Oat milk?” “Nitro Cold Brew?” “Avocado, for breakfast?” But this was a coffee shop and not Chik-fil-a, so they were operating outside of their native tongue. After some pestering from the kids, the children were sent to secure a table for four. Soon, the man calmed his frustrations by joining them, leaving his wife to wrangle the ordering on her own.
By the time he rendezvoused with them, they had already retrieved their tablets from their own bushcraft survival bags. The boy had explored the signage and located the free Wi-Fi key, punched it in like a seasoned operative, and shared it with his sister. And they were off to the races – heads down, faces glowing in the rectangles’ reflective “glowiness,” thumbs frantically dancing.
The man sat down at the table and stared at the boy, then the girl, back and forth with all the curiosity and affection of Jane Goodall observing her chimps discovering fire – only these primates were content in their natural habitat – and he was baffled at how quickly and completely he’d lost them to it.
When his wife arrived, she immediately planted a short, stainless-steel flagpole displaying the number “12” in front of her husband like he had requested a surrender flag. Then she unshouldered her bag, wrapped her coat around the back of her chair, and coached the children to “sit up straight,” all the while clutching her phone like an unpinned grenade. Reflexively, she swiped up and paused for the Face ID to let her pass. I couldn’t see what apps she was using (and honestly, it was probably for the best), although her focus was intent, whichever ones they were.
The husband, let’s call him “Granddad,” offered some topic for discussion, and his wife, “Grandma,” mumbled a response, not detaching her gaze from her lifeline. Granddad studied the hypnotic focus among his tribe, and sat silently, observing the anthropological phenomenon. After a few moments, his attention drifted to the other sights and sounds in the lobby. That’s when I had to break off my surveillance and pose as an ordinary customer also lost in their tech so as to not get caught in my “research.” (Voyeurism? That’s for the courts to sort out.)
Occasionally, I stole a glance and with much dismay I watched as three individuals – completely disconnected from one another – sought seclusion in the middle of a crowd. Each one drawn deeply into their own little world, almost oblivious to everything around them, like Stanley Kubrick had yelled “Action!” somewhere just out of view.
I could sympathize. It wasn’t that long ago when my children and I would plunge into the abyss of video gaming and lose track of large blocks of hours before we came up for air. Fortunately, I apprehended that villain several years ago and set gaming aside.
I noticed Granddad tossing a few conversational antes into the circle for the young ones. Sincere, light questions about how school was going, did they catch the last Vols game, and what they hoped Santa would bring them. But he received almost no response – certainly, no eye contact. His crew was uninterested in what he had to say or wanted to know. They have been conditioned, like any helpless addict, to crave ever-heightened morsels of curated perfection – the wittiest quips, the most salacious take, the manicured life.
Why would Grandma ask for Granddad’s opinion about sports, politics, and current events, let alone satisfy his curiosities about the happenings in her life, when the algorithm served up hotter, sharper, louder voices on demand? He isn’t nearly as compelling as the nameless, faceless strangers, celebrities, pundits and self-proclaimed experts whose pedigree somehow remains unstained no matter how often they’re wrong. He can’t hold a candle to narcissists, outrage merchants, and armchair critics who revel in maligning every institution around – partly to feel alive, mostly to deflect any scrutiny that might reveal that they haven’t created anything of lasting value themselves.
No, she prefers her meat juicier still.
And what could Granddad possibly know about downloaded reruns of Gravity Falls, or the best breeding strategies in My Singing Monsters or the finer points of Cut the Rope 2? Answer: Nothing. What are his chances at deciphering the latest emoji combinations or trending memes? Effectively zero.
The “poor fella” squandered his youth on an entry-level job flipping hamburgers and mopping floors. He wasted his adulthood on supporting “your parents.” He paid bills and volunteered to accept the responsibilities of youth sports coaching, while his kids tried to convince him how independent and how cool everybody thought they were. He just couldn’t see the wisdom in considering every nickel he had as disposable income dedicated to being entertained.
And now look at him?
Waiting on food he probably paid for, surrounded by people he takes care of, offering the only currency he has left – his company, his lived experience, his sincere interest – watching it all bounce off invisible domes and algorithms. The tickles of every dopamine receptor have rendered him obsolete and outdated in real time, right there at Table Twelve.
We often ask what happened to all the good leaders, parents, teachers, and pastors. But we resist the disciplines that make those roles achievable and worth pursuing. We outsource authority over our lives to masters who won’t tell us “No” while they sustain an illusion that we are in control. Little by little, they erode our patience, our resilience, and our discernment. We fall inward at an exponential rate while all of genuine wisdom and affection lies outside among those who have proven ad nauseam their love and devotion.
Seemingly, all it took was a demonstration of their fallibility or the poor landing of a joke to demote them so far down the list of things worthy of our attention that we stopped noticing when they stopped trying. And in the silence that followed, we mistook convenience for wisdom and isolation for peace – never realizing that what we’d really done was trade inheritance for infinite scroll.
I packed up my gear and cleared the evidence of my visit, leaving no tracks. As I exited, their food arrived as promised, though the children couldn’t refrain from finicky protests. Fortunately, their grievances were short-lived; greater appetites beckoned them back to their alt-iverse. They ignored the living to consult the dead illumination fighting through the thick fingerprints on animated glass. Subconsciously, the void in their lives is where the answer lies to a question they don’t yet know how to ask: Why is there no one left to teach us how to live?
At Table Twelve, Granddad waited patiently, stories and questions and answers cued up, but the algorithm won – again – not because it offered more, but because it asked less. And we let it.
Previously Published on substack
iStock image
