Where’s my toast?

11/5/2025

We are in that dreaded in-between time — that dead time caused by making it through airport security way too fast and having two hours before our plane departs. A harrowing situation for my wife who generally likes to hook a wool rug, send instructional messages to our middle-aged kids, and maybe pave the driveway, all before breakfast. One is either doing SOMETHING at all times, or one is in the grave. 

But, here we are. In the airport. Trapped until departure. Of course, she could read one of the 15 hardback books she has brought. Nope, that won’t work. Or she could play one of the 75 word puzzles she downloads daily on her phone. Hmmm… probably not.

“Or what about knitting that complicated Estonian sweater you have in your bag?”

“Puh-lease, Joe.”

She is at a loss as to how she is going to spend her time. And I, of course, am trying to stay out of her line of sight so I don’t become a much-needed rehab project.

So, we stop for breakfast at an airport cafe.

My wife reads everything on the menu. Then, she looks at the big board over the bar to examine all the specials. Then, she goes back to the menu. Then, she looks around to see if there are other different menus, perhaps with wines, that she hasn’t read. Nope. She’s done it all. Wonderful.

Then, she orders: “Toast with butter, please.”

At this point, things can go multiple directions. But, her ancestors are Irish, and she’s from Iowa. Duh. She is going to want to know where the cashier was born, how many kids they have, where they presently live, and what their views are on the world situation. This is a good thing because time will pass. Finally, the cashier returns to her life after sharing with my wife her home address, phone number and the location of her future grave plot. Good to know.

Whew. We’ve made it this far. Only 95 minutes until departure. Ah, my wife has to run to the restroom. Great. Tick tock.

As we wait for her to return, I was wondering if you’ve given any thought to this so-called Information Age we now live in? Some folks call it the Digital Age. I didn’t even know there was a formal name for it until recently. 

Merriam-Webster says the “Information Age” is “the modern age regarded as a time in which information has become a commodity that is quickly and widely disseminated and easily available especially through the use of computer technology.” In other words, we live in a time when the access and distribution of information is the name of the game. This is distinct from the preceding Industrial Age when manufacturing was the name of the game.

I don’t think things are so clean as these definitions state, but as I think about the phone that is surgically implanted in my hip, I do wonder at the value of this mountain of information I consume every day and whether it is good or bad for us humans. Particularly in these divisive times. And I do think about AI and the internet and self-driving cars and doorbell cameras and Amazon Prime and those precocious twins, Siri and Alexa.

Noah Hawley recently wrote an article in The Atlantic called “Vonnegut and the Bomb.” He says: “In some ways, Little Boy [the bomb dropped on Hiroshima] was the ultimate invention of the Industrial Age, which ended a few years later. What replaced it? The Atomic Age, of course, followed in the 1970s by the Information Age. Were Vonnegut alive today, he might say that whatever they call the age you live in is actually the name of the weapon they’re using to try to kill you.”

Lordy.

My wife returns. 

No toast yet. Then a strange robotic cart with a cat face rolls around the corner, comes up to our table, and waits patiently.

After my dropped jaw rejoins my face, it dawns on us that our food must be on one of the shelves. Sure enough, there are trays of food on the shelves below. 

But, no toast. 

And, after a while, the cat/cart/robot purrs off. 

Well, that was an experience. We wait patiently. Still no toast. Then, my wife tracks down the human server, who comes eventually with some cold toast. 

So, what does all this mean? Is it a parable about how the so-called Information Age may very well make information a commodity, but it doesn’t actually bring you your toast? Or is it a story about how my wife didn’t ask the robot/server about its family and what this lack of connection means for the threads that hold society together? Or is it reaffirming the well-known maxim: cold toast is… cold?

Got me. But, thankfully, it’s time to get on the plane. And, even though I have 15 hardback books and have written three texts to my kids as to how they should live their lives and am working on two stories, I am a loss as to what to do. My wife suggests I ask the attendant for something to eat. But, where’s the menu? And, what should I order? And, do they have toast? ♦

Joe Weeg spent 31 years bumping around this town as a prosecutor for the Polk County Attorney’s Office. Now retired, he writes about the frequently overlooked people, places and events in Des Moines on his blog: www.joesneighborhood.com.