The Apple Store: Where Dignity Goes to Die

There was a time when the Apple Store was the Sistine Chapel of tech—a bright, gleaming beacon of innovation where the enlightened came to commune with the gods of design. Walking in felt like a privilege. The clientele? Polished, aspirational, maybe even a little smug. Sure, you’d encounter the occasional aging hippie in Birkenstocks, clutching a MacBook like it was the Holy Grail, but at least they had character. They believed in something. They didn’t reek of desperation and instant ramen.

Fast forward to now, and the Apple Store feels less like a temple and more like the waiting room of a free clinic. The sophisticated customers have been replaced by the pajama-wearing masses, shuffling in like zombies who got lost on their way to a Dunkin’. The air no longer hums with innovation; it sags under the weight of people who look like they’ve given up on life and are now taking it out on the Genius Bar.

Could you take the guy I saw the other day? SpongeBob pajamas. Fuzzy slippers that might’ve been alive. Hair was so greasy you could fry an egg on it. He waved his phone around like a torch in a pitchfork mob, shouting at some poor employee about his “dropped calls” like he was a victim of a major human rights violation. Behind him, a woman—dressed head-to-toe in tie-dye, crocs, and a defeated expression—barked into her AirPods about the “idiots” in line ahead of her. Lady, you’re wearing Crocs. Let’s not throw stones.

And don’t even get me started on the smell. A certain stench clings to people who’ve decided personal hygiene is optional—like mildew, broken dreams, and the faintest whiff of Hot Pockets. You can’t un-smell it. It stays with you, much like the realization that this is what humanity has become. The Apple Store isn’t a place to marvel at human ingenuity anymore—it’s a front-row seat to our collective decline.

Technology was supposed to elevate us. Put the tools of creation, connection, and discovery into our hands. Instead, it’s turned us into petulant toddlers who can’t remember passwords and throw tantrums when a $1,200 gadget doesn’t bend to their will. The democratization of technology sounded great when it was theoretical. But in practice, it’s given us pajama-clad Karens screaming about iCloud storage.

I can’t tell if the Apple Store got worse or if we did. Maybe it’s both. Once, it was a gallery of sleek sophistication. Now, it’s a freak show where people demand miracles for problems they created. We’re not building the future anymore; we’re slouching into it with food-stained hoodies and unwashed hair, clutching our iPhones like lifelines and barking at anyone in our way.

This isn’t progress. This is entropy with Wi-Fi. And the saddest part? We’re too busy scrolling through TikTok to notice. If this is the future, I’ll take the past. Bring back the Birkenstocks. Hell, bring back the flip phone. At least those people knew how to act in public.

Jack Beckett.