I am standing at a kiosk at the phone store so that I can check myself in and get in line. Associates wearing headsets are engaged in important conversations with customers. Men in ballcaps are standing around shuffling their feet. One grandma with a weary look on her face is trying to keep a toddler in check.

The kiosk asks me why I’m here. None of the options given seem to apply, so I check the “Other” box. I enter my phone number. The kiosk wishes to know if I’m here about the account associated with the number I’ve entered. I look, but there’s not an option for “Duh”.

When I finish, my name appears on a big screen toward the front of the store. I am 14th in line. It’s gonna be a long morning.

They say that I could avoid the hassle of the store if I was willing to take care of business online. “They” also say that I could do all of my banking online without ever walking inside another bank lobby for the rest of my life. “They” also recommend that online doctor’s visits can be just as helpful as the real thing.

Hear me out. I am just young enough to embrace the benefits of the digital/online world. I like having information at my fingertips. I like virtual credit cards. I love the ability to take and share photographs with family and friends. Heck, I write and post these stories online. I’m way beyond some nostalgic bond to the past.

Yet, at the same time, I am also old enough to be leery of trusting myself completely to the virtual world. My hesitation is partly due to the fact that I don’t understand hardly anything about how it works and partly because I am convinced that the convenience of an app does not supersede the value of a relationship. Sometimes it’s just better to go talk to an actual person who can help me solve my phone issues.

There’s an empty seat against the far wall. I settle in to wait my turn. I make eye contact with the fella across from me. He’s about my age. He seems to be related to the grandma with the toddler. I can tell this because the toddler is trying to crawl over his face and pull his ears off by the roots.

“What are you in here for?” he asks.

Which sounds like a scene from one of those movies where two guys meet in jail and one asks the other why he’s behind bars. Which is exactly how this store feels to an old guy with a broken phone.

“Probably gonna end up with a new phone,” I say. “The charging port on this one has quit working.”

“They don’t make nothing to last anymore,” he complains.

“I know what you mean.”

The subject of AI comes up. He and I are on the same wavelength. Our phones already listen in on our conversations. We talk about “Eagle Eye” the movie. It came out 20 years ago and now it looks as if that might be the world we’re living in.

“They’re watching us on the cameras,” he says. “Pretty soon there’s gonna be no place to hide.”

Part of me thinks this conversation just got weird and another part of me thinks he might be right. We both agree that we don’t need the AI functions on the new phones but some of them are entertaining. What’s a non-digital guy supposed to do?

The conversation helps pass the time.

Finally, my name is called and I approach the counter. The young lady is pleasant and enthusiastic. I shamelessly play the poor, helpless grandpa role to gain sympathy. We cover all of my questions. She reminds me that I don’t have insurance on the phone. I could have it fixed but there are some good deals on replacements.

We walk across the room.

“Here’s the latest model,” she says, “and it’s on sale this week.”

I don’t live under a rock, but these phones cost more than what my monthly house payments used to be. And let’s not fool ourselves. These are not just phones anymore. They are high-tech digital hand-held computers that have the ability to change my thermostat settings from anywhere in the world.

I mean, they could if I had a Wi-Fi based thermostat, which I don’t. But which I might have installed one of these days.

She can tell I’m hesitant.

“Look,” she says. “It’s not that bad. By the time you trade in your old phone, and I apply all the discounts, you’re gonna end up paying next to nothing for this phone.”

I’m giving her the cautious look. My lips are pursed tightly.

“It’s a good deal,” she says. “I promise.”

Within a few minutes my old phone and the new one are lying side by side on her counter. They are locked in a cyber cuddle as my digital world is being transferred from one device to the other. One by one the apps show up on the screen. Little arrows are going back and forth in cyberspace. The old phone is being cloned with every file, every photo, every contact, and every personal preference.

It’s a little bit like waiting for a child to be born. A new phone with all ten fingers and ten toes right where they’re supposed to be. It looks the same, but does it work the same?

My first hint that things were going to be awkward came when I asked if I could use my old case. The phones are exactly the same size. But the old case won’t fit the new phone because the camera lenses are arranged differently. Big tech can’t make this easy.

The second hint.

“You’re probably gonna have to sign back into some of your apps,” she says. “They won’t recognize a new device until you do.”

I’m looking at her like she just told me my house burned to the ground. This is entrapment. She said everything would transfer over, and I took everything to mean everything.

So, you can guess what I’ve been doing for the last couple of days. I store all my usernames and passwords. I’m not completely incompetent. But the process is not seamless. Some apps want a two-step verification. Then I get 47 emails telling me that a new device is trying to sign in. Sometimes the app will block the new sign-in until I can verify that it’s me.

This is where I get impatient with the digital world. I get it. Most of this is for my own protection. I appreciate this. Hackers are trying to steal us blind every day. But at some point I find myself teetering on the edge of a virtual breakdown. I just want to be done with usernames and passwords and log-ins.

I know what’s gonna happen to me. One of these days I’m gonna find myself standing at the Pearly Gates. St. Pete is gonna point me to the kiosk in the corner.

“Just sign in with your username and password,” he’ll say.

Lord, please tell me it ain’t so.