The Bite in the Apple: A Memoir of My Life with Steve Jobs (2 page)

Over the months of working on the film I had plenty of downtime. I found it hard to wait around when I wasn’t useful to a scene, so I filled my time by painting a picture copied from the photography book put together by Edward Steichen, called
The Family of Man
. This book, which I had furtively removed from my mother’s bookshelves, was dated and signed by an old boyfriend of hers who had apparently given it to her as a gift. I looked at this book often, and had considered this signature as the limited window into my mother’s world before me. It was all so frustrating. Who was this man? Did he and my mother love each other? Many times my mother had told us that she hoped my sisters and I would be undressed by a poet once in our lives. Was he her poet? And why, for God’s sake,
only once
?

The Family of Man
is a beautifully conceived book with images from hundreds of contributing photographers from all over the world. It’s a treasure that captures the breadth of shared human experience, not just in the photographs, but in the very poetry of the captions.

“The world of man dances in laughter and tears.”—Kabir

“Clasp hands and know the thoughts of men from other lands.”—John Masefield

“Eat bread and salt and speak the truth.”—old Russian proverb

“If I did not work, these worlds would perish.”—
Bhagavad Gita

“With all beings and all things, we shall be as relatives.”—Sioux Indian

I’d pored over this book so many times that it taught me to love the world, to love life, and know myself by way of word and image. I had both drawn and painted from it, and this time I wanted to paint a photograph taken by Homer Page of a South African black man who had been captured with the camera looking directly into his powerful, searching face. The one line under his image is
Who is on my side? Who?
The book has imprinted my life so profoundly I feel my cells could give an account of it.

I had always liked this photograph; it spoke to me. My great-uncle was Branch Rickey, the man who had the heart and the vision, the power and position to bring Jackie Robinson into the major leagues. They were both heroes of mine and I was proud to be associated with that history. These men embodied the kind of aspirations I had for myself: to be a leader and do something for others, to make a difference. So this painting was, for me, a form of guerilla art. I cared about getting it right. And I cared about making a statement from the margins.

I worked in oils and painted directly on cement at the edge of the quad, in a relatively dark location near the filming. Steve must have seen me working on the painting because he appeared one night happily fumbling with a candle and some matches so that I could see better. That spring, as the film progressed and I painted, Steve would show up to sit next to me while I worked. I was always unspeakably thrilled to see him, and yet I never could stand having someone hover while I worked. My painting was always deeply private and I never painted when people were around. But because I had no idea how to ask him to leave, and because he sat so quietly, barely perched on the seat next to me as if in some kind of transcendent state, I let it be. I pushed the paint around—distracted and noncommittal—and saved the real painting for the nights he didn’t come.

*   *   *

In mid-April, more than a month after our first meeting, Steve and I excitedly decided to meet at his house so that we could spend some time together, just the two of us. He said his parents worked and that we would have the house to ourselves. I agreed that it would be nice to see each other alone in the daytime for once. Since he left school at 1:00 and I got out at 3:30, he drew me a map to his house on Crist Drive, a mile and a half away.

When I arrived at the Jobses’ front door Steve motioned to me from his bedroom window—
come in
. I remember being a little taken aback by his not coming to meet me at the front door. No grand gestures of chivalry on this day. My guess is that he was so nervous he had decided to play it cool. Maybe he had even staged the scene to look casual. I entered the house and turned the corner into his bedroom.

Steve’s room was small and almost barrackslike. Everything in it was plain and organized. He had a single bed, a dark-stained wooden bookcase, a chest of drawers, and a small desk under the window that looked out onto the front yard. I noticed a typewriter on his desk, a huge IBM Selectric in a bright shade of red. I was impressed that Steve owned such high-end technology. Etched in my memory from that time is the quality of his hands on that typewriter. He had beautiful, quiet, intelligent hands, with long elegant fingers. When he was typing, the machine would pound out individual letters with such shocking force and velocity that it belied the casual touch of his fingertips. Steve’s hands were made for technology. There was a sublime compatibility with the machine in them, natural and unaffected from the beginning.

Other than that typewriter, Steve’s room was reminiscent of the boys’ rooms I had played in as a child, especially the colors: dull beiges, browns, army greens; harsh, garish oranges, and reds. I didn’t like them, but the room felt good because it was bright with some ineffable sense of light and order. I could feel and smell the air of it in Steve’s room and near him, and I liked this very much.

Over a year later, he would show me the inside of his closet after he had apparently spent the day cleaning. It was a thing of beauty for its organization. The closet was small but deep, and everything was arranged for the best use of space. Steve’s clothes were hung neatly and his backpack, tent, and other camping equipment were looped over hooks in the back. His shoes were arranged on some floor shelving, his tapes were nicely boxed, and his books and other belongings were organized on the top shelf overhead. Sweeping his hand as if performing he said, “Look at this!” I had never seen him proud of cleaning. I didn’t really care, but he was positively glowing. It’s not too big a stretch to consider this the precursor to his sense for aesthetics—perhaps even his showman’s flourish.

Smiling, Steve told me he threw anything away if (a) he wasn’t using it and (b) it cost less than $25. Twenty-five dollars was his tipping point, apparently, and it wasn’t worth taking up space if he could replace it for that amount or less. He had put real thought into this—weighing the relationship of money, organization, and serviceability (both present and future). It was like child’s play showing the mind he would apply later to computer design.

Steve was sitting on the floor when I walked in that first day. His knees were bent and he was leaning against his bed. He had super plush headphones over his ears that plugged into a three-foot-high reel-to-reel tape player. We were both nervous and he made gruff references to his collection of Bob Dylan bootlegs from this or that concert. The importance of all of this was completely lost on me. I was clueless about bootlegs of anything, thinking bootlegging had something to do with alcohol during Prohibition, though I got the drift they were some kind of contraband. It was the beginning of my fragile girl-window into his tender boy-world.

I don’t recall the conversation that first spring afternoon. I just remember that it was a little work to get beyond the awkwardness of a new friendship to find out who the other was, who we were together, and how much might be possible. There was that excited feeling in the air. Since he had invited me there and I had accepted, I think both of us knew that doors were opening and love was coming.

*   *   *

Mark’s project was finishing by mid-May and most everyone who had been a part of the weekly events came to celebrate. We threw a formal dinner party in the middle of the night in the central campus, the motherboard of our communal lives. Converging in the freedom of the night air one last time, we, a band of bright happy creatures dressed in gowns and tuxedos (Steve had managed to score a top hat), toasted, ate, and laughed around a long candle-lit table in full Felliniesque style. A quartet and a strobe light made us all feel as if we were in some elegant silent film.

During that spring, with the film and some Saturday afternoon baseball games as backdrop, Steve and I got to know each other better. He didn’t talk a lot but he was funny and vibrant and really good at making me laugh. But he was shy. So shy, in fact, that he couldn’t give me our first kiss. I was so embarrassed by his trying that
I
finally kissed
him.

After we were together for a while, Steve ventured to tell me that I was his “North Country Girl,” the one from the Dylan song who was a true love, the one he would know before fame and wealth came, the one hit by heavy winds. Even then he had placed me in his “life-as-Bob-Dylan” timeline. I didn’t understand that I was somehow being set up to play a part in some mythic script he was designing for himself.

I was a small-boned, petite girl—just five feet two. I had long, light brown hair turned gold on the outer layers by the sun. I have a high forehead and slightly elongated face, refined, expressive hands, and green eyes. I am dyslexic, which has had the effect of making me differently wired, creative, and a voracious problem solver—bright, but more than slightly clueless to convention. I suppose Steve would have intuited that I had a perceptive mind with a sense-oriented awareness of the world around me.

What did I see in Steve?

I knew he was a genius when I first saw him because his eyes shone with brilliant, complicated cartwheels of light. In time I came to understand how fully off-the-charts intuitive and mature beyond his years he was, like an old soul with quiet knowledge. He had deep brown hair and marble-white skin—skin that was supersensitive and yet also thick, which I would later realize was not unlike his personality. He had a slight lisp and his upper and lower teeth met perfectly, giving his Middle Eastern lips and nose an even more distinctive look. His smile had the glint of a pirate with treasure in the hull. There was a profound sadness about him that drew me in, but there was also an unspoken fullness in his stature that gave the impression he had the humility and strength to walk through the world as he truly was. I admired this right from the start. I know humility might sound unlikely to some, but it’s like the salt in chocolate, the small contrasting flavor that makes you know that the strength is real and true. The mix of all of this came to life in a personality that was irreverent, bright, offbeat, awkward, funny, and full of mystery. I adored him beyond everything, pure and simple.

We were different from each other in many ways. I was sense- and soul-oriented and he was logical and intuitive. Yet we shared basic creative values and were both fiercely experimental. Steve and I wanted to find the pathways through any and all limitations, and that impulse was stronger than the fear of making mistakes. Neither of us placed great importance on the need to be right. The notion that we were a true yin and yang still resonates for me, even though in time this same quality would become polarized—destructive, even.

In those days, I considered Steve a guide for me because I saw an intellectual honesty in him. He was tall and had the sophisticated, unadorned presence I imagined Abraham Lincoln to have had: self-effacing and honest, funny, nothing extra. I was dealing with a corrosive home life, which was shattering my ability to build the next stages of my life, but Steve was further along in thinking about the shape of his adulthood and the road that would take him there. He had an aerial view of things and I could see he was cataloging information that implied scope and goal. He spoke in cloaked metaphors and had a big conversation going on inside. I wanted to know more about that conversation. I needed to know more and found myself quick to pay attention to his young stores of knowledge to get the sense of how he saw things. I believe that he was equally delighted and interested to see the world through my impulses, perceptions, and creativity.

Steve would play with words that were quirky and obscure to me, often saying that he was “The Imposter,” or mysteriously repeating that something was going to last “for forty days and forty nights,” or that it was “thirty-nine past the hour.” Then there were the numerous rounds of
The Fool is the highest card,
a reference that indicated an archetype and more, because The Fool—marked by the zero in the tarot—is about nothing and everything. It’s all about potential. Placing himself in this starring role and winking at me with a shiny smile, Steve was
The Fool,
the one who would walk over the edge of the known world and willy-nilly take the consequences. Oh yes, he was the courageous fool who knew from a very early age that he had something to do in the world. But this all contrasted with the darker warning he would give that he was a “no good boyo” from Dylan Thomas’s
Under Milk Wood,
which I wondered at each time he said it. Finally there was the “I’m living on borrowed time” refrain. I never knew what he was talking about, but I would tilt my head to listen as if from an inner ear, searching for clues in the mix of it all.

We had both been hit by the winds of the sixties and had developed a core distrust of convention and an unbounded excitement for the amazing possibilities that lay ahead. Whatever we were to become, we shared this teenage stage of hunting and gathering that would keep us delighted and unfolding. From this shared ground and atmosphere we were willing, indeed bursting, to be experimental. We might have been called visionaries, except back then I never would have connected this word to the urgent need to expand beyond the known. It was just what was.

TWO

AN ABSOLUTE AUTHORITY

For the first six weeks of our friendship, Steve and I existed almost exclusively in our teenage world: high school, the nighttime movie set, baseball games on the Cupertino middle school lawn. But it would be some time before we would meet each other’s parents.

It was a late Saturday morning when I first met Paul and Clara Jobs. They were painting his sister Patty’s bedroom, and in the background hum of introductions I noticed the most beautiful yellow I had ever seen. The tone caught me off guard and made me wonder who these people were to have chosen it. My mind raced: no one in all of my extended family had ever used such a color, or even come close. Its soft warmth aroused in me a spirit of awe. Harder to understand were the other feelings it provoked—a sense of having missed something, of disappointment in my own family.