Steve Jobs Part 7

"Not a Ferrari, that's not right either," Jobs countered. "I t should be more like a Porsche!" Jobs owned a Porsche 928 at the time. When Bill Atkinson was over one weekend, Jobs brought him outside to admire the car. "Great art stretches the taste, it doesn't follow tastes," he told Atkinson. He also admired the design of the Mercedes. "Over the years, they've made the lines softer but the details starker," he said one day as he walked around the parking lot. "That's what we have to do with the Macintosh."

Oyama drafted a preliminary design and had a plaster model made. The Mac team gathered around for the unveiling and expressed their thoughts. Hertzfeld called it "cute." Others also seemed satisfied. Then Jobs let loose a blistering burst of criticism. "I t's way too boxy, it's got to be more curvaceous. The radius of the first chamfer needs to be bigger, and I don't like the size of the bevel." With his new fluency in industrial design lingo, Jobs was referring to the angular or curved edge connecting the sides of the computer. But then he gave a resounding compliment. "I t's a start," he said.

Every month or so, Manock and Oyama would present a new iteration based on Jobs's previous criticisms. The latest plaster model would be dramatically unveiled, and all the previous attempts would be lined up next to it. That not only helped them gauge the design's evolution, but it prevented Jobs from insisting that one of his suggestions had been ignored. "By the fourth model, I could barely distinguish it from the third one,"

said Hertzfeld, "but Steve was always critical and decisive, saying he loved or hated a detail that I could barely perceive."

One weekend Jobs went to Macy's in Palo Alto and again spent time studying appliances, especially the Cuisinart. He came bounding into the Mac office that Monday, asked the design team to go buy one, and made a raft of new suggestions based on its lines, curves, and bevels.

Jobs kept insisting that the machine should look friendly. As a result, it evolved to resemble a human face. With the disk drive built in below the screen, the unit was taller and narrower than most computers, suggesting a head. The recess near the base evoked a gentle chin, and Jobs narrowed the strip of plastic at the top so that it avoided the Neanderthal forehead that made the Lisa subtly unattractive. The patent for the design of the Apple case was issued in the name of Steve Jobs as well as Manock and Oyama. "Even though Steve didn't draw any of the lines, his ideas and inspiration made the design what it is," Oyama later said. "T o be honest, we didn't know what it meant for a computer to be 'friendly' until Steve told us."

Jobs obsessed with equal intensity about the look of what would appear on the screen. One day Bill Atkinson burst into T exaco T owers all excited. He had just come up with a brilliant algorithm that could draw circles and ovals onscreen quickly. The math for making circles usually required calculating square roots, which the 68000 microprocessor didn't support. But Atkinson did a workaround based on the fact that the sum of a sequence of odd numbers produces a sequence of perfect squares (for example, 1 + 3 = 4, 1 + 3 + 5 = 9, etc.). Hertzfeld recalled that when Atkinson fired up his demo, everyone was impressed except Jobs. "Well, circles and ovals are good," he said, "but how about drawing rectangles with rounded corners?"

"I don't think we really need it," said Atkinson, who explained that it would be almost impossible to do. "I wanted to keep the graphics routines lean and limit them to the primitives that truly needed to be done," he recalled.

"Rectangles with rounded corners are everywhere!" Jobs said, jumping up and getting more intense. "Just look around this room!" He pointed out the whiteboard and the tabletop and other objects that were rectangular with rounded corners. "And look outside, there's even more, practically everywhere you look!" He dragged Atkinson out for a walk, pointing out car windows and billboards and street signs. "Within three blocks, we found seventeen examples," said Jobs. "I started pointing them out everywhere until he was completely convinced."

"When he finally got to a No Parking sign, I said, 'Okay, you're right, I give up. We need to have a rounded-corner rectangle as a primitive!'"

Hertzfeld recalled, "Bill returned to T exaco T owers the following afternoon, with a big smile on his face. His demo was now drawing rectangles with beautifully rounded corners blisteringly fast." The dialogue boxes and windows on the Lisa and the Mac, and almost every other subsequent computer, ended up being rendered with rounded corners.

At the calligraphy cla.s.s he had audited at Reed, Jobs learned to love typefaces, with all of their serif and sans serif variations, proportional s.p.a.cing, and leading. "When we were designing the first Macintosh computer, it all came back to me," he later said of that cla.s.s. Because the Mac was bitmapped, it was possible to devise an endless array of fonts, ranging from the elegant to the wacky, and render them pixel by pixel on the screen.

T o design these fonts, Hertzfeld recruited a high school friend from suburban Philadelphia, Susan Kare. They named the fonts after the stops on Philadelphia's Main Line commuter train: Overbrook, Merion, Ardmore, and Rosemont. Jobs found the process fascinating. Late one afternoon he stopped by and started brooding about the font names. They were "little cities that n.o.body's ever heard of," he complained. "They ought to be w orld- cla.s.s cities!" The fonts were renamed Chicago, New York, Geneva, London, San Francisco, Toronto, and Venice.

Markkula and some others could never quite appreciate Jobs's obsession with typography. "His knowledge of fonts was remarkable, and he kept insisting on having great ones," Markkula recalled. "I kept saying, 'Fonts?!? Don't we have more important things to do?'" In fact the delightful a.s.sortment of Macintosh fonts, when combined with laser-writer printing and great graphics capabilities, would help launch the desktop publishing industry and be a boon for Apple's bottom line. I t also introduced all sorts of regular folks, ranging from high school journalists to moms who edited PTA newsletters, to the quirky joy of knowing about fonts, which was once reserved for printers, grizzled editors, and other ink-stained wretches.

Kare also developed the icons, such as the trash can for discarding files, that helped define graphical interfaces. She and Jobs. .h.i.t it off because they shared an instinct for simplicity along with a desire to make the Mac whimsical. "He usually came in at the end of every day," she said. "He'd always want to know what was new, and he's always had good taste and a good sense for visual details." Sometimes he came in on Sunday morning, so Kare made it a point to be there working. Every now and then, she would run into a problem. He rejected one of her renderings of a rabbit, an icon for speeding up the mouse-click rate, saying that the furry creature looked "too gay."

Jobs lavished similar attention on the t.i.tle bars atop windows and doc.u.ments. He had Atkinson and Kare do them over and over again as he agonized over their look. He did not like the ones on the Lisa because they were too black and harsh. He wanted the ones on the Mac to be smoother, to have pinstripes. "We must have gone through twenty different t.i.tle bar designs before he was happy," Atkinson recalled. At one point Kare and Atkinson complained that he was making them spend too much time on tiny little tweaks to the t.i.tle bar when they had bigger things to do.

Jobs erupted. "Can you imagine looking at that every day?" he shouted. "I t's not just a little thing, it's something we have to do right."

Chris Espinosa found one way to satisfy Jobs's design demands and control-freak tendencies. One of Wozniak's youthful acolytes from the days in the garage, Espinosa had been convinced to drop out of Berkeley by Jobs, who argued that he would always have a chance to study, but only one chance to work on the Mac. On his own, he decided to design a calculator for the computer. "We all gathered around as Chris showed the calculator to Steve and then held his breath, waiting for Steve's reaction," Hertzfeld recalled.

"Well, it's a start," Jobs said, "but basically, it stinks. The background color is too dark, some lines are the wrong thickness, and the b.u.t.tons aretoo big." Espinosa kept refining it in response to Jobs's critiques, day after day, but with each iteration came new criticisms. So finally one afternoon, when Jobs came by, Espinosa unveiled his inspired solution: "The Steve Jobs Roll Your Own Calculator Construction Set." I t allowed the user to tweak and personalize the look of the calculator by changing the thickness of the lines, the size of the b.u.t.tons, the shading, the background, and other attributes. Instead of just laughing, Jobs plunged in and started to play around with the look to suit his tastes. After about ten minutes he got it the way he liked. His design, not surprisingly, was the one that shipped on the Mac and remained the standard for fifteen years.

Although his focus was on the Macintosh, Jobs wanted to create a consistent design language for all Apple products. So he set up a contest to choose a world-cla.s.s designer who would be for Apple what Dieter Rams was for Braun. The project was code-named Snow White, not because of his preference for the color but because the products to be designed were code-named after the seven dwarfs. The winner was Hartmut Esslinger, a German designer who was responsible for the look of Sony's Trinitron televisions. Jobs flew to the Black Forest region of Bavaria to meet him and was impressed not only with Esslinger's pa.s.sion but also his spirited way of driving his Mercedes at more than one hundred miles per hour.

Even though he was German, Esslinger proposed that there should be a "born-in-America gene for Apple's DNA" that would produce a "California global" look, inspired by "Hollywood and music, a bit of rebellion, and natural s.e.x appeal." His guiding principle was "Form follows emotion," a play on the familiar maxim that form follows function. He produced forty models of products to demonstrate the concept, and when Jobs saw them he proclaimed, "Yes, this is it!" The Snow White look, which was adopted immediately for the Apple I Ic, featured white cases, tight rounded curves, and lines of thin grooves for both ventilation and decoration. Jobs offered Esslinger a contract on the condition that he move to California. They shook hands and, in Esslinger's not-so-modest words, "that handshake launched one of the most decisive collaborations in the history of industrial design." Esslinger's firm, frogdesign, 2 opened in Palo Alto in mid-1983 with a $1.2 million annual contract to work for Apple, and from then on every Apple product has included the proud declaration "Designed in California."

From his father Jobs had learned that a hallmark of pa.s.sionate craftsmanship is making sure that even the aspects that will remain hidden are done beautifully. One of the most extreme-and telling-implementations of that philosophy came when he scrutinized the printed circuit board that would hold the chips and other components deep inside the Macintosh. No consumer would ever see it, but Jobs began critiquing it on aesthetic grounds. "That part's really pretty," he said. "But look at the memory chips. That's ugly. The lines are too close together."

One of the new engineers interrupted and asked why it mattered. "The only thing that's important is how well it works. n.o.body is going to see the PC board."

Jobs reacted typically. "I want it to be as beautiful as possible, even if it's inside the box. A great carpenter isn't going to use lousy wood for the back of a cabinet, even though n.o.body's going to see it." In an interview a few years later, after the Macintosh came out, Jobs again reiterated that lesson from his father: "When you're a carpenter making a beautiful chest of drawers, you're not going to use a piece of plywood on the back, even though it faces the wall and n.o.body will ever see it. You'll know it's there, so you're going to use a beautiful piece of wood on the back. For you to sleep well at night, the aesthetic, the quality, has to be carried all the way through."

From Mike Markkula he had learned the importance of packaging and presentation. People do judge a book by its cover, so for the box of the Macintosh, Jobs chose a full-color design and kept trying to make it look better. "He got the guys to redo it fifty times," recalled Alain Rossmann, a member of the Mac team who married Joanna Hoffman. "I t was going to be thrown in the trash as soon as the consumer opened it, but he was obsessed by how it looked." T o Rossmann, this showed a lack of balance; money was being spent on expensive packaging while they were trying to save money on the memory chips. But for Jobs, each detail was essential to making the Macintosh amazing.

When the design was finally locked in, Jobs called the Macintosh team together for a ceremony. "Real artists sign their work," he said. So he got out a sheet of drafting paper and a Sharpie pen and had all of them sign their names. The signatures were engraved inside each Macintosh. No one would ever see them, but the members of the team knew that their signatures were inside, just as they knew that the circuit board was laid out as elegantly as possible. Jobs called them each up by name, one at a time. Burrell Smith went first. Jobs waited until last, after all forty-five of the others. He found a place right in the center of the sheet and signed his name in lowercase letters with a grand flair. Then he toasted them with champagne. "With moments like this, he got us seeing our work as art," said Atkinson.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

BUILDING THE MAC.

The Journey Is the Reward.

Compet.i.tion.

When IBM introduced its personal computer in August 1981, Jobs had his team buy one and dissect it. Their consensus was that it sucked. Chris Espinosa called it "a half-a.s.sed, hackneyed attempt," and there was some truth to that. I t used old-fashioned command-line prompts and didn't support bitmapped graphical displays. Apple became c.o.c.ky, not realizing that corporate technology managers might feel more comfortable buying from an established company like IBM rather than one named after a piece of fruit. Bill Gates happened to be visiting Apple headquarters for a meeting on the day the IBM PC was announced. "They didn't seem to care," he said. "I t took them a year to realize what had happened."

Reflecting its cheeky confidence, Apple took out a full-page ad in the Wall Street Journal with the headline "Welcome, IBM. Seriously." I t cleverly positioned the upcoming computer battle as a two-way contest between the s.p.u.n.ky and rebellious Apple and the establishment Goliath IBM, conveniently relegating to irrelevance companies such as Commodore, Tandy, and Osborne that were doing just as well as Apple.

Throughout his career, Jobs liked to see himself as an enlightened rebel pitted against evil empires, a Jedi warrior or Buddhist samurai fighting the forces of darkness. IBM was his perfect foil. He cleverly cast the upcoming battle not as a mere business compet.i.tion, but as a spiritual struggle. "I f, for some reason, we make some giant mistakes and IBM wins, my personal feeling is that we are going to enter sort of a computer Dark Ages for about twenty years," he told an interviewer. "Once IBM gains control of a market sector, they almost always stop innovation." Even thirty years later, reflecting back on the compet.i.tion, Jobs cast it as a holy crusade: "IBM was essentially Microsoft at its worst. They were not a force for innovation; they were a force for evil. They were like ATT or Microsoft or Google is."

Unfortunately for Apple, Jobs also took aim at another perceived compet.i.tor to his Macintosh: the company's own Lisa. Partly it was psychological.

He had been ousted from that group, and now he wanted to beat it. He also saw healthy rivalry as a way to motivate his troops. That's why he bet John Couch $5,000 that the Mac would ship before the Lisa. The problem was that the rivalry became unhealthy. Jobs repeatedly portrayed his band of engineers as the cool kids on the block, in contrast to the plodding HP engineer types working on the Lisa.

More substantively, when he moved away from Jef Raskin's plan for an inexpensive and underpowered portable appliance and reconceived the Mac as a desktop machine with a graphical user interface, it became a scaled-down version of the Lisa that would likely undercut it in the marketplace.

Larry T esler, who managed application software for the Lisa, realized that it would be important to design both machines to use many of the same software programs. So to broker peace, he arranged for Smith and Hertzfeld to come to the Lisa work s.p.a.ce and demonstrate the Mac prototype. Twenty-five engineers showed up and were listening politely when, halfway into the presentation, the door burst open. I t was Rich Page, a volatile engineer who was responsible for much of the Lisa's design. "The Macintosh is going to destroy the Lisa!" he shouted. "The Macintosh is going to ruin Apple!" Neither Smith nor Hertzfeld responded, so Page continued his rant. "Jobs wants to destroy Lisa because we wouldn't let him control it," he said, looking as if he were about to cry. "n.o.body's going to buy a Lisa because they know the Mac is coming! But you don't care!" He stormed out of the room and slammed the door, but a moment later he barged back in briefly. "I know it's not your fault," he said to Smith and Hertzfeld. "Steve Jobs is the problem. Tell Steve that he's destroying Apple!"

Jobs did indeed make the Macintosh into a low-cost compet.i.tor to the Lisa, one with incompatible software. Making matters worse was that neither machine was compatible with the Apple I I . With no one in overall charge at Apple, there was no chance of keeping Jobs in harness.

End-to-end Control.

Jobs's reluctance to make the Mac compatible with the architecture of the Lisa was motivated by more than rivalry or revenge. There was a philosophical component, one that was related to his penchant for control. He believed that for a computer to be truly great, its hardware and its software had to be tightly linked. When a computer was open to running software that also worked on other computers, it would end up sacrificing some functionality. The best products, he believed, were "whole widgets" that were designed end-to-end, with the software closely tailored to the hardware and vice versa. This is what would distinguish the Macintosh, which had an operating system that worked only on its own hardware, from the environment that Microsoft was creating, in which its operating system could be used on hardware made by many different companies.

"Jobs is a strong-willed, elitist artist who doesn't want his creations mutated inauspiciously by unworthy programmers," explained ZDNet's editor Dan Farber. "I t would be as if someone off the street added some brush strokes to a Pica.s.so painting or changed the lyrics to a Dylan song." In later years Jobs's whole-widget approach would distinguish the iPhone, iPod, and iPad from their compet.i.tors. I t resulted in awesome products.

But it was not always the best strategy for dominating a market. "From the first Mac to the latest iPhone, Jobs's systems have always been sealed shut to prevent consumers from meddling and modifying them," noted Leander Kahney, author of Cult of the Mac.

Jobs's desire to control the user experience had been at the heart of his debate with Wozniak over whether the Apple I I would have slots that allow a user to plug expansion cards into a computer's motherboard and thus add some new functionality. Wozniak won that argument: The Apple I I had eight slots. But this time around it would be Jobs's machine, not Wozniak's, and the Macintosh would have limited slots. You wouldn't even be able to open the case and get to the motherboard. For a hobbyist or hacker, that was uncool. But for Jobs, the Macintosh was for the ma.s.ses. He wanted to give them a controlled experience.

"I t reflects his personality, which is to want control," said Berry Cash, who was hired by Jobs in 1982 to be a market strategist at T exaco T owers.

"Steve would talk about the Apple I I and complain, 'We don't have control, and look at all these crazy things people are trying to do to it. That's a mistake I 'll never make again.'" He went so far as to design special tools so that the Macintosh case could not be opened with a regular screwdriver. "We're going to design this thing so n.o.body but Apple employees can get inside this box," he told Cash.

Jobs also decided to eliminate the cursor arrow keys on the Macintosh keyboard. The only way to move the cursor was to use the mouse. I t was a way of forcing old-fashioned users to adapt to point-and-click navigation, even if they didn't want to. Unlike other product developers, Jobs did not believe the customer was always right; if they wanted to resist using a mouse, they were wrong.

There was one other advantage, he believed, to eliminating the cursor keys: I t forced outside software developers to write programs specially for the Mac operating system, rather than merely writing generic software that could be ported to a variety of computers. That made for the type of tightvertical integration between application software, operating systems, and hardware devices that Jobs liked.

Jobs's desire for end-to-end control also made him allergic to proposals that Apple license the Macintosh operating system to other office equipment manufacturers and allow them to make Macintosh clones. The new and energetic Macintosh marketing director Mike Murray proposed a licensing program in a confidential memo to Jobs in May 1982. "We would like the Macintosh user environment to become an industry standard,"

he wrote. "The hitch, of course, is that now one must buy Mac hardware in order to get this user environment. Rarely (if ever) has one company been able to create and maintain an industry-wide standard that cannot be shared with other manufacturers." His proposal was to license the Macintosh operating system to T andy. Because T andy's Radio Shack stores went after a different type of customer, Murray argued, it would not severely cannibalize Apple sales. But Jobs was congenitally averse to such a plan. His approach meant that the Macintosh remained a controlled environment that met his standards, but it also meant that, as Murray feared, it would have trouble securing its place as an industry standard in a world of IBM clones.

Machines of the Year.

As 1982 drew to a close, Jobs came to believe that he was going to be Time's Man of the Year. He arrived at T exaco T owers one day with the magazine's San Francis...o...b..reau chief, Michael Moritz, and encouraged colleagues to give Moritz interviews. But Jobs did not end up on the cover. Instead the magazine chose "the Computer" as the topic for the year-end issue and called it "the Machine of the Year."

Accompanying the main story was a profile of Jobs, which was based on the reporting done by Moritz and written by Jay c.o.c.ks, an editor who usually handled rock music for the magazine. "With his smooth sales pitch and a blind faith that would have been the envy of the early Christian martyrs, it is Steven Jobs, more than anyone, who kicked open the door and let the personal computer move in," the story proclaimed. I t was a richly reported piece, but also harsh at times-so harsh that Moritz (after he wrote a book about Apple and went on to be a partner in the venture firm Sequoia Capital with Don Valentine) repudiated it by complaining that his reporting had been "siphoned, filtered, and poisoned with gossipy benzene by an editor in New York whose regular task was to chronicle the wayward world of rock-and-roll music." The article quoted Bud Tribble on Jobs's "reality distortion field" and noted that he "would occasionally burst into tears at meetings." Perhaps the best quote came from Jef Raskin.

Jobs, he declared, "would have made an excellent King of France."

T o Jobs's dismay, the magazine made public the existence of the daughter he had forsaken, Lisa Brennan. He knew that Kottke had been the one to tell the magazine about Lisa, and he berated him in the Mac group work s.p.a.ce in front of a half dozen people. "When the Time reporter asked me if Steve had a daughter named Lisa, I said 'Of course,'" Kottke recalled. "Friends don't let friends deny that they're the father of a child.

I 'm not going to let my friend be a jerk and deny paternity. He was really angry and felt violated and told me in front of everyone that I had betrayed him."

But what truly devastated Jobs was that he was not, after all, chosen as the Man of the Year. As he later told me: Time decided they were going to make me Man of the Year, and I was twenty-seven, so I actually cared about stuff like that. I thought it was pretty cool. They sent out Mike Moritz to write a story. We're the same age, and I had been very successful, and I could tell he was jealous and there was an edge to him. He wrote this terrible hatchet job. So the editors in New York get this story and say, "We can't make this guy Man of the Year." That really hurt. But it was a good lesson. I t taught me to never get too excited about things like that, since the media is a circus anyway. They FedExed me the magazine, and I remember opening the package, thoroughly expecting to see my mug on the cover, and it was this computer sculpture thing. I thought, "Huh?" And then I read the article, and it was so awful that I actually cried.

In fact there's no reason to believe that Moritz was jealous or that he intended his reporting to be unfair. Nor was Jobs ever slated to be Man of the Year, despite what he thought. That year the top editors (I was then a junior editor there) decided early on to go with the computer rather than a person, and they commissioned, months in advance, a piece of art from the famous sculptor George Segal to be a gatefold cover image. Ray Cave was then the magazine's editor. "We never considered Jobs," he said. "You couldn't personify the computer, so that was the first time we decided to go with an inanimate object. We never searched around for a face to be put on the cover."

Apple launched the Lisa in January 1983-a full year before the Mac was ready-and Jobs paid his $5,000 wager to Couch. Even though he was not part of the Lisa team, Jobs went to New York to do publicity for it in his role as Apple's chairman and poster boy.

He had learned from his public relations consultant Regis McKenna how to dole out exclusive interviews in a dramatic manner. Reporters from anointed publications were ushered in sequentially for their hour with him in his Carlyle Hotel suite, where a Lisa computer was set on a table and surrounded by cut flowers. The publicity plan called for Jobs to focus on the Lisa and not mention the Macintosh, because speculation about it could undermine the Lisa. But Jobs couldn't help himself. In most of the stories based on his interviews that day-in Time, Business Week, the Wall Street Journal, and Fortune-the Macintosh was mentioned. "Later this year Apple will introduce a less powerful, less expensive version of Lisa, the Macintosh," Fortune reported. "Jobs himself has directed that project." Business Week quoted him as saying, "When it comes out, Mac is going to be the most incredible computer in the world." He also admitted that the Mac and the Lisa would not be compatible. I t was like launching the Lisa with the kiss of death.

The Lisa did indeed die a slow death. Within two years it would be discontinued. "I t was too expensive, and we were trying to sell it to big companies when our expertise was selling to consumers," Jobs later said. But there was a silver lining for Jobs: Within months of Lisa's launch, it became clear that Apple had to pin its hopes on the Macintosh instead.

Let's Be Pirates!

As the Macintosh team grew, it moved from T exaco T owers to the main Apple buildings on Bandley Drive, finally settling in mid-1983 into Bandley 3. I t had a modern atrium lobby with video games, which Burrell Smith and Andy Hertzfeld chose, and a T oshiba compact disc stereo system with MartinLogan speakers and a hundred CDs. The software team was visible from the lobby in a fishbowl-like gla.s.s enclosure, and the kitchen was stocked daily with Odwalla juices. Over time the atrium attracted even more toys, most notably a Bosendorfer piano and a BMW motorcycle that Jobs felt would inspire an obsession with lapidary craftsmanship.

Jobs kept a tight rein on the hiring process. The goal was to get people who were creative, wickedly smart, and slightly rebellious. The software team would make applicants play Defender, Smith's favorite video game. Jobs would ask his usual offbeat questions to see how well the applicant could think in unexpected situations. One day he, Hertzfeld, and Smith interviewed a candidate for software manager who, it became clear as soon as he walked in the room, was too uptight and conventional to manage the wizards in the fishbowl. Jobs began to toy with him mercilessly. "How oldwere you when you lost your virginity?" he asked.

The candidate looked baffled. "What did you say?"

"Are you a virgin?" Jobs asked. The candidate sat there fl.u.s.tered, so Jobs changed the subject. "How many times have you taken LSD?"

Hertzfeld recalled, "The poor guy was turning varying shades of red, so I tried to change the subject and asked a straightforward technical question."

But when the candidate droned on in his response, Jobs broke in. "Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble," he said, cracking up Smith and Hertzfeld.

"I guess I 'm not the right guy," the poor man said as he got up to leave.

For all of his obnoxious behavior, Jobs also had the ability to instill in his team an esprit de corps. After tearing people down, he would find ways to lift them up and make them feel that being part of the Macintosh project was an amazing mission. Every six months he would take most of his team on a two-day retreat at a nearby resort.

The retreat in September 1982 was at the Pajaro Dunes near Monterey. Fifty or so members of the Mac division sat in the lodge facing a fireplace. Jobs sat on top of a table in front of them. He spoke quietly for a while, then walked to an easel and began posting his thoughts.

The first was "Don't compromise." I t was an injunction that would, over time, be both helpful and harmful. Most technology teams made trade-offs.

The Mac, on the other hand, would end up being as "insanely great" as Jobs and his acolytes could possibly make it-but it would not ship for another sixteen months, way behind schedule. After mentioning a scheduled completion date, he told them, "I t would be better to miss than to turn out the wrong thing." A different type of project manager, willing to make some trade-offs, might try to lock in dates after which no changes could be made. Not Jobs. He displayed another maxim: "I t's not done until it ships."

Another chart contained a kooan-like phrase that he later told me was his favorite maxim: "The journey is the reward." The Mac team, he liked to emphasize, was a special corps with an exalted mission. Someday they would all look back on their journey together and, forgetting or laughing off the painful moments, would regard it as a magical high point in their lives.

At the end of the presentation someone asked whether he thought they should do some market research to see what customers wanted. "No," he replied, "because customers don't know what they want until we've shown them." Then he pulled out a device that was about the size of a desk diary. "Do you want to see something neat?" When he flipped it open, it turned out to be a mock-up of a computer that could fit on your lap, with a keyboard and screen hinged together like a notebook. "This is my dream of what we will be making in the mid-to late eighties," he said. They were building a company that would invent the future.

For the next two days there were presentations by various team leaders and the influential computer industry a.n.a.lyst Ben Rosen, with a lot of time in the evenings for pool parties and dancing. At the end, Jobs stood in front of the a.s.semblage and gave a soliloquy. "As every day pa.s.ses, the work fifty people are doing here is going to send a giant ripple through the universe," he said. "I know I might be a little hard to get along with, but this is the most fun thing I 've done in my life." Years later most of those in the audience would be able to laugh about the "little hard to get along with"

episodes and agree with him that creating that giant ripple was the most fun they had in their lives.

The next retreat was at the end of January 1983, the same month the Lisa launched, and there was a shift in tone. Four months earlier Jobs had written on his flip chart: "Don't compromise." This time one of the maxims was "Real artists ship." Nerves were frayed. Atkinson had been left out of the publicity interviews for the Lisa launch, and he marched into Jobs's hotel room and threatened to quit. Jobs tried to minimize the slight, but Atkinson refused to be mollified. Jobs got annoyed. "I don't have time to deal with this now," he said. "I have sixty other people out there who are pouring their hearts into the Macintosh, and they're waiting for me to start the meeting." With that he brushed past Atkinson to go address the faithful.

Jobs proceeded to give a rousing speech in which he claimed that he had resolved the dispute with McIntosh audio labs to use the Macintosh name. (In fact the issue was still being negotiated, but the moment called for a bit of the old reality distortion field.) He pulled out a bottle of mineral water and symbolically christened the prototype onstage. Down the hall, Atkinson heard the loud cheer, and with a sigh joined the group. The ensuing party featured skinny-dipping in the pool, a bonfire on the beach, and loud music that lasted all night, which caused the hotel, La Playa in Carmel, to ask them never to come back.

Another of Jobs's maxims at the retreat was "I t's better to be a pirate than to join the navy." He wanted to instill a rebel spirit in his team, to have them behave like swashbucklers who were proud of their work but willing to commandeer from others. As Susan Kare put it, "He meant, 'Let's have a renegade feeling to our group. We can move fast. We can get things done.'" T o celebrate Jobs's birthday a few weeks later, the team paid for a billboard on the road to Apple headquarters. I t read: "Happy 28th Steve. The Journey is the Reward.-The Pirates."

One of the Mac team's programmers, Steve Capps, decided this new spirit warranted hoisting a Jolly Roger. He cut a patch of black cloth and had Kare paint a skull and crossbones on it. The eye patch she put on the skull was an Apple logo. Late one Sunday night Capps climbed to the roof of their newly built Bandley 3 building and hoisted the flag on a scaffolding pole that the construction workers had left behind. I t waved proudly for a few weeks, until members of the Lisa team, in a late-night foray, stole the flag and sent their Mac rivals a ransom note. Capps led a raid to recover it and was able to wrestle it from a secretary who was guarding it for the Lisa team. Some of the grown-ups overseeing Apple worried that Jobs's buccaneer spirit was getting out of hand. "Flying that flag was really stupid," said Arthur Rock. "I t was telling the rest of the company they were no good." But Jobs loved it, and he made sure it waved proudly all the way through to the completion of the Mac project. "We were the renegades, and we wanted people to know it," he recalled.

Veterans of the Mac team had learned that they could stand up to Jobs. I f they knew what they were talking about, he would tolerate the pushback, even admire it. By 1983 those most familiar with his reality distortion field had discovered something further: They could, if necessary, just quietly disregard what he decreed. I f they turned out to be right, he would appreciate their renegade att.i.tude and willingness to ignore authority. After all, that's what he did.

By far the most important example of this involved the choice of a disk drive for the Macintosh. Apple had a corporate division that built ma.s.s- storage devices, and it had developed a disk-drive system, code-named Twiggy, that could read and write onto those thin, delicate 5-inch floppy disks that older readers (who also remember Twiggy the model) will recall. But by the time the Lisa was ready to ship in the spring of 1983, it was clear that the Twiggy was buggy. Because the Lisa also came with a hard-disk drive, this was not a complete disaster. But the Mac had no hard disk, so it faced a crisis. "The Mac team was beginning to panic," said Hertzfeld. "We were using a single Twiggy drive, and we didn't have a hard disk to fall back on."

The team discussed the problem at the January 1983 retreat, and Debi Coleman gave Jobs data about the Twiggy failure rate. A few days later he drove to Apple's factory in San Jose to see the Twiggy being made. More than half were rejected. Jobs erupted. With his face flushed, he began shouting and sputtering about firing everyone who worked there. Bob Belleville, the head of the Mac engineering team, gently guided him to the parking lot, where they could take a walk and talk about alternatives.

One possibility that Belleville had been exploring was to use a new 3-inch disk drive that Sony had developed. The disk was cased in st.u.r.dierplastic and could fit into a shirt pocket. Another option was to have a clone of Sony's 3-inch disk drive manufactured by a smaller j.a.panese supplier, the Alps Electronics Co., which had been supplying disk drives for the Apple I I . Alps had already licensed the technology from Sony, and if they could build their own version in time it would be much cheaper.

Jobs and Belleville, along with Apple veteran Rod Holt (the guy Jobs enlisted to design the first power supply for the Apple I I ), flew to j.a.pan to figure out what to do. They took the bullet train from T okyo to visit the Alps facility. The engineers there didn't even have a working prototype, just a crude model. Jobs thought it was great, but Belleville was appalled. There was no way, he thought, that Alps could have it ready for the Mac within a year.

As they proceeded to visit other j.a.panese companies, Jobs was on his worst behavior. He wore jeans and sneakers to meetings with j.a.panese managers in dark suits. When they formally handed him little gifts, as was the custom, he often left them behind, and he never reciprocated with gifts of his own. He would sneer when rows of engineers lined up to greet him, bow, and politely offer their products for inspection. Jobs hated both the devices and the obsequiousness. "What are you showing me this for?" he snapped at one stop. "This is a piece of c.r.a.p! Anybody could build a better drive than this." Although most of his hosts were appalled, some seemed amused. They had heard tales of his obnoxious style and brash behavior, and now they were getting to see it in full display.