I dated for years a young woman whose father was Steve Jobs’ neighbor in Palo Alto. I thus found myself in the neighborhood often, at dinners, or parties, etc. We would see the Jobs come and go – they have a “normal” house, no gates, no guards, no high fences, not even a big lot. Often, leaving a party at my girlfriend’s house late at night I would drive past their house and you would actually see Steve sometimes, working on a Mac.
One afternoon I attended a party, driving an old Sunbeam Alpine sports car I had the misfortune to own at the time. After the party, I started the Alpine, pulled away from the curb, and – as classic British sports cars will oft do – the electrical system blinked out and I coasted gracefully to a stop, directly in front of the Jobs’ driveway.
As I was putting my jacket on, I heard a call from across the street behind me – the Jobs’ driveway – ‘British or Italian?’ It was Jobs’ lovely wife Laurene. ‘British,’ I said, ‘and acting like it.’ ‘You want a beer?’ she said. I tried to decline (shocked I guess at first), but she insisted, said ‘you’re not going anywhere,’ and walked back in the house – only to return with two bottles of beer.
I was determined not to let on that I knew exactly who I was talking to – I was so afraid of being cast a stalker – but the scene was already getting weird for me, standing by my broken car having a beer with Steve Job’s wife. So it got weirder… [Imagine this:] It’s a beautiful Fall evening in Palo Alto. Your car’s broken. A formally dressed close friend of Steve Jobs is under the hood working on your engine. You are talking with Steve’s absolutely lovely and down to earth wife. Steve is in the car, with his kid, trying to crank it.
Much more in the full article – highly recommended – here.