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options the secret life of steve jobs phần 10 pot
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about Jake doing the exact same thing in front of someone else.
“It’s a psych-out,” he says. “Makes him look like a tough
guy. He’s trying to intimidate you. He’s fucking with your head.
Plus you feel indebted to him, because he protected you. I know
it’s fucked up. But that’s how everything is in Los Angeles. It’s all
an act. That homeless guy was probably some actor, working for
free so he can get a part in some movie.” “The guy’s head was on
sideways,” I say.
“So maybe a stunt man. They can do stuff like that. Trust
me, as soon as you drove off the guy got up and walked away. It
was all staged. Come on, these are movie guys. It’s what they
do.” He takes a deep hit off a joint and holds it. “How you doing
otherwise?”
I’m not quite sure how to answer that. I just sigh and say
nothing.
“What?” he says.
“I’m tired,” I say. “I’m feeling old.”
“You and me both, brother.”
“You got the two girls there?”
“They’re tied up in the dungeon room. I’m taking a break.”
After we hang up I go out on the terrace and sit looking out
at the lights of Los Angeles. All I have to do is be patient, and
eventually all of this will be mine. The movie business, the music
business. All of it.
Then I think of the meetings I have scheduled for tomorrow,
and how much I dread them. I try to imagine doing this job for
another ten years. Or even one year. I don’t think I can do it.
In my bag I still have the card that Matt, the CIA guy, left
with me. I fetch my phone to dial his number, but just as I pick
up the phone it begins to buzz.
It’s Mrs. Jobs. She wants to know how I’m doing. She says
she’s sorry for yelling at me, and if I really want to flee the
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country, she’ll go with me. Which, oddly enough, makes me not
want to flee after all.
“Let’s hang in there,” I say. “We’ll give it a little more time.”
“Have you seen it?” Ja’Red says. He’s sitting behind his desk
looking like a kid on Christmas morning. I’m back at headquarters for the first time since my banishment to Palo Alto. I’ve been
told only that I should be prepared for a huge surprise. For all I
know this will involve FBI agents and handcuffs. But now, seeing
the smile on Ja’Red’s face, I don’t think so.
“It’s incredible,” he says. “It’s like . . . it’s like looking into
the face of God.”
I go into my office. Lars Aki is there, beaming. Beside him is
Mike Dinsmore, so pale he seems to be glowing.
“It’s done,” Lars says.
He hands me a box—a beautiful glossy black box made of
heavy cardboard and hinged on the back like a jewelry case.
Inside, cushioned in black velvet, is the iPhone. They’re right. It’s
beautiful. Silver and black, with rounded edges. It’s the most
beautiful object I’ve ever seen. I take it out of the case, and hold
it in my hand. It is sleek and thin and light. But solid. Like a piece
of really well-crafted jewelry. Perfect.
“Turn it on,” Lars says.
“It works?”
He nods. I press the power button—which, because of the
incredibly intuitive design, I am able to identify without reading
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a manual. The screen blinks and lights up. The phone comes to
life. Icons fill the screen.
Tears begin streaming down my face. I can’t help it. I turn to
the window.
“All those people,” I say. “Billions of them. The whole world.
They have no idea what is coming. This product—this changes
everything.”
“Everything,” Lars says, nodding.
“The world,” Mike Dinsmore says, “will never be the same.”
Mike looks at me. I look at him. All of the bad blood, all of
the fighting, all of the heartaches and struggles are behind us
now. I reach out to him. We embrace. Then Lars joins in too. For
a long time the three of us just stand there, holding each other in
a three-way man hug. It’s one of the most powerful moments of
my life.
November flies by in a blur. I’m totally back in charge again,
running things at headquarters, putting in long hours in planning
meetings and putting the finishing touches on our advertising
and marketing campaign around the iPhone.
Up in San Francisco, Doyle has convened a grand jury, or so
we’ve been told. The whole thing is top secret, and frankly I can’t
be bothered to worry about it. For now they’re leaving me alone,
and that’s all I care about. Our sales are going crazy. Every morning I get a report that rolls up our business from the day before,
breaking things down by make and model and market—iPods in
India, iMacs in Brazil, whatever. Everything’s booming. There’s
not a weak spot in the lineup.
On Thanksgiving we’ve got a big crowd: Larry and Mrs.
Larry; Bono and The Edge; Sting and Trudie Styler; Tom Bowditch; Lars Aki and some guy named Michael that he met at a
club; Al Gore, who’s on the outs with Tipper because she says
he’s “gone Hollywood” and so he’s living in California for the
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