About seven years ago, my girlfriend worked as a frontdesk clerk in a posh hotel to make ends meet. She’d been on her feet all day and wanted nothing more than to go home.

Ten minutes before her shift ended, soft spoken man remarked on her haggard appearance and mentioned that he was waiting for a very important fax, and asked if she’d deliver it before leaving.

Great, she thought. An hour later, fax in hand, she stood at his door.

“Thanks,” he said. “How many hours a day do you work?”

“Nine to ten on a good day. Today was…” she stopped, remembering he was paid guest, not a friend. “Today was busy.”

“Would you like to work for me?”


That man was Steve Jobs.

My friend still works for Apple.


He will be missed.