Q: When you see a guy in black Martin boots, wrinkled black leather pants, a black T-shirt, a black leather jacket, and oversized black sunglasses dangling from his collar, what's your first reaction?
A: For Ethan, the long hair fluttering in the wind instantly brought to mind one phrase—a will-o'-the-wisp boy.
What a stupid getup! But the moment he saw the man's face clearly, Ethan abandoned the real estate agent and hurried downstairs.
He rushed to the guy's side, baffled. "What's going on? Steve, what are you—?"
Yes, the man dressed in this abstract ensemble was none other than Steve Jobs.
At that moment, Jobs's face was twisted with fury. His eyes were bloodshot, veins bulged along his neck, and his whole stance radiated the willingness to throw himself into a fight.
Next to him stood a round-faced young man with thick lips. Though he'd dressed neatly, his blue shirt was in tatters—the sleeve on his left arm was shredded, several buttons were missing, and tufts of chest hair poked out through the gaps.
Hearing Ethan, everyone present turned their heads.
Jobs froze, then blinked in surprise. "Ethan? What are you doing here?"
"I'm here to look at houses." Ethan jerked his thumb over his shoulder, then frowned. "And you? What's this—fighting?"
The words felt wrong the moment they left his mouth. Because apart from Jobs, everyone else looked perfectly ordinary—some in T-shirts and baggy pants, others in plaid shirts and jeans, and a few in button-downs and slacks. Only Jobs was hurling curses like a street punk.
"Uh… yeah, kind of," Jobs muttered after a pause, nodding reluctantly.
However, the next second, Steve explained: "But we didn't start this! They accused us of breaking their stuff!"
The moment those words left his mouth, the group on the opposite side—who had just quieted down—exploded again.
"Steve! Watch what you say!"
"You didn't explain it clearly!"
"Oh, f***! I told you this isn't our fault!" Steve snapped back, his voice making even himself flinch.
"Stop, stop, stop!"
Seeing them all quacking, Ethan stepped in. "Don't argue! You all know yelling won't solve anything. Calm down first—how about we sit somewhere and talk it out?"
Ethan said it was enough to stall the argument.
"I've got no objection," Steve gasped, agreeing first. "Let's go inside and talk."
He then introduced the chubby young man beside him. "This is Ethan—the one I told you about. The guy who helped me sell goods last month."
Turning back, he added, "And this is my friend, Stephen."
"Hello," the round-faced young man nodded.
"Hello," Ethan replied politely.
The others looked puzzled. "Uh, sir, and who are you?" one of them asked.
Steve lifted his chin proudly. "Him? Hah! Ever heard of Snake? He invented it!"
The moment they learned Ethan was the creator of Snake, the young men—most of them about Steve's age—dropped their hostility at once. Some even stepped forward eagerly to shake his hand.
"Hey, brother, glad to meet you. I've heard of you!"
"I'm Steven, Steven Levy. Just call me Steven."
The others followed suit: Harry Garland, Lee Fierstensen, Roger Mellon, John Draper.
"Oh…" Ethan nodded politely, though inwardly he thought, I've never heard of a single one of you.
But that didn't matter. Manners were manners. After shaking their hands, Ethan, now playing the middleman, followed them toward the house.
Before stepping inside, he turned back to Frank. "Uh… help me deal with the agent, would you? Tell him I don't want this house anymore. You get what I mean?"
"I get it, I get it. Just don't end up beaten to death tonight!"
Frank always had a way of distilling things down to their sharpest—and crudest—truth. Ethan couldn't help but admire that, even if the words were unpleasant.
Still, he didn't have time to dwell on it. Once inside, he sat down with the group, ready to get to the bottom of their dispute.
The first to speak was Steve Jobs. "Ethan, here's the situation. All of us are members of the same computer club. Remember last month, in May, when I went with you to replace that Snake motherboard for a client? While I was gone, the club had a gathering. I couldn't attend because I wasn't in California, so I don't know exactly what was discussed. But when I came back this month, my friend Stephen—" he gestured at the chubby young man—"told me something magical had happened."
Steve raised his hand, giving Stephen the floor. The round-faced boy straightened up, the tatters of his shirt pulling at the seams.
"After Steve returned, I told him what I saw at the May meeting. To explain that, though, we need to start from March.
Our club was founded in March this year. Steve was there too. At the very first meeting, Gordon—the club's founder—told us he'd ordered an Altair 8800 through Popular Electronics. He said it might arrive within a month or two, so we were all excited.
You know the Altair, right? It's the hottest personal microcomputer on the market right now.
Last month, the Altair finally arrived. Gordon brought it in, showed it to us, and let everyone get some hands-on time with it."
Because in March, Steve had shown great interest in the Altair, when he came back from work this month, I told him what happened last month. He was intrigued and wanted to see the Altair himself.
So, when the party was held again on the twelfth of this month, we went together. At that party, he finally met the Altair he had dreamed of, and he even tried it himself—loading the typing tape and fiddling with the switches to make it print numbers.
Having said this, the chubby young man turned to look at Jobs.
As if recalling the scene, Jobs's face lit up with excitement.
"Yes, Ethan, you know what? When I saw the Altair, I was shocked! I had never seen anything like it before. This thing seemed alive!"
Steve Jobs waved his hand animatedly and continued, "The Altair was incredible. It could calculate all kinds of things according to our instructions! I was so curious about how it worked that I asked Stephen about it. With Gordon's permission—he's the owner of the Altair and the founder of our club—Stephen took it apart in front of everyone and explained the internal structure. I listened very carefully at the time…"
At this point, Steve Jobs paused. He raised his eyebrows at Ethan. That little gesture was enough. Combining it with what he had heard from the argument earlier, Ethan understood the situation.
"So… the Altair you took apart ended up broken, right?"
"Exactly! It's broken!"
Before Jobs could respond, Steven Levy—who had greeted Ethan earlier—jumped in. "The day before yesterday, Gordon told us some good news. He got an offer from SSA and will be moving to Baltimore soon. We were happy for him, but also sad, because it meant we might never see the Altair again. So, before he left, we wanted to take another look at it.
But when we went yesterday, the machine wasn't working. After connecting the circuits, one of the indicator lights on the main panel wouldn't turn on. And since Steve and his group were the last ones to touch it…"
"I told you!" Jobs snapped. "We dismantled it and then reassembled it! We even ran it again in front of you!"
"But it's broken now!" Steven Levy's group shot back.
"Alright! Enough!" Ethan raised his voice over the noise.
"I think I understand what happened. But now I have a new question: has anyone actually checked the computer? Or does anyone here even know how it broke?"
That question made Steven Levy's group exchange uneasy glances. Their voices dropped noticeably.
"We didn't dare touch the Altair. Gordon bought the fully assembled version—it cost him more than six hundred dollars! How could we possibly take apart something that expensive?"
"Yes! And the seller specifically said that the fully assembled version comes with no separate warranty!"
"I see…" Ethan muttered. From their words alone, it was clear—they were trying to shift the blame without really knowing the situation.
But then again, Ethan thought, maybe that was only natural.
After all, something worth more than six hundred dollars was close to two months' salary for an ordinary person. It would be strange if they didn't panic after it broke.
"Then what do you want now?" Ethan asked.
"We called them here today because we want them to compensate."
"Is that your idea, or the founder's… what's his name again?"
"Gordon."
"Yes, Gordon. Is this your idea or Gordon's?"
"Gordon thinks the machine should be repairable, but we don't dare try."
"...?"
"...This is troublesome."
Ethan rubbed his temples. They didn't know how it broke, they wanted it repaired, but also thought it was too expensive. To him, it felt like they wanted to shift responsibility while acting shameless about it.
But Steve Jobs suddenly spoke up. "Maybe there's a way."
"What?"
The moment those words left his mouth, Steven Levy's group grew restless again.
"You already broke it! And now you want to keep touching it?"
"That's not okay! What if it's just a minor issue now, and you make it worse?"
"Exactly! Gordon has to leave for Baltimore soon! He can't waste his time here with you!"
The renewed noise irritated Ethan Jones.
"Enough barking!!!" Not wanting to fall into an argument again, he shouted directly: "Let Steve and the others fix it! This is a machine worth over six hundred dollars, right? If they break it beyond repair, I'll buy you a new one!"
Scanning the quiet faces, Ethan said solemnly, "I've made myself clear. Who agrees? Who opposes?"
He swept his gaze around like a bull locking onto its target.
Note: ① SSA is the Social Security Administration of the United States.