Ethan Jones had already figured out that people like Steven Levy weren't really trying to cause trouble for Jobs and the others. What they wanted most was simply someone to take the blame for the Altair 8800 failure—someone they could point to in order to prove their own innocence. After all, this expensive machine had malfunctioned while in their care.
So when Ethan Jones slammed the table and declared, "I have money," Steven Levy and the others immediately fell silent. They huddled together, whispered for a while, and then brought Ethan and his companions to the owner's home in Menlo Park.
When they arrived, the owner wasn't home. After asking around, they found him at a nearby post office.
A short negotiation was all it took. The owner quickly understood their purpose and readily agreed to the repair proposal.
Before leading everyone back home, the round-cheeked man apologized to Steve Jobs and his friends:
"Oh, Steve, I'm so sorry. If it hadn't been such a busy day—and if I hadn't needed to sort out my personal files and mail them to the SSA—I definitely would have taken the time to check the Altair myself. I always thought it was just a small issue that could be fixed quickly. Perhaps because the machine is so valuable, emotions have run a bit high. Please forgive me."
His words put Jobs and the others at ease. The rival group pursed their lips and said nothing, which made the owner smile knowingly before turning his gaze to Ethan. When his eyes met Ethan's, his smile widened.
He reached out a hand and said: "Ethan Jones? The inventor of Snake Game? Oh, I read the report in the Los Angeles Times—and I've even played your game! It's wonderful! I really enjoyed it, though I must say… you made it far too difficult. I spent more than ten dollars and still couldn't beat it. It broke my heart!"
"Really? That's a shame," Ethan replied with a smile, shaking his hand. "But thank you for enjoying my game. I appreciate it."
Since the owner turned out to be so friendly, the next step went smoothly.
Back at his house, he led them into his study, where the Altair 8800 sat.
It was an iron box, about the size of a modern computer tower, only placed horizontally. The front panel was fitted with rows of toggle switches, each with one or two red indicator lights above it.
After plugging in the power, Steven Levy and his team began testing it. They found the fault: the third switch from the left. No matter how they toggled it, the indicator light above it refused to turn on.
"We don't know yet whether the problem is in the switch itself or the light," Steven Levy explained. "Since we haven't dealt with this before—and considering how costly it is—we can't really troubleshoot it based on past experience."
At this, the owner—whose name was Gordon—nodded slightly and cast a measured glance across Jobs' friends.
Feeling the owner's gaze, the chubby young man asked directly,
"Do you have a teletype machine?"
"Yes, in the next room," Gordon replied.
"Then let's move the Altair there," the chubby boy decided.
The group followed his lead and carried the machine into the next room. Under their watchful eyes, he connected the Altair to the teletype using a dark cable. After that, he hooked up the power supply to both machines. As he fiddled with the controls, the panel lights on the Altair flickered rapidly—but unfortunately…
No matter what he did, the teletype gave no response. "Then it's not the indicator light's problem," the boy muttered.
Without hesitation, he began dismantling the Altair. As the screwdriver spun in his round hands, Ethan caught his first clear look at the inside of a microcomputer of that era.
Inside the steel case, five circuit boards were neatly slotted in place. Ethan had no idea what each board did, but the boy checked the current with a multimeter, muttering to himself as he went:
"Parallel interface board… normal.
Serial interface board… normal.
Teletype interface board… normal.
8080 processor board… normal.
Memory board—oh, Fxxk! Why is the current here abnormal?"
Though he murmur, his hands moved even faster.
He shut off the power, pulled out the circuit board, and asked for a desk lamp. Under its light, he examined the board carefully before shouting:
"Ah, here it is! The solder pad has fallen off! What kind of lousy craftsmanship is this? You expect to make money with work like this? Go back and study for a few more years!"
His confident tone made the owner ask anxiously, "The solder pad fell off? Is it serious? Can it be repaired?"
"Of course," the boy shrugged. "Just a few pads came loose. Re-solder them and it'll be fine. Won't take long."
"But this is the 4096 memory board—it costs almost three hundred dollars!" someone interjected nervously.
The owner smiled and nodded to the man in thanks, then turned back. "Stephen, I'll trouble you with it."
Since the Altair's owner himself had spoken, no one else objected. Stephen didn't waste a moment. He cleaned the damaged solder, reapplied fresh solder, and carefully fixed the pads back in place. A wisp of green smoke curled upward as he finished. Then he reinstalled the circuit board, tightened the screws, and reconnected the teletype.
This time, when he toggled the switches in sequence, the teletype clattered noisily. A long strip of paper rolled out like a pale earthworm, and cheers erupted around the room.
"Oh, Fxxk—it's really fixed?"
"Unbelievable!"
"As expected of Stephen!"
The sudden praise made Stephen beam with pride. But Jobs lifted his chin and cut in sharply: "I told you—it wasn't our problem! You blamed me!"
His words of accountability left everyone embarrassed. Ethan, who had quietly observed the whole process, simply patted Jobs on the shoulder.
"Steve, I don't think they did it on purpose. No matter who it is, when they see something valuable broken, their first instinct is to find someone to blame. It's not about right or wrong—it's just human nature. An instinct that can't be changed."
The guys who had accused Jobs earlier stiffened. They opened their mouths, but none of them managed to get a word out.
Seeing their faces, Jobs let out a snort and glanced at his friend. When he saw the chubby boy shaking his head, he declared:
"Since Ethan's speaking for you, and Stephen doesn't want to push this further, I'll let you off this time! But listen—if you spout nonsense again, I'll smash your car on the spot! Don't believe me? Try it and see whose stronger—my fist or your head!"
The threat, sounding like it came straight from a street punk, left Ethan dumbfounded.
After waving goodbye to everyone, he pulled Jobs and the others out of the owner's home.
As Ethan was still wondering why Jobs had such a bad temper, the Jobs laughed, threw his arms wide, and hugged him.
"Oh, Ethan~ Thank you! Honestly, I didn't want to fight them, but their words went too far. If you hadn't shown up, I don't think we could've resolved this so easily."
"…So?" Ethan sighed, realizing he'd just played the part of the "good guy" he usually hated.
But before Jobs could finish, the fat boy beside them spoke up. "Actually, it could've been solved another way."
Both Ethan and Jobs turned to him. "Like Ethan said—just pay. I can afford it."
"...?" Ethan's eye twitched at the absurdly simple answer.
Jobs rolled his eyes, punched his friend's shoulder, and snapped:
"Oh, Fxxk! Are you crazy? You can't pay for this kind of thing! Paying means admitting we were wrong—and we weren't wrong!"
"But who cares?" the fat boy shrugged. "It's not like I haven't paid compensation before. If money can solve the problem, I'll gladly do it. That way, we don't waste time."
"…"
His nonchalant attitude nearly choked Jobs to death. After staring at his friend for a long while, Jobs finally waved his hand in defeat.
"Ethan, I'm sorry. This guy's just like that. Don't take it personally." Then, grinning, he added, "And don't think I'm the gangster here. Compared to him, I look like an angel. You know what he bragged to me about when we first met? In middle school, he made a fake bomb—rigged up with an electronic metronome to mimic the ticking sound—and tried to scare the school with it! And when he got to college, he built a signal jammer that knocked out all the public signals on campus. He'd hide near the signal tower, turn it off when repairmen came, then switch it back on after they left. He basically staged a real-life ghost story for the whole school!"
At that, Jobs shook his head. Ethan, however, stared at the chubby boy in awe. "Wow~ Brother, you're seriously that good?"
Pride spread across the fat boy's face. "Of course! I did all of that!"
Ethan smiled and asked, "Then, can I be lucky enough to know your name?"
"Of course!" The chubby boy raised his eyebrows proudly, then added, "If you really think I'm awesome, that is."
"Hahaha~"
His narcissism made Ethan laugh and nod. "Oh, I think after hearing your stories, no one could help but give you a thumbs up. After all, everyone might have thought about bombing their school—but only you actually went ahead and 'boom!' did it. That must have felt amazing!"
"Oh oh oh Ethan I love the way you put it!"
The boy's round face scrunched up with laughter. His eyes gleamed as he reached out his right hand.
"Since you think I've done great things, then we'll definitely become friends. Like Steve, my name is Steve too. His full name is Steve Jobs, and mine is Steve Wozniak. To tell us apart, you can call me Stephen—or Woz. But really, it doesn't matter. No matter what you call me, as long as I know it's me, that's enough."
Note:
① Steve Wozniak's name is quite interesting because he essentially has three versions. His birth certificate reads "Stephan Gary Wozniak." However, his mother said she actually intended to name him "Stephen," which became the name used by those close to him. Later, when he became friends with Steve Jobs, people often referred to them collectively as "the Steves."
Since their names sounded alike, Wozniak accepted being called "Steve" as well, and he even adopted that spelling in formal contexts. On his book covers, official website, and even on Wikipedia, he consistently uses "Steve Wozniak."
By his own words, "Steve" became a symbol of his friendship with Jobs, while the name on his birth certificate was rarely, if ever, used.