I am not sure what to say that thousands have not already said about iconic Steven Jobs. A modern day da Vinci, visionary, perfectionist, icon, genius.
But he was also a father, a husband, a brother, a friend.
And yet, the press in their frantic quest to disseminate the news of Steve Jobs' death may forget that. I met Jobs once, in the line at the Whole Foods in Palo Alto, some ten years ago. He had eggs, which the star struck cashier promptly dropped, spattering broken egg shells all over the counter. Jobs smiled shyly at me, self-consciously, and asked if I would hold his place in line while he got another dozen eggs.
Would I? I nearly fainted, the guy was so cute and frankly, hot. And while the poor star-struck cashier hastily mopped up bits of broken yolk and shell, Jobs apologetically smiled again and bought his eggs while we shared a few comments. He remarked that his wife also liked the spa around the corner that I was spending the day at; we both smiled knowingly at the nervous grocery store clerk whom I was fairly certain was going to faint dead away and finally, he said thanks to me − though I’m not sure what for − and with that he was gone.
The icon had left the building.
So for me, Jobs was also a regular guy, and all just because of that one chance encounter. A dad picking up eggs on his way home for the wife and kids. I liked that image of him and once I knew that both he and I had fought cancer, I felt a certain kindred spirit with the man.
I had no clue what it was be like to be mercilessly hounded by the press and Apple fanatics on a worldwide basis, but I knew what it meant to fight cancer. On some very deep and abiding level, I am pretty sure I got Jobs, that I got what drove him. The job, the amazing career, the revolutionizing the electronics industry, all great accomplishments he achieved, I know that Jobs would trade it all, as would I in his place, for something that none of us, no matter how profound our impact on the world or our genius, can have more of: time.