Don’t They See How Beautiful It Is?
The plucky young man in ripped blue jeans and T-shirt pulled open the doors to the grand institution. He sought an open table at which he could sit himself down. The misshapen wooden containers he was balancing under each arm were beginning to wear out his strength. But he knew that once they saw the fantastic computer he was offering, his suffering would more than pay off.
He had come to the bank that day to sell his grand vision. Earlier in the spring of that year, 1977, he and an insanely great friend had developed an insanely great product. They had the idea that they could build a personal computer. Their young, optimistic naiveté gave them a feeling of invincibility. All they needed was a little money to grease the wheels of production. Our scraggly-looking friend had come to First Federal Bank to take out a small loan. It was going to be easy.
Before he could talk to bank personnel, he had to slip to the bottom of an excruciatingly long queue of those in front of him. He plopped himself into an uncomfortable chair and wait for his turn. The plastic, artificial smell of the place bothered him.
Two hours later he was called upon, as if a gift from the gods. The longhaired, unshaven man of 22 stood up and strode to Mr. Pangione’s desk.
“Have a seat, Mr…Jobs, is it?” said the creditor.
“Call me Steve.”
“Well then, Steve, I see you have come here to take out a loan.”
Steve, as we now know the young man, immediately sprang to attention. “Yes, sir, I need money to start a small business operation.”
“Really? That’s commendable for such a young man. How much do you need? $500? $1000?”
“$50,000 should cover the initial investment” Mr. Jobs professionally decreed.
Mr. Pangione immediately took on a rather insulted physiognomy. “$50,000? Are you insane, young man?”
Steve cringed. He had heard this phrase from so many people earlier in his life.
The bondsman continued, “I’d rather give a pound of my own flesh then give a hooligan like you 3,000 ducats.”
Steve inquired, “Ducats?”
Mr. Pangione immediately responded “No, not ducats, dollars. 50,000 of them. I would never give that much to you. You have no credit record!”
By this point Steve could tell what was really going on. He had just seen a man proudly walk out of the bank with a $75,000 loan, no questions asked. But that man was not 22. Steve brought this to light, inquisitively asking, “Is it my credit record that is at issue, or is the fact that I am 22? Is it the fact that I didn’t go to college? Is it that fact I don’t wear a cheap suit and ugly tie like you do?”
Pangione, the Penn graduate, knew he was caught. He began nervously tapping his executive pen he received for Christmas on his hard oak desk. He hurriedly blurted out “No, no.”
Steve said nothing.
Pangione continued “It has nothing to do with that. It’s just that you don’t have sound business plan, as far as I can tell. That’s a prerequisite for the type of loan you’re requesting.”
“A sound business plan? A sound business plan? Let me show you something.” Steve pulled his mangled contraption of wires and circuit boards, tentatively called the Apple I, out from under his seat.
“This is a computer. Do you know what this is?”
Pangione awkwardly stated, with an aura of arrogance, “Of course. I am well versed in today’s technology.”
“Oh really?”, Steve asked facetiously. “Then surely you are interested in what I have for you today. This is a computer myself and Steve Wozniak from HP have created. You’ve never seen anything like it, I assure you.”
“It looks more to me like a piece of garbage wrapped up in a nice wooden box.”
Steve thought to himself, “Don’t they see how beautiful this is? I’ve created something completely new to the world.” But he knew, at least as securing money was concerned, that he wasn’t having any success. He said to Pangione, “Listen, I’ve been to countless banks. But you suits don’t understand. There’s a group of people out there who are different from you. They are computer people. You don’t understand them. You don’t treat them right. We’re young, and we might look weird to you. But we are the next generation. And you just missed your chance of getting a piece of the action.” With that, Steve bolted, roughly crammed his cheap metal seat back under the table, and briskly rotated around, away from Pangione. As he walking away, he could hear the overweight bank employee quietly muster, “So long, you long-haired freak.”
Steve was tired of people calling him that. He was tired of being put down. He childishly stomped out of the bank and slammed his contraption into a nearby trash can, and the clang was barely audible of the ceaseless humming of the financiers. And with that, Steve Jobs went on his way home. He had a revolution to manufacture; other banks would soon see this.