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He could be cruel, and was at times inappropriate in front of her, she writes. In one incident from the book, Brennan-Jobs' mother asked him to buy a house for her and their child, but Jobs bought the house for himself and his new partner instead. Lisa Brennan-Jobs, the daughter of Apple cofounder Steve Jobs, has written a memoir about life with her world-famous father — and it sounds absolutely brutal. Her mother, Chrisann Brennan, who was by that point estranged from Jobs, once reportedly asked the Apple cofounder to buy a house for her and their daughter.
Instead, Jobs "agreed it was nice," then bought it for himself and his new partner, Laurene Powell Jobs. That's according to The New York Times, which has obtained a copy of the book, "Small Fry," early , and interviewed Brennan-Jobs about her relationship with her father. Ugly details of the relationship between Jobs and his daughter have been public for years. He once claimed she wasn't his child and refused to pay child support until ordered to.
But the book, as detailed in The New York Times' account, provides an unprecedented window into the Jobs household as Brennan-Jobs grew up, including some disturbing parenting practices by the legendary entrepreneur. Brennan-Jobs, however, does not want the account to be condemnatory, and stressed to the paper that she has forgiven her father and wishes to emphasize his better side.
The dearness of my father, and the outrageous pleasure of being with him when he was in good form? Even so, the details described are alarming.
In one incident, Jobs reportedly refused to put heating in Brennan-Jobs' bedroom to give her a "value system. Another time, Jobs seems to have behaved inappropriately in front of his daughter with Powell Jobs. The New York Times wrote:.
Here was something I was actually proud of, a bona fide skill that would open a world of future hardware store positions for me. Back across the highway, in a self-serve discount shoe store, I found the best ever part-time position. Order by newest oldest recommendations. When Dolly was actually in the department, she spent her time trying on clothes in the fitting room. Thomas in the bowels of that scary place, though I could hear them climbing steps to the upper level. And so that fall I transferred to the Linen Department, where Mr. The girl hissed a nasty word at me as she elbowed past.
Brennan-Jobs describes him embracing Ms. Powell Jobs one day, 'pulling her in to a kiss, moving his hand closer to her breasts,' and up her thigh, 'moaning theatrically. When Dolly was actually in the department, she spent her time trying on clothes in the fitting room. My role was to say how terrific she looked before rehanging the items and returning them to the floor racks.
Lisa Brennan-Jobs has written a memoir about her famous father. The details are Now 40, she has long avoided publicity. She has . “My first thought on being pitched the book was, 'I don't do this kind of thing. I don't know. A Memoir Hugh Maguire. MY FIRST 40 JOBS A Memoir Hugh Maguire iUniverse, Inc. Bloomington MY FIRST 40 JOBS A Memoir Copyright © by.
She did, in fact, look great in anything she put on, though I knew, because I had sewn things myself from Vogue patterns, that everything we sold in the Womens Clothing Department was poorly cut, badly stitched, unattractively designed and made of cheap fabric that crackled and sparked when you pulled it on or yanked it off. My feet were killing me. Aside from two short breaks and a half hour for lunch, I never got to sit down on an eight-hour shift. And so that fall I transferred to the Linen Department, where Mr.
Thomas was my boss. He walked me around the floor, reciting measurements for sheets and blankets that went straight out of my head, and gave me a crash course in quilts, pillows, mattress covers and pads. For some reason the Linen Department sold roller window shades, and when he showed me the cutting machine I shot to attention.
First the wooden slat at the bottom of the shade was removed, measured and cut with a blade pulled down on it, and it broke with a delicious snap. Then the rolled-up vinyl shade, locked in a narrow trough, had to be carefully measured against a ruler guide. Any excess was sliced off exactly with a jaggedy-toothed electric blade that made a satisfying roar.
Here was something I was actually proud of, a bona fide skill that would open a world of future hardware store positions for me. Dolly would often appear out of nowhere to discuss something or other with Mr. Thomas, and I would greet her happily. Thomas only in an emergency and left to handle the floor myself.
The stock room was a dark, cold, two-story labyrinth with packages of linen on open latticed shelves and a clanky, metal staircase at one unseen end leading to the second story. I almost never went inside, preferring to tell a customer we were out of stock than to search for something on the shelves. A more-or-less innocent seventeen-year-old, I was never quite sure what was happening with Dolly and Mr. Thomas in the bowels of that scary place, though I could hear them climbing steps to the upper level.
Maybe they were just friends, just chatting, killing time. Well okay, maybe more. My hurt, nausea and outrage at the unfairness of my dismissal throbbed in my throat, but I got over it soon enough and found work in a rival department store on the other side of the highway. Cooking in the backyard, Far Rockaway. This was truly an awful job.
In front of me, for as far as I could see, was a bunched-up line of pissed-off customers holding various packages and items of clothing with limply hanging sleeves and pant legs. It was just after Christmas and the line was inexhaustible. Once again my feet were killing me, and I slouched behind the counter with one hip cocked. Given my height, no one would even know I was sitting down! At regular intervals my boss would quietly emerge from the back room to pat between my shoulder blades and admonish me to stand up straight and smile.
She never helped advance the line by dealing with customers herself. She always wore wool suits in muted colors with skirts inches below her knees, and although every outfit clearly cost more than I earned in a month, I found them all ugly. Her hair was dyed white-blond, her eyes and mouth tellingly small, her skin only a shade lighter than the overbearing walls.
I missed Dolly and Mr. Thomas with a pain in my chest like love. After a few shifts I was called into the back room and led to a chair by a desk, and my boss instructed another girl to take my place at the counter. The girl hissed a nasty word at me as she elbowed past. My reward for doing good work—for abiding the verbal abuse of customers, taps on my back and endless achy hours on my feet—was the joy of sitting down awhile in an airless alcove to tally receipts and expenditures under the glaring eye of a desk lamp.
Alternating between the front counter and back room, I thought I could slog through until something better turned up.
My shame and downfall came at the hands of an elderly lady. Her fingers were arthritically clawed, her rubber-soled shoes worn, and her twisty varicose veins bulged under her stockings. She approached me grinning, a rare thing, and I found myself grinning back, my heart suddenly leaping. What she spread before me was a stiff yellow girdle that was certainly many years old. She asked me for two dollars. I only paused a sec before clanging open the register and handing her two wrinkled one-dollar bills. Quickly, guiltily, I swept the girdle into the Returns bin under the counter, and when I looked up the woman was gone.
My boss laid a hand lightly between my shoulder blades and leaned in close. Cycling on the boardwalk.