I was the last Mac user in the ’90s, just about, or so it felt like. If the word “bealeagured” didn’t exist, we’d have had to invent it, so that we’d have something sad—sad like sad trombones—to put next to Apple’s name.
The triumph of the enemy looked near, and that triumph would have meant that computers would be joyless and unlovable things.
That fear was deep and real. I used to debate with myself: Would I become a high school teacher or a waiter? Because I knew I’d have to quit the software business if Apple disappeared.
I could work my way up to restaurant manager. After a while I’d forget about the dreams I had before Microsoft took them away with its Windows-driven ascendance.