Jarrod's house is nothing like I imagined. I thought it would be a modern penthouse apartment of glass and stainless steel. Instead, he lives in a small cottage, circa 1920. There are two bedrooms and only one small bathroom. His furniture is homey and comfortable.
He's most proud of his guest room, which isn't a guest room at all. Instead, it's stuffed with antique personal computers. He shows me each one, as if they're his children. I'm itching to take them apart and study their insides. It's the engineer in me, but I don't think Jarrod would appreciate that.
"Hungry?" he asks.
"Starved."
Jarrod makes grilled cheese sandwiches on thick brioche bread. We sit in his small kitchen and scarf them down. "These are delicious," I say. "I can't believe that someone wearing such an expensive
