After high school, before college, I worked at the Chicago Options Exchange. I was the youngest person on my team—under my supervisor, in my crew—I don’t even remember the terminology. It wasn’t departments, it was something else. Concern. Let’s make it sound old timey. The youngest person in the concern. There were other younger guys, but they were in their early twenties. One day one of these fellows came in with a crisis. His grandmother was unavailable to sew his pants. He’d been holding them up the entire train ride in. So, I put to use my most valuable class in lower education—home economics, from fifth grade, complete with sewing. I don’t have the fine motor for sewing. Or modeling, which my wife probably ought to be thankful for every day because there are some dope dorky models I’d love to put together. Anyway. Sewing. Most valuable class from fifth grade. Oh, the rest of the story from work. Basically the guy was sitting around in his boxers while I was sewing his pants. Almost as amusing as how we used to make our boss watch “Too Close for Comfort” at lunch instead of, you know, CSPAN. Because what’s more important… the market or Monroe?