It Grows On Trees

Fall, 1999.

"That's all for today. Have a great evening!"

I rushed out of the symphony practice room and carelessly dropped my violin into its case, simultaneously fetching a shiny new cell phone from my pocket. I didn't have the number on speed dial; I didn't need it. I'd dialed this number at least twenty or thirty times a week for the past two months.

As soon as the ringing stopped and I could hear that the cell connection had been made, I punched in a string of 28 digits containing a login ID, a PIN code, and some instructions for a financial symbol lookup. The first time I'd done this, it took me two or three minutes to navigate all the voice-activated menus; after two months, I didn't even have to hear the voice. I just pressed the numbers as fast as my fingers could move.

I pressed the phone to my ear and held my breath.

"The Standard & Poor's 100 Index. October put, strike price K. Three and one eighth."

Drat. Not high enough.

"High four and seven eights. Low two and three sixteenths."

My mouth dropped open. I punched another string of eight digits into the keypad.

"Today's activity: Sold nine hundred OEX October puts at four and five eighths."

Jill walked over to me, carrying her violin case.

"So what happened?"

I did some quick mental calculations.

"I made $2,500 during orchestra practice!"

::

True story. Perhaps someday I'll get around to writing out the rest of it.