In high school, I took a computer/typing course my freshman year. Wherever my tuition money went, it was not to IT; while the school’s main computer lab was all Appley Mac’ed out, the computer/typing class was strictly Commodore 64s, which was almost as ridiculous then as it would be now.

What I was just remembering, though, was that the teacher of this class also ran a small trophy making business on the side. The reason I know this is not because I was an excellent bowler or something; there was a phone at his desk in the classroom, and not a day went by that he didn’t give us a typing assignment and then loudly conduct outside business for ten or fifteen minutes. Every day, I would sit there feeling like I was eavesdropping somewhere I didn’t belong from my assigned desk, making sure my pinky hit the semicolon and trying not to hear Mr. Steve bellowing into the receiver, “Joe, you old sunuvabitch! How we comin’ on that wood order?”

I have no idea what made me think of that. Probably listening to my boss talk to his mom’s doctor for much of the afternoon.