Alexander Chatfield’s Life Was Like a Crime Novel

The mystery persists.

Look at my picture before you look at his.

Imagine I was that little boy you see on Facebook memes or in good news stories. Fictional me wears a bow tie, a big smile, and I hold up my product.

Maybe I sell bespoke socks, or perhaps it’s bowties, just like the one my imaginary self wears.

You can tell that I am my mommy’s special boy. So was Alexander Chatfield.

Youth is wasted on the young.

Suppose that I move from that precocious start to the launch of my investment firm at a similar appallingly young age.

I am 23, let’s say, and we have offices on Madison Avenue.

The future looks bright; about twenty people work for me. You have to pay attention to me. Why? Didn’t you read where my offices were? Did you not see that I started my firm?

That location matters. So does the number of employees. Both facts mean that I am important. You have to ask yourself what you do not know about me for sure. You have to ask what you are only taking for granted.

About a year after I found my firm, I used it to take control of a brokerage firm and several insurers.