What's In A Number?  Joan Shepherd

George slammed  the door as he left, a final gesture of his anger. He had been arguing with his wife over the bills that seemed to accumulate in the UNPAID stack. She blamed him, he blamed her, they both blamed his striking-looking boss, Phyllis, who authorized his paltry salary at the Newcastle News where he was the newest reporter.  He simply didn‘t make enough money, according to the wife who came from a family that never even had to discuss money. Before she married George money was available when she wanted it. Not now, she thought. 

It really wasn’t money they were discussing. They we're getting tired of each other, a premature seven year itch. 
Why did I ever think marrying him and living in Little River would be fun. She couldn’t help hearing him slam the door as he left and thought, “Good! I’ll go out too.”

She stepped on something just outside the door of their apartment, 147. The numbers had come loose from the door with only the 4 remaining in place.  A # 1 and  #7 in cheap silver-colored tin letters, with one hole for a nail in the top, were now on the floor, falling off the nail when the door was slammed in frustration. Room 147 was now Room 4. She laughed out loud . Number 4 Triple Pine Lane sounded more sophisticated than 147.

The Smithton’s living in 145, heard the slammed door, and waited a few minutes before peeking out the door. Mr Smithton saw the numbers on the floor, saw nails still in the door, and thought he’d play a joke by making it read 741.
The original door slammer, George, returned home after a few drinks, saw the number and thought he got off on the wrong floor. Perplexed in his present state, he got back into the elevator to discover there was no 7th floor. About then the UPS delivery driver had a package for 147, saw the 741 on the door with the confused owner still shaking his head.

”Isn;t this the first floor?” he asked and got a shrug of shoulders and head in reply. Now the wife returns, sees the 741 instead of just #4, and starts yelling at her husband for putting the numbers on incorrectly, then notices the UPS man and in a sweet voice asks what he is doing there. He’s looking for Mrs. Clayton at 147. “Oh, goodie, that’s me!” but he needs proof and she’ll have to come to the truck and sign some papers. As if on cue, Mr. Smithton returns wondering what all the voices are about. “Damned if I know” is George’s answer. “I’m looking for my own Room 147 and this is 741 but there is no 7th floor.” Mr. Smithton, the neighbor, laughs, admitting he was the one that switched the numbers. “That really is your place, 147”, he tells George and adds, “I can see you are confused. Let’s walk outside, down the block, and I’ll buy you a drink at Cornerspace.”

They both waved at the wife who was still talking and flirting with the UPS driver. “Bye, Honey” the husband said and staggered, with Mr. Smithton’s help, down the street.

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