What is my number?

One morning, I crawled out of bed and looked at the clock on my nightstand. The LED said 800. 800 was a good number. I thought that must be my number.

Later that same day, I stood in front of the deli counter at the supermarket intending to buy some fresh bread and Boar's Head salami. No one waited on me. Then I realized the other people standing there had little pieces of paper with numbers on them. I went and got my own number: it was 42. That must be my number.

On my way home, I stopped at the Post Office to mail some bills. I had wised up, though, and immediately went to the little machine and ripped off a number; it said 62. Wow, that must be my number.


I lived with the number, 62, for several days. Then I went shopping at the mall. I bought two sweatshirts as the weather had cooled considerably. The clerk wanted my credit card number, which turned out to be 2212 3212 4432 9870. She was happy, but I was not. That was too long to be my number! How could I possibly remember that?

While at the mall, I thought I'd get a new cell phone as the one I had could not take pictures. I don't know why anyone would want to take pictures with a telephone, but from what I hear it's the latest thing so I thought I ought to get one. I stopped at one of those kiosks where behind the counter sat two youngsters with spiked, orange and black hair, four tattoos, and an attitude. Neither one of them seemed to know too much, and when they asked me for my current cell phone number, I walked away! I couldn't remember that! And that couldn't have been my number, anyway. Whoever heard of a cell phone number being your number?

Things got worse. On my way home I was stopped by a motorcycle cop for speeding. I couldn't have been speeding, 'cause I was thinking about my number and not paying attention to how fast I was going. But she wanted my driver's license number, which was likewise way too long to be my number. I became ever more frustrated.


Two weeks later, I came down with a nasty cough, so arranged to meet with my doctor. She's very nice and did not ask me for my HMO number. But the clerical staff in her office did. That, too, was a horribly long number and I was certain that could never be my number!

I became depressed. Now, like most red-blooded Americans, when depressed I buy things. And it doesn't matter that I don't have any money because I can put whatever I buy on credit. Well, my car was several years old and had a lot of miles, so I drove from the doctor's office to a car dealer whose advertisement I had seen on television. I bought a new car. The paper work was massive. There were a lot of useless numbers, but then I had to provide my Social Security number! Could that be my number? No, it was also too long to be my number!


I drove my new car home, and home was much easier to find as I had had a GPS system installed. Pulling into the driveway, I noted the number 3179 on a wood block on the side of my house. I thought, "All right!" That's a great number and easy to remember! That has to be my number!

The rest of the day I felt really, really good. I knew my number! It was an easy number to remember! Or so I thought. About four in the afternoon, sadly, I realized I had forgotten my number. But when I went outside to check the side of the house, the wood block with the number had been stolen by vandals! Now, I'd never know my number!

My life was a mess!


Much later that night, I crawled into bed and under the covers. It was very, very cold. Suddenly, I heard a frosty voice: "Hey, buddy, your number's up!"

I screamed. "But what is my number?"

Everything went blank.