0008

I'm in the hardware store picking up a few odds and ends. Cathy, the store manager, is working the cash register. Must be a slow day; I seem to be the only customer at present. So, as I bring my purchases to the register, I offer a little diversion.

"Hey Cathy, I've got a riddle for you."

"Ummm, OK."

"A customer in a hardware stote has this conversation with the sales clerk:"

Customer: How much does this item cost?

Sales clerk: That item costs 25 cents for one, or 50 cents for twelve. Or you could get 144 for 75 cents.

Customer: How much would 5492 cost?

Clerk: That would be one dollar even. (Plus tax, of course.)

Cathy furrows her brow in puzzlement over such a bizarre price scheme. As she rings up my purchases, bags them, takes my money, and gives me change, the wheels are turning. Screws? No. Nails? Pipe fittings?

Handing me the bag and receipt, Cathy shakes her head. "I give up," she says, "I can't think of anything that could be priced like that."

I re-open the bag, and lay out on the counter, facing Cathy, some of the items I have just purchased: four self-adhesive address numbers which I will put on my mailbox to identify it with my house number, 5492 Wilkinson Road.

I like riddles. Among all the innocent delights of life, riddles and logic puzzles are near the top of my list. I also like individuals who, like Cathy, are gracious enough to laugh at themselves.