You imagine a tiny street, crisscrossing a grid. Utter darkness, completely hidden in the shadows of taller buildings nearby. The houses are seven inches apart. Probably cobblestones. The street is named for a person that has been dead for over 300 years, or for someone on the Mayflower (Brewster, Winslow). The very rarest, the most exotic, especially in the Midwest. I have never lived at an address with a single-digit house number. They are reserved for rare book collectors, plutocrats and magicians.
Cozy. One imagines a walk-up brownstone, or a row of brownstone walk-ups. A short walk to the bodega, or party store, or news agent, or corner shop, whatever you call it where you live. Probably hard to find parking in the immediate area. You’d likely have to walk a few blocks. Historic preservation markers may be nearby.
All my addresses in college had three digits in the address (106 Birchwood, 409 W. Gaulbert). I imagine many of you reading this from a three-digit address. Urban, but too not crowded. Thirty blocks or so outside the city center.
Impossible to know. Every house I lived in up to the age of 22 had four digits in the house number (9509, 3604, 1001), as does the house I live in now, as do the next few I expect to live in. Four is the median, the baseline. The smaller or larger the number is than four, the more exotic it seems.
Likely on a long, looping street named for a tree, or a miles-long two-lane with a name like “Airport Way” or “Frontage Road.” You cannot catch a bus to an address with five digits. You’ll have to drive, and you’ll have to drive for a long time. Way out past the proving grounds and the wildlife management area. One imagines absolute silence.
I pray I never have to visit an address with a six-digit house number.