NO MORE THAN THREE

NO MORE THAN THREE

          Billy-Joe sighed and waited with bated breath. He'd followed company policy. The bell rang three times. Chuckling, he remembered one of his favourite British comedy troupes, Monty Python. Ring the bell three times, not one, not two times. Thou shalt only ring the bell three times, four being greater than three. Do not ring the bell less than three times or more than three times; three is the number. Yeah, yeah, okay, he thought to himself; I get it.

         This was the first summer job where he'd have no one looking over his shoulder and constantly telling him what to do. Out here, on the streets, he was his own man. He set his own pace. He chose the neighbourhoods to visit. He enjoyed the cloudless blue sky and the warm breezes. The fresh air certainly beat a musty old warehouse or the fumes of a garage. Pedalling along the house-lined streets, he admired and day-dreamed about the properties and vehicles he passed.

         With each stop, he felt special. He'd learned that the three trills from his tinkling bell signalled excited kids to burst from their rooms, their yards, from everywhere. Each eager child seemed to anticipate his arrival. Billy-Joe was, undeniably, the most popular man in town. He was the captain of the ice cream bike bestowing frozen treats from Dickie Dee. Yeah, the company name was unfortunate, but Billy-Joe, Esquire/Entrepreneur had to begin somewhere. For now, he was content to be a pedlar/pedaller extraordinaire. (253 words)