Twenty minutes felt like an eternity to someone who could pass freely through the restricted doors and connecting corridors of the chocolate factory. To me, it was a timed race, and the starting pistol was the sound of my mind exploding in shock at the unexpected invitation from Wonka.
I sprinted out to the employee parking lot, no longer concerned with the attention I was drawing, and flung my backpack into the trunk of my car. There was no point hanging onto it. My laptop wouldn't be allowed inside even if I weren't uploading sensitive data to a former rival chocolatier. The special projects department at Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory was protected by a real security team, unlike the employee entrance, which had a single outsourced guard and an everlasting coffee pot.
My glovebox was barren save for my registration certificate, half a sticky note cube, and the metal pen gifted to me by Arthur, my new boss, on my first day at work. Arthur was the conspiracy theory sort and insisted my partner and I learn to encrypt our written communications before we went "into the field." I'd thought he was talking nonsense at the time, but his paranoia was about to pay off with interest.
I twisted the pen's tip to release the point and scribbled GNVYCVCR onto a sticky note. The message might look like a wifi password or used promo code to the average person. To my partner, it was an instruction to examine the tailpipe, which was where I stuffed my napkin-wrapped car keys before I jogged the equivalent of six city blocks to the factory's public entrance.
Before I passed through the wrought iron gate with its enormous "WONKA" signage, I peeled off my too-warm jacket and flung it over one shoulder. Then I froze to take in the chaos on the other side of the bars. The courtyard had always resembled a movie premiere entrance, with a single red path like a rolled-out carpet between the gate and large double doors. But this was the first time I'd seen it lined with actual celebrities.
Voices shouted over one another as I wove through the camera-heavy crowd like a spooked cat with nowhere to hide. It sounded like several simultaneous broadcasts were battling for dominance in a space too cramped and reverberant for a single speaker.
"I almost tossed the invitation when it arrived at my Paris apartment in English! But when I realized the ticket was 24-carat gold foil, I was like—"
"Hopefully, we'll get a few free candy samples we can review later in a blind taste-test, and—"
"I know what you're thinking: Violet, Isn't chocolate terrible for your complexion? Not necessarily! Keep watching, because—"
"YOU'RE GONNA SEE IT ALL RIGHT HERE ON MIIIIIIIKE TEAVEEEE! And don't forget to hit the like and subscribe buttons below!"
My stomach turned. This public event was the exact opposite of my undercover assignment. Paparazzi and opportunistic gawkers were everywhere, ensuring my photo would land on all of the tabloids my boss monitored for factory news. And if that weren't enough to get me fired, absolutely every move I made for the rest of the day would be directly in view of him.
"Careful, Mr. Bucket!"
My shoulder collided with Wonka's before my eyes adjusted to the darkness beyond the open doorway, and I was surprised to find that I was the one jarred by the impact. In all the times I'd admired his figure—a fact I would deny even under threat of death—I'd always thought of him as svelte. But the man was as solid as an MMA fighter.
Perhaps that was the illusion one paid for when buying bespoke suits. Or maybe Wonka was all lean muscle and no bulk. The sort of strength gained through hard labor instead of daily workouts. Either way, I would no longer underestimate him if my assignment brought us toe-to-toe.
"Distracted?" he asked and shot me a look so icy it made my cheeks burn with shame. Assignment or no, he had a way of making me feel like an admonished child in a headmaster's office.
"I'm so, so sorry. I didn't see you at all."
Instead of acknowledging my apology, he nodded toward the scene beyond the door and transferred a lollipop walking cane from his left hand to his right. "Horrifying, isn't it?"
This time, when he locked eyes with me, I realized I'd completely misread his expression. Wonka wasn't disappointed. Not with me, anyway. My former boss, the world-famous chocolate entrepreneur, wanted to connect with me over our shared disinterest in the spectacle outside. His glance was the careful side-eye of a comrade in the presence of fools.
And that got me thinking.
Wonka was a notoriously private person. He never spoke of relationships, and none ever appeared in the gossip-hungry tabloids. But in all the time I'd known him, in person or photos, had I ever once seen him with a friend? Or on a personal phone call? Or socializing outside the workplace at all? I couldn't say for sure that I had, which was heartbreaking—or suspicious if you believed my boss' wild theories.
His sigh interrupted my thoughts. "I suppose the show must go on."
He lifted his cane a foot off the floor and slammed it down three times. Each strike sounded like a clap of thunder, as if the cane itself was a massive microphone linked to hidden speakers throughout the courtyard. I doubled down on this theory when he brought the gem-like handle to his face, and his amplified voice drowned out the noisy broadcasts.
"Welcome! Welcome to my wonderful chocolate factory! Would the golden ticket holders please come forward?"
The four shouting broadcasters and a third of the camera operators shuffled toward the door, and I felt myself shrink from the unwanted attention. Wonka, on the other hand, bristled like a threatened rooster.
"I'm sorry, but the ticket holders alone are permitted inside. Not the press!"
"They're not press," a woman in rhinestone-studded pants corrected. Her bulky turtleneck sweater was cropped at the midriff, rendering it impractical for both summer and winter wear. "This is my cinematographer. My makeup artist. My stylist…"
"Veruca Salt!" Wonka reached out as if to shake her hand and plucked a golden ticket from her fingers instead. "I've heard so much about you from my employees! They love your reality series. I'm so glad you could make it! Unfortunately, your friends aren't allowed on the tour. Only you."
"Nobody told us our team members couldn't come," another woman argued. Unlike Veruca, who could have been the star of a high-budget music video, she looked like a modern-day wood nymph in earth-toned fabrics and stone jewelry on hemp cords.
"And Violet Beauregarde! Your skincare tutorials are so enlightening! The rules of your visit are in the fine print I sent with your ticket." He punctuated the last word by taking hers from her outstretched hand.
"I ate the fine print," a man slightly older than me confessed. He was tall and broad-shouldered with a childish face and perfectly sculpted waves of blonde hair. Attractive, if not for the vague impression that he'd laugh someone out of a restaurant for confusing dinner and dessert forks. "The saffron scent and foil lettering suggested the paper was flavored like kesar kaju katli, so I had to give it a taste. And I was right! Marvelous invention! I used it for a popular segment of my show."
Wonka didn't waste time taking the ticket from the larger man. "Augustus Gloop, traveling food critic. I'm glad you enjoyed my invitation. You'll have an opportunity to re-read the rules in a just moment."
"Ugh. Edible foil is so disgusting," Violet sneered. "Do you know how many animals are murdered for their guts each year so we can put toxic metal on our sweets? Please, Mr. Wonka, tell me you run a vegan, cruelty-free factory."
"I'd very much love to tell you that, Miss Beauregarde. And what a delightfully informed consumer you are! Have you studied the history of sugar?"
"Why?"
"I'm good with my GoPro," a guy with a punchable face interjected. His space dye tee-shirt and torn jeans made me wonder if he spent the bulk of his income on video game microtransactions and unused instruments. "I don't need my cameraman."
His smug grin wilted when Wonka replied, "Ah. Mike Teavee. I've watched a dozen episodes of your show, and I'm still not sure what you do. But I'm told it's quite popular! Thank you for coming. No cameras are allowed inside the special projects department."
"No cameras!?" Mike spat, but Wonka had already turned to address me.
"And last but not least...Charles Bucket. Ticket, please."
I tried not to wince at the whine in Veruca Salt's voice when she asked, "Who the hell is Charles Bucket?"
Mike Teavee snorted. "Heheh. Bucket."
"How many subscribers does he have?" Violet asked with a look of fake innocence.
"Oh, leave the bloke alone," Augustus said, cementing my opinion that he was the best of the rotten bunch. "We all started somewhere."
Wonka grinned. "Indeed, Mr. Gloop! And now, we're all going somewhere! Please leave your equipment with your associates and follow me."
Each of the broadcasters, who I now understood to be internet personalities, handed their cameras and wireless microphones to their staff.
"Cellphones, too," Wonka reminded them.
That incited another round of indignant whining, but none from me. My boss had insisted I leave my phone at home in case Wonka could identify me by cell tower triangulation or some such nonsense. A solid plan, Arthur, but I suspect I may have blown it.
Once the drama concluded and the doors closed, Wonka ushered us to a table, upon which sat five piles of paper, each containing a lengthy nondisclosure agreement, visitation terms, and liability waivers. The last one I was familiar with, as I'd read and signed the mind-boggling text before. Its legal language was broad enough to cover any possible personal injury—real or fictional—which was overkill, to say the least. The factory had more safety measures in place than a theme park rollercoaster.
The other legal documents were new to me, and I skimmed them as quickly as possible. No photos, video, or recordings inside the special projects department (SPD). No touching, tasting, or otherwise contaminating the product without permission. No theft of product, recipes, or intellectual property. (Did that need to be said?) And no dissemination of employee's personal information.
"What's this bit about broadcasting rights?" I asked. "I thought cameras weren't allowed?"
"Ah!" Wonka nodded. "You didn't receive the welcome packet I sent to the other guests. At the end of the tour, provided all rules are followed, each guest may discuss the products—and only the products—on their respective programs. Guaranteed clicks for you and good press for me! I hope."
At least he was honest.
We bypassed the public tour and passed through a door I had always assumed was an emergency exit. It led up two flights of stairs, across a glass walkway, and into a narrow room with a fully staffed metal detector. Beyond, The SPD logo sat prominently above a pair of heavy steel doors.
Veruca's turn at the detector took forever as the officers made her remove her belt, heels, hair clips, and jewelry before they finally gave up and switched to a pat-down. It seemed rhinestone pants did not get along with metal detectors.
Compared to that ordeal, the other celebrities were less troublesome. But I was still numb from boredom when I finally slapped my jacket and shoes into a plastic tray and stepped through the metal detector. Which meant I was twice as alarmed when the detector's unexpected screech jolted me back to reality.
"Got anything else on you?" a burly officer asked. "Watch? Wallet chain? Pens?"
Pens! Oh hell. I forgot.
With a trembling hand, I reached into my shirt pocket to retrieve my metal ballpoint pen—the one with our company name painted right on the barrel—and handed it over to the officer. He examined it like an ancient artifact while I backed up and stepped through the detector again. It didn't beep.
I waited with increasingly clammy armpits as the officer turned my pen over and, to my relief, handed it back without even trying to extend the point. It felt as heavy as a lump of iron in my fear-weakened grip.
"Deface any factory property with that, and we will send you a bill," he said.
"Understood," I squeaked as I grabbed my jacket and shoes, relief washing over me in waves.
That was almost the end of my tour.