"Mr. Wonka, Charlie is the only one left now."
My Grandpa Joe hadn't failed me, and now Mr. Wonka knew my name. I let the smile I felt inside reach my face. This was so different from when I was the only one left when we picked sides at school. There, being last brought shame. Here, it brought joy.
Mr. Wonka let his eyes go wide, but I think he was as happy as I was. At least, that's the impression I got. He was calmer now. So calm he seemed smaller and less, well, scary is the wrong word, but like that, than he'd seemed before. He was like a balloon when you let some of the air out of it.
"What happened to the others?" he asked us in a near whisper, but we didn't answer him. That would be wasting his time. He knew the answer, and we knew he knew. Then, just like me, a smile grew from inside him, and spread across his face, and I knew just how he felt. He filled up again, and I knew what had been missing for these few moments had been the energy that had crackled out of him from the moment we'd met him. Now his energy came roaring back, like the tide in the Bay of Fundy, and the next thing I knew, he was telling me I'd won, and that he'd had a hunch I'd win, right from the start, and on and on he went—"well done"—and I thought, how silly is this? It was his contest. He hadn't told us the rules. He hadn't told us what the prize was. If he was the only one in on it, Mr. Wonka could do whatever he wanted with whatever his contest was, and none of us would ever be the wiser. I mean, right this minute, I wasn't the wiser, and I'd won.
But whatever it was, I was glad I'd won. He'd say what it was now. But no, he didn't. Mr. Wonka was keeping whatever it was to himself—and why was that?—but I had other worries. When he'd started congratulating me on winning, he'd taken my hand and was shaking it like the earthquake I read about shaking the houses in San Francisco, way back when. And all the while he was talking, he kept on shaking my hand, and my shoulder and my arm went up and down like a pump handle on a well, and it wasn't bad, because I was just going with it, and not resisting, and it was kinda like some odd physical therapy, but fun. Eat your heart out, Mike Teavee! You should have taken the hand he offered you in the Inventing Room!
Or maybe Mike Teavee was ahead of me. I didn't need physical therapy, and after awhile, it was less fun—I was getting tired—and I wondered if Mr. Wonka would ever stop, and I guess he was wondering the same thing, because he was getting to the end of what he was saying, and his hand was still shaking mine, as if it had a mind of its own, and I guess it did, because the only way he could stop himself was to take my arm with his other hand and pull his shaking-hand away. That maneuver took skill and daring! Mr. Wonka was holding his cane and the goggles with that other hand, and even adding my arm to the mix, he didn't drop either one, the cane or the goggles.
When he had both his hands back, Mr. Wonka said we mustn't "dilly or dally, because we have an enormous number of things to do before the day is out." I had no idea what he was talking about, but I knew from the way he said it that the tour was over. Now that he had a winner for the special prize, me, he didn't care about the tour anymore. Should I be disappointed? Not three minutes ago he'd said there was "so much left to see", and I believed him, but now we weren't going to see any of it. Smile or frown? I wanted to do both at once, but Mr. Wonka was bubbling over with enthusiasm, so I hoped that the special prize was better than seeing more on the tour, and kept my smile in place.
By this time, Mr. Wonka was heading headlong for the Great Glass Elevator. He must have thought the doors were open, because he smacked into it like a freight train hitting the stop at the end of the track. It knocked him to the ground, the sound of the hit echoing around us.
I'm pretty sure a hit like that would have knocked me out. It didn't knock Mr. Wonka out. It did knock his hat off. He must have a strong jaw, but, gosh, that had to hurt. Should we rush over? Help him up? My Grandpa Joe stayed where he was, and I took my cue from him. He knew Mr. Wonka from way back. Maybe helping Mr. Wonka—we could see he was moving—would only make Mr. Wonka more embarrassed. He wasn't red in the face or anything, but I just knew Mr. Wonka had to be embarrassed by that mistake. I would have been.
Getting to his feet under his own steam, and eyeing for a second the Oompa-Loompas who were eyeing him—but like us, not coming to help him—Mr. Wonka finished what he had been saying as if nothing had happened at all, and going along with that, we ditched our goggles as he had, in a bin made for them, and joined him in the elevator, whose doors he had—ding!—opened. All better!
He gave us a winning smile, and once we were in, he pressed a button labeled Up and Out.
"Up and Out. What kind of a room is that?" I asked.
"Hold on," Mr. Wonka said, in Micheal Keaton's Batman's voice.
Hold on? What kind of an answer is that? Hold on to what? There was nothing to hold on to except each other. I kept my hand in my Grandpa Joe's hand. The only thing Mr. Wonka was holding on to was his cane. So what did he mean?
I soon found out. He meant 'hold on', as in, wait-and-see. And he meant 'hold on', as in, for the-ride-of-your-life, and here was I, thinking the ride on the chocolate river was the-ride-of-my-life.
Never underestimate Mr. Wonka.
The Great Glass Elevator went up and up—straight up—and faster and faster, plenty fast for my Grandpa Joe and me, but not fast enough for Mr. Wonka. He wanted it to go faster, or we'd "never break through!" he said.
"Break through what?" I asked.
"I've been longing to press that button for years," said Mr. Wonka.
That doesn't answer my question any better than 'hold on' answered my first question.
"Well, here we go! Up and Out!"
Gee, Mr. Wonka's voice is squeaky! Maybe he needs oil, like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz. My Grandpa Joe had where the elevator was going figured out.
"But do you really mean—"
"Yeah, I do," nodded Mr. Wonka, grinning at us and then looking up at the small circle of sky far above us.
My Grandpa Joe had his doubts about this plan. Serious doubts.
"But it's made of glass! It'll smash into a million pieces!"
Throwing his head back, Mr. Wonka only laughed, the way the bad guys do in movies when they think their dastardly plan will work, and bring destruction to the heroes. But Mr. Wonka is like that. He winds people up. I felt bad for my Grandpa Joe. Didn't he realize? Mr. Wonka is with us. If this killed us, it would kill him, too, and I didn't think Mr. Wonka was ready to die just yet. If Mr. Wonka thought this was okay, it was okay.
Closing his eyes and screwing up his face with dread, my Grandpa Joe put his arms around my shoulders and held me tight, trying to shield me, but it was too late for shielding. The light at the top of the shaft was rushing closer and closer, and we would know in a second or two if we were going fast enough, and if the elevator could take the hit.
It could, and we were.
We were going plenty fast. We were going so fast, we went up and up, far above the factory, and into a cloud, and above that, and into clear skies again, and still we were going up! And then we slowed, and started going down, and Mr. Wonka looked down, and we looked down, and Mr. Wonka let his mouth fall open, and we let our mouths fall open, and the Great Glass Elevator fell and fell, and Mr. Wonka let it.
My Grandpa Joe, having survived the up and out part, wondered if he'd survive the down and back part, and honestly, I did, too. I was murmuring, over and over, Mr. Wonka winds people up, but the earth rushing up at you in free-fall is nothing to sneer at, and I wasn't sneering. My silent chanting got fainter as the ground got nearer. Maybe the special prize was being part of a Double-Murder/Suicide-By-Elevator event, a fate that would be one for the record books, and make a person famous for forever. All three of us! But Mr. Wonka was smiling in that crafty way he has, so I crossed my fingers and trusted.
The factory was coming closer and closer, rushing up beneath our feet. When I thought it must be too late to stop our fall, Mr. Wonka waited for three more seconds. Then he turned and pressed another button, and I heard a ding, but the doors didn't open, and we didn't fall out, and we didn't hit the factory. The elevator parts that had kept us on the tracks in the factory rotated, and lit up with a whoosh, because they were rockets, and they stopped our fall as easily as a hand catches a ball.
Mr. Wonka beamed at us. Wasn't that fun? My Grandpa Joe puffed out his cheeks the way Mr. Wonka had done in the Television Room when Mr. Wonka's cheek had barely escaped being brushed by Mike Teavee's tiny body. Pure relief! I stared at Mr. Wonka, my lips parted, catching my breath, letting my heart slow back to a walk, and wondered if I had the stomach for living on the edge the way he did. Did anyone? These adventures thrilled him so.
Hovering now at the back of the factory, Mr. Wonka, seeing he hadn't stopped our hearts with his escapades, gave us a warm smile, and leaving us to collect ourselves, touched a few more buttons. The elevator swung in an arc to the front of the factory where the other ticket winners and their parents were crossing the courtyard on their way to the gates. Mr. Wonka, forgetting us, watched them with interest. I think he wanted to make sure they left.
Augustus was covered in chocolate, and he was licking at it. That didn't surprise me. He'd started the day with chocolate on his face, so ending the day coated in chocolate wouldn't bother him at all. What would bother him is having it washed off and not being able to eat it. This wasn't Burger King, but the Oompa-Loompas had let Augustus have it his way, and out he waddled.
Violet was doing handsprings across the courtyard, and when I figured out why, I giggled. She was thin again, but still blue, like a blueberry, and she was rolling like one. Her mother wouldn't look at her, and I was glad again that I wasn't her child.
The Salts were covered in garbage, and that was laughable, because water would so easily remedy that. Putting a hand across my mouth, I did laugh. Mr. Wonka must not like those Salts at all, not to let them shower before they left! I was sure Mr. Wonka had a shower they could have used, if he'd wanted them to. As it was, the press were going to get some mighty dandy pictures of snobs as slobs.
Then came Mike and his father. Mike was as thin as our cabbage soup and as tall as a giraffe! The hand that had been covering my laughter switched to covering my shock. I glanced at Mr. Wonka, who glanced back at me, daring me to speak, but I didn't. It was obvious Mike wasn't going to fit in a plane, or a train, or even an automobile, and if that was the case, Mike getting himself back to Denver would be tough. As tough as Mike. Mr. Wonka went back to watching them exit.
I shrugged my shoulders. Maybe Mike would settle back to his normal height in an hour or so. Maybe it would take a day. I didn't know, and I didn't have to know. Mr. Wonka knew, and he didn't look worried. Satisfied the others would make it out the gates, Mr. Wonka turned back to us.
"Where do you live?" he asked me. Should I worry that he was ignoring my Grandpa Joe?
He kept his eyes on me, waiting for me to answer, but it took an effort on his part, and when I pointed to our little house at the bottom of the hill, he wasn't surprised at all that I lived in this town, as does all the town, in the shadow of his factory. Well! That was a shocker. Mr. Wonka might not have known my name, but he knew I lived in this town. How? And then I knew! The reason it had taken so long for anyone to find the last Golden Ticket! Mr. Wonka hadn't sent it out with the others! He'd waited, and then sent it here! But, why? I doubted I'd ever know.
The ground was moving below us, in no big hurry, but it was obvious Mr. Wonka was taking us in the Great Glass Elevator to our house. Was that the special prize? A ride home in a flying, glass elevator? That was pretty cool. I could go for that. In no time our house was beneath us, and having taken the elevator out through his roof, Mr. Wonka let his elevator drop on to our roof!
Oh, NO!
CRASH!
My heart was in my throat; my stomach in knots. It's such a small house! Has Mr. Wonka landed on the rest of my family? Has he done them in? There'll be Hell to pay if he has! I can't see through all the swirling dust and splinters, but the elevator has stopped. In a minute, I'll know.
Are these my characters? They are not. Is this purely for entertainment? It is.
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As it ever is in my stories, direct quotes from the 2005 movie are in italics.