The shoe-shining… I didn't spend as much time up there as I thought I would. I thought I'd spend a couple of hours up there after school every day, and I could tell you the reason I didn't was because other people had the stand, and that was true, but the real reason was because being that close to the factory, for that long, made me nervous. I mean, if I was looking at it, couldn't it be looking at me? The thought was as creepy to me as my grandparents being all in one bed was creepy to my schoolmates.

But I got over that, because making money feels good, and shoe-shining is not hard to do. You can even spit, and that makes the shoes all shiny.

There were all kinds of people doing it: kids like me after school; retired people throughout the day. My Grandpa George said we were 'marginalized workers', which didn't sound nice, but I didn't care what people who wrote text books called me, so I forgot about it. One of the retired people working with me some days told me not to spit on the shoes.

"Spit on the rag," he said. "You can spit on the shoes, but the customers don't like it."

"Do they think it's gross?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, eyeing me. "They think it's gross. Better to use water in a spray bottle."

I asked, and the Greystone Cafe got us a spray bottle. Mr. Leo, that's the man who was giving me the advice, didn't use it. He told me I wouldn't use it before too long, either. The shoes are shiny enough without putting in that extra effort, he said, but I thought I'd keep using the spray bottle. I have high standards, and even if I don't meet them every time, I try to.

The tips were great. I don't mean about not spitting on the shoes. I mean about the money. Lots of people don't have three ones, but they have a five, and they tell you to keep the change. Same with the boots. They'd have a ten, and tell you to keep the change, or have you give them a couple dollars back, instead of four.

I told my family how cool that was as I shared my loot with them, and my Grandpa Joe told me I should go to the bank, and get a bunch of two dollar bills, and give back those, instead of ones. I thought that a fine idea, and being at the bank and talking money with the tellers was a feeling I savored like the taste of chocolate, because, to be honest, I thought I'd be dead before I'd ever be doing something like that! You know, the short happy life of Charlie Bucket, died of starvation, may he rest-in-peace.

Life had gotten better, even as it had gotten worse. It had gotten so I dared to think about more than one day at a time, even if during those days I did my best not to think about Mr. Wonka and his factory. He'd been a big part of my life, and now he wasn't. No more Mr. Wonka stories. Not the old ones, and definitely not the new one. No more building models of the factory out of toothpaste caps. No more drawing pictures of the place. I took down the ones I'd hung on my wall next to my pre-tour wrappers, and ripped them up. They weren't very good, anyway. I left the wrappers. If my parents noticed, they didn't question me about it. We all knew, in the Bucket house, that there was nothing more important than family, and Mr. Wonka had shown us he thought the opposite. We were done with him.

My clients were surprised about the two dollar bills, but most of them loved the idea. They said it made me stand out, and that if I had off-beat ideas like that, I'd be a household name some day. I'd tell them it was my grandfather's idea, but they said I'd listened to a good idea when I heard it, and that was the important thing. When I got older, I'd have ideas of my own.

With the shoeshine stand the feel-good place it was, I didn't let the shadow of the factory stop me. I got into a routine. I'd do Fridays after school, and Saturday mornings, with the occasional Wednesday after school thrown in. Most of the kids didn't want to work on weekends, because they had practices and things, and the retirees didn't want to either, because they wanted to sleep in, or spend time with their grandchildren, and weekends were good for that.

I didn't play games. I didn't have practices. I mostly had the stand to myself on Saturdays, but the shoeshine traffic was usually brisk, and the work was steady.

There were times, mostly after school, when folks were hurrying home, and they didn't have time for a shoeshine. With no customers, I'd sit in one of the cushioned chairs, under the awning of the cafe, and consider Mr. Wonka and his factory. I felt a lot better about turning him down these days. With the food situation sorted, I was pretty sure I'd make it to adulthood, and I was pretty sure I'd be able to make a living. I stopped being angry at Mr. Wonka for making me make that choice about his factory, and really, I could take him or leave him now. And then I'd sit back in the chair, and let my mind go blank, and feel the support of the cushions, and in the quiet whoosh of the cars going by, a voice in my head would ask me who I thought I was kidding. It wasn't Mr. Wonka's voice, so that was good. It must be a part of me. But it was a part of me that would have to live with what the reality was, however different I wished that reality could be, and I'd shrug it off.

I wasn't the only one who liked to hang out in the chairs when things were slow. They were way more comfortable than the wooden benches the city provided. People waiting for the bus, or waiting to be picked up, and taken wherever by some friend or family member would sit in them, too. Trouble was, they didn't want a shoe shine, and they took up space. It was the only conflict on the stand.

The Greystone put up a sign, 'For Customers Only', but that was mostly ignored. That was easy to do. The sign was behind the chairs, and you couldn't see it if you were sitting in them. There were two chairs, so as long as one chair was free, we looked the other way. Some of the Waiters—that's what we called them—were interesting to talk to. But if someone sat in the other chair, one or both would have to get a shoe shine, or else get up. That worked pretty well, and everyone was happy. The Waiters agreed that was fair, and we got along.

One Saturday—about the time Mr. Wonka was making the news with reports of poor sales—on a morning I couldn't start when I usually did, I took over from my friend Mr. Leo. Mr. Leo was retired, but he's an early-bird, and the exception to the sleep-in rule. I often took over from him on Saturdays. It was weird though, because usually we'd swap at the stand, but this time Mr. Leo saw me coming, and caught me at the corner.

"It's been slow, Charlie, and the fellow behind the newspaper is a Waiter."

Ah. The reason Mr. Leo wasn't shining those shoes. Mr. Leo wasn't kidding about the 'behind the newspaper' bit. All you could see was this guy's legs and overcoat. Actually, the overcoat looked familiar.

"What's he waiting for?"

"He hasn't said, but it's not a bus. He's been here for forty minutes, and three buses."

"Any problems with him?"

"No! As a matter of fact, I came over to tell you not to chase him off. He sat down with his face in that paper, paid me for a shoe shine he said not to give him, and every time someone else sat down for a shine he paid me again." Mr. Leo chuckled. "He didn't want to get up. I'm telling you, he's a gold mine!"

I smiled. A gold mine is good. Mr. Leo glanced back at the stand. "Ah, you have a real customer. He's looking this way. It's Mr. Dudley." Mr. Leo gave me a pat on the shoulder. "Go along, Charlie. Do Mr. Dudley first, and see if you do as good as I did with the Waiter."

"Okay. Thanks, Mr. Leo."

I walked over to the stand, feeling the factory's looming presence peering over my shoulder like a vulture as I went. It was bad today.

I knew Mr. Dudley. I'd shined his shoes before. Mr. Leo had introduced us. Mr. Leo had his regulars, and he'd been recommending me.

"Hello, Charlie."

"Good morning, Mr. Dudley."

The newspaper beside him crackled as the gloved fingers holding it tightened to a death grip.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Mr. Dudley to the crinkling newsprint. "Were you next?"

It was the newspaper moving back and forth that said no. I got out my brushes and began on Mr. Dudley's shoes. The thing was, there was a distinct smell of vanilla. And cinnamon. And maybe nutmeg. Not to mention chocolate. So it might be that it was the factory, and Mr. Wonka had stepped up production. But it might be that "the factory" was closer than I thought. The gloves at the edges of the newspaper weren't out-of-line, it was chilly, but Mr. Dudley wasn't wearing any, and neither was I.

I finished putting on the polish. I took out a brush. This couldn't be what I thought it was. It wasn't possible. The man never left his factory. He wouldn't sit in the chilly air for nearly an hour now, waiting for me. Because if he was out here, he was waiting for me. Who else did he know in this town? Well, my Grandpa Joe, but my Grandpa Joe doesn't shine shoes. It would be silly to wait for him here.

I finished with the brush. I took out the polishing cloth. Mr. Dudley had given up getting a conversation going with the man with the newspaper. We had peace and quiet, the sound of my buffing keeping time with our heartbeats. If it was HIM behind that paper, what would I say? My buffing got stronger. I might have thought I was over being angry with him, but I wasn't. His factory was none of my business, but he had made it my business. How dare he? I buffed harder. Mr. Dudley leaned down.

"That's quite a shine you've got on my shoes, Charlie."

Oh, yeah. I stopped buffing and looked at his shoes. They were done.

"That'll be three dollars, please."

He paid me in one dollar coins. Mr. Dudley's answer to my two dollar bills, I suppose. He was an exact change kinda guy. In a minute, he was on his way. There was only me and the man behind the paper. If it was Willy Wonka, I didn't want to talk to him. He'd have to tell me himself if he didn't want a shoe shine. I picked up my polishing brush, and leaning over, got to work. I could already see my reflection in these boots. It gave me a good feeling that the polish would make them dull before I returned them to this mirror finish.

I barely got started before he started talking.

"Pity about that chocolate fellow, Wendell, er, Walter…"

"Willy Wonka," I said, not wanting to play charades with a person whose voice is so unusual it's easily recognized.

"That's the one. It says here in the papers his new candies aren't selling very well." I could read that headline for myself. It was staring me in the face. 'Outlook Gloomy for Wonka Sales'. If I was reading it, he wasn't. He had been sitting here a long time, to have the article memorized, and not even on the side of the paper he was reading now. "But I suppose maybe he's just a rotten egg who deserves it."

I did not bother to look up. What he was saying was so what I was thinking I didn't want him to stop. Rotten egg. Deserves it. How wonderful! But I kept it short. What if I was wrong?

"Yup."

"Oh, really." I could hear the disbelief, or was it disappointment in his voice? "You ever met him?"

I stopped polishing and looked up. It was clear the conversation was more important than the shoe shine. I'd give him my attention. I'd also tell it to him like it was. "I did. I thought he was great at first, but then he didn't turn out so nice." I should have stopped there, but as long as we were talking rotten eggs, why not keep going? "He also has a funny haircut."

So much for charades. The newspaper fell into his lap like the Berlin Wall coming down, his pale face and oversized sunglasses staring me in the face.

"I do not!"

This was ridiculous. And a waste of my time. Pretending to polish was at an end. Now that we were face-to-face, I'd ask the question I wanted answered.

"Why are you here?"

"I don't feel so hot. What makes you feel better when you feel terrible?"

"My family."

He'd answered right away, and so had I. We were right where we left off. He sat back with a look that told me 'my family' was the last thing he wanted to hear. "Eww," he managed, but I had another question, and I wanted it answered, because when it came to my family, he was waaay out-of-line, and I needed to know why. I'd like to like him—I had for years, not knowing him—but if he had something against my family then I had something against HIM!

I got to my feet.

"What do you have against my family?"

He looked away, somewhere over my shoulder, and the way he clenched his hands against his thighs I could see this subject was making him ill. For real, it looked like. But he was trying. And he was answering. That was something. He said it wasn't just my family. It was the whole idea of… He couldn't say the word 'parents' again, and I wasn't going to help him. If he was old enough to run his factory, he was old enough to say that word without help. He didn't say it though. He just puffed out some air, like you do when you're doing breathing exercises so you don't get sick, and moved on.

"…You know they're always telling you what to do and what not to do, and it's not conducive to a creative atmosphere."

It was nice to know it wasn't only my family he didn't like—I felt better about him for that—but he was so wrong. I'd set him straight. "Usually they're just trying to protect you, because they love you."

This was met with the same sighs and looks of loathing my other opinions on this subject had got from him, but this time it looked like he was done. I'd said my peace, he'd said his, and we were miles apart, just like we were at my house. This would be the end of it. But I knew what a family would do in this situation, and I'd tell him. "If you don't believe me, you should ask."

That was like turning up the heat under an empty frying pan. Destruction! You'd think I had slapped him. It was weird.

"Ask who? My father?"

If he put the bitterness he put into his voice into his candies, no one would buy them. And his father? I thought his father was dead. When he worked for him, my Grandpa Joe never mentioned any of Mr. Wonka's family stopping by. And there was no mention of any family at the factory's Grand Opening. Mr. Wonka was alone. Mr. Wonka laughed, but hearing that laugh made me feel afraid. I didn't know why, but it did. He wasn't finished. "No way."

'No way.' What an odd thing to say. I'd ask my family anything! And then I stopped, because I love my family, and they love me, and that's not true. I wouldn't ask my family anything. There are questions I don't want to know the answers to, because the answers might scare me. There's less of those now, to be sure, but there they were, and this might be like that. Mr. Wonka was still talking.

"At least, not by myself."

Sure, scary questions. I could understand that. Maybe I could help. "Do you want me to go with you?" I asked.

In a millisecond the clouds on his face parted and the sun came out, and not just out, it changed its orbit, so brilliant in its nearness it could burn you! That was the difference in Mr. Wonka.

"Hey! Hey. What a good idea! Yah!"

The newspaper went flying right, the way the Great Glass Elevator does, suddenly and without thought, and Mr. Wonka was up and hurrying away. He wasn't facing my way any more, so I couldn't really hear what he was saying, something about transportation, and then, just like in the Television Room, he walked right smack dab into the Great Glass Elevator!

The Great Glass Elevator!

How could I have missed that elevator! There it was! Right there on the corner! It is made of glass, but the rockets aren't, and how could I have missed that? How could anyone? Mr. Leo and I were standing almost on top of it, and we never saw it!

I felt bad for Mr. Wonka. He didn't see it, either, and he had to be the one who put it there! He sighed before he got up, but he did get up—I thought he'd conked himself cold—and he readjusted his top hat, and in we got, and off we went, and as the rockets lifted us off the ground, I wondered, what on Earth am I thinking? Here I am, flying to who-knows-where, with this guy, dicey at best, with my Mom and Dad knowing nothing about it. I felt a kind of sick feeling starting in the bottom of my stomach, and it wasn't from the motion of the elevator. I'm a sucker for helping, I know that. My grandparents need a lot of it, and so do my Mom and Dad. Was this that? Or did I just offer a piece of 'helping' candy to an almost stranger and get into their vehicle? Gosh! Maybe I won't live to be an adult after all!

Is Tim Burton's middle name Walter? It's not Wendell.
Are these my characters? They are not. Is this purely for entertainment? It is.
Thanks for reading.
Can I thank you for reviewing? Squirrela, Sonny April, Verucabeyotch, emeraldphan, I can, and I thank you encore!
As it ever is in my stories, direct quotes from the 2005 movie are in italics.