The thing about the Great Glass Elevator is, it's tremendous! It leaves the ground, houses get smaller, you can see what's behind walls, you can see where roads you've never been on go to, and you can see that maps are for real. I had my hands pressed against the glass, my nose almost as close, but Mr. Wonka pointed out that the view below my feet was nothing to sneer at either, and he was right. I was thrilled about it all, but he acted like he did this every day. I had to know.
"Do you do this a lot?"
"Not a lot a lot," he said, fiddling with a button that stopped us going up. That's all we'd been doing: going up. "But a lot enough to make it lots."
"But you never leave your factory!"
"Who told you that?" he said, scanning buttons. "I travel quite a bit. Exotic flavors for new candies don't find themselves, you know." Calling softly, he forgot about me. "Here, button, button…"
"Can I look? What's it called?"
"Got it," said Mr. Wonka, moving the tip of his cane, "but thanks for the offer."
The cane's tip was heading for a button on the very bottom row, in the middle. "I can push it," I said, diving for it. He swung his cane to block my doing that, but not before I read what the button had written beside it: 'Very Very Small Room'.
"'Very Very Small Room'? Isn't that—"
"I mark 'em like I see 'em," said Mr. Wonka, cutting me off, and pushing the button with the tip of his cane.
My house has a very very small room. So does yours. I think most houses do.
Mr. Wonka didn't tell me to hold on, but he didn't have to, because I didn't have to. The elevator moved slowly; slower than it did in the factory. We started away from town, but every direction is away from town when you're at Mr. Wonka's. He's the center of it all. Wouldn't it be great, if Mr. Wonka's father didn't live in this town at all? I mean, if he did, wouldn't he be around? Maybe Mr. Wonka's father lives in France! Maybe he lives in Paris! Wouldn't Brad be surprised if I brought back something from Paris, France for show and tell? Hmmm... What? I know! I'd bring back snails! But he must live near here. Mr. Wonka hadn't packed a suitcase, or even an overnight bag.
"Where does your father live?" I asked.
"Yonder," is all Mr. Wonka would say, and I got the feeling the question and answer portion of the ride was over. But maybe Paris was still on. The city fell behind us, and then the houses at the edge of town. Soon we were over farms and fields, and then, in one snow covered field, a shape like the one we had seen on the television in the Television Room was a speck growing on the horizon, and Mr. Wonka was slowing the elevator. No Paris. That was okay. As we got closer, its dark shape was like that black slab the monkeys had been dancing around, but as we got closer still—Mr. Wonka had slowed the elevator to almost a crawl—I could see it was a town house, and that was bad. This was no place for a town house. There was no town here. Just it, all alone, in the middle of nowhere.
"What does your father do?" I asked, wondering if Mr. Wonka was going to go through with this. The elevator was hovering at the base of the small hill the house stood farther up on, but Mr. Wonka was doing nothing to land it. My question brought him back from wherever he had been, and with a sideways glance at me, he did the things he needed to do to land.
"He's semi-retired," said Mr. Wonka, as the elevator doors slid open with that happy 'ding' it makes. The snow absorbed the sound.
"What's he semi-retired from doing?" I asked. Mr. Wonka gave me another one of those sideways glances, and I felt like Mr. Salt in the Nut Room, just before he started down the ladder. That was it for landing questions. Mr. Wonka got out of the elevator, I followed, and we started up the hill, our tracks the only ones in the snow.
Mr. Wonka had started out fierce, I could feel it, but as we got farther up the hill, the fierceness drained out of him. His steps slowed. I could hear his careful breathing, and it was like we were back at the shoe-shine stand again. Getting no clues from him, I studied the house. It was a town house, just like the kind that were in my, well, our town, halfway between my school and my house. There were a lot them, just like this one here, a whole neighborhood of 'em, a couple streets further down the hill than the one I usually take. This house had bricks sticking out of it, all over it, but near the top and middle on both sides there were lots. It didn't give me a good feeling, but there was smoke coming out of the chimney, so someone was probably there.
We reached the steps. We climbed them, Mr. Wonka leading the way, but his heart was deserting him.
"I think we've got the wrong house," he said.
We read the brass plaque, shining like gold, beside the door: 'Dr. Wilbur Wonka, D.D.S. Dental Practitioner'.
Mr. Wonka's father was a dentist? Holy Buckets! This isn't the wrong house, but it's sure the opposite of what Mr. Wonka does for a living!
Having got up the steps, Mr. Wonka had come as far as he was going to. He put his chin on his chest and stood there, and I think if I hadn't been there he'd have turned around and left. Stepping ahead of him I pushed the button by the door and heard a buzzer. The door opened.
The man in front of me was as imposing as they come, but regal, and elegant. He was… Impressive. His wavy hair was as white as snow, or Mr. Wonka's face, and he was dressed all in white. It was the white medical people wear, so you don't remember they are all about blood. You can't be a doctor of anything without sooner or later being involved with blood. His voice was low, not anything like Mr. Wonka's voice. It was a voice that said you were wrong if you thought it was all right to disturb him, but he'd opened the door, so we had that going for us.
"Do you have an appointment?" he asked.
Of course we didn't, but I wasn't going to let that stop us.
"No. But he's overdue."
I couldn't wait for the happy scene that would follow. Mr. Wonka would walk through the door, his father would see it was him, and they would embrace and cry. I'd smile and know I was right about parents.
That didn't happen.
We walked through the door, and Dr. Wonka, turning his back, told us to leave our coats on a rack in the hall. Not 'drop them anywhere', but put them on the rack. Mr. Wonka cringed, but he took off his coat, and hung it up. I kept mine. I was cold, and so was this house.
"Why are you here?" asked Dr. Wonka, his voice as chilly as the house. "Toothache, have you? In pain, are you?"
In pain? Was Dr. Wonka smiling? Is that why he turned his back? So we wouldn't see him smile? Mr. Wonka was looking at the floor. He hadn't lifted his eyes. We're here so Mr. Wonka can ask you a question, I thought, but I said nothing, right along with Mr. Wonka. What was wrong with these two? Didn't they know who they were? Mr. Wonka surely did.
Dr. Wonka was waiting. I guessed it was up to me to break the news to Dr. Wonka his son was here, but I chickened out. Dread I didn't expect had its fingers all over me, keeping me from telling him, but someone had to say something.
"He's here for a check-up," I said.
Dr. Wonka frowned.
"This way."
They could take it from here, was my thought, and I made to sit on a step on the stairs that led to the upper floor, but before I could, and without a word, Mr. Wonka gripped my elbow with a strength I wouldn't have guessed he had, propelling me with him as we headed to Dr. Wonka's examining room. Dr. Wonka walked ahead of us down the shadowy hall, opening a door beyond the staircase. Light spilled into the hall that didn't get rid of the shadows we were in as we followed, and I was reminded that dread is associated with dentists' offices, though I wouldn't know. My family doesn't have the money for visits to the dentist.
We were at the door now. When he knew I'd go with him, Mr. Wonka had dropped my elbow, and now he went through first, turning to his left. He'd done this before. He knew where the examination chair was. He walked towards it like a programmed robot, shedding his top hat and cane as he went. Off went his sunglasses, dropped onto the same table near the door his hat had landed on.
I had no idea what to expect. I followed him into the room, and discovered a shrine.
Is 'Very Very Small Room' a real button on the Great Glass Elevator? At least, on the mock-up in movie theaters at the time? It is.
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.