Warning: You will find language, and by that I mean swearing, contained herein. Not much, but it's there.
He woke to snoring. Do I snore? Nah, it can't be me. I'm awake, and I'm still hearing it. Willy nudged the collar of his greatcoat away from his eyes, sliding them towards the sound.
Curled into a tight little ball, the culprit was Eshle, asleep in the chair at the desk. That was odd. Eshle wasn't big on camp-outs, and that chair wasn't all that roomy, or comfortable, even for an Oompa-Loompa. Willy watched him breathe for a while, the snoring came and went, while mulling over the implications. When he'd watched for long enough, Willy rolled on his side, and slipping the pale, spider-silk gloves he wore beneath his hair, he cradled his head in his hand. As he knew they would, the rustling sounds of his greatcoat on groaning cushions were all it took to bring Eshle back from dreamland. Oompa-Loompas are well known for being ridiculously light sleepers, and neato-keeno, they wake with their wits about them.
"How are ya, hombre?"
"Good," said Eshle, uncurling himself and stretching.
"Good. Is it late, or early?"
Eshle glanced at the clock on the desk, reading its luminous hands.
"It's two twenty-six."
"Deary, dear! Take your pick! That was a nap of more than a few minutes."
They fell into an easy silence, though Willy knew the situation mustn't be. If Eshle were hangin' here, something nasty was afoot. Something Eshle wanted to tell him before he heard it from anyone else. Something Eshle was taking pains to tell him. So Willy took a few minutes to compose himself, before he'd have to re-order his world around whatever it was that Eshle wanted him to know. Part of the composing was toying with the idea of going back to sleep. If Eshle hadn't felt the need to wake him, whatever it was, was nothing that needed fixing immediately. But it was something, and sleep wouldn't solve it. Willy took a breath.
"What brings you here?"
"My feet?"
Willy giggled. "Nah, I'm okay. You can tell me."
"They took Terence."
"They took Terence?"
"They took Terence."
Willy swung his feet to the floor and sat up. He kept his greatcoat around him like a cocoon.
"They?"
"Two men in a van."
"Two?"
"Two."
Willy thought that over. Those might be the people Terence had talked about.
"Did Terence want to go with them?"
"Not according to George. According to George, Terence told them they were early, how rude of them, and he didn't appreciate it in the slightest. According to George, Terence told them the appointment wasn't until morning... Whatever that means."
"Heh."
Eshle shrugged. "According to George, the two men wouldn't take 'no' for an answer."
In the soft light leaking in through the windows, Willy smiled. According to George… At least George was useful for something.
"They wouldn't. They were government people. Terence warned me about them. I hope it was a nice van. Vans can be uncomfortable, and Terence has a long drive ahead of him." Willy plucked the greatcoat away from himself, and leaning forward, retrieved his frock coat from the floor. Standing, he put it on. "With Terence gone, where are we with the house project?"
Eshle blinked at the easy transition.
"Nearly finished. Noah took over."
"Noah."
Willy thought back. The Adventure of the Thuggy Friends would explain the lobotomized stares. If George knew about them, conversation and all, Terence's trapping had to have transpired on the trek back to the Factory. Just goes to show ya, Pops, Elevators are so much safer than sidewalks! How 'bout that? And, oh yeah, Pops, nice going! Ya lost Terence!
Lost in the dim light, there was an edge to Willy's features.
Pops must have given the news to the parens, and if he, Willy, had done anything other than what he had done, when he, Willy, got back with Charlie, then they woulda hadda be the ones to tell him the news. Pops woulda hadda be the one to tell him. Cuz he, Willy, woulda asked where Terence was. He'd wondered. And he wouldn'ta taken 'don't know' for an answer. Ha!
"'Fraidy cats," Willy murmured.
"Say again?"
"Nada," said Willy. "Know what?"
He bent and scooped up his walking-stick. Eshle shook his head.
"Noah has a funny name. No-ah what else? I think I'll go and see. Go ahead and go to bed. No-ah way we should both be up. We've all gotta be somebody in the morning— Strike that, the later morning, and with no sleep got, that's gotta be hard to do."
Noah sat on a crate, contemplating the quiet of the loading bays at this late, early hour. Hard to decide which it was. With not much left to do, Nora had bailed. There was no point both of them being dead on their feet the next day. There were things to do: Charlie to see off to school… School. What about him? What about the toothpaste factory?
The Oompa-Loompas worked quietly in the background, unloading his truck. They all looked alike, as if Willy had cloned them, but Noah was fairly certain these weren't the same group he'd started the night with. For one thing, they weren't as tired as he was. For another, the curious looks of the newcomers gave them away. He'd catch them checking him out, as if they'd never seen him before. The looker probably hadn't. They'd been handling this in shifts, with no one of them lifting too much, or getting too tired, before being relived by the next one. Because it was at staggered times, and one by one, that they were replacing themselves. Noah was sure of that, too. There was no time lost in explanations, no showing of the ropes to squander precious minutes: it was just the new guy, following the lead of the others.
The system was very efficient, and highly sustainable. And the Oompa-Loompas had a work ethic that wouldn't quit. Half-dozing, arms folded across his chest, Noah watched them appreciatively. Willy was a lucky man. Noah had been helping them, until one of them had made him understand that they were concerned that if he didn't try to get some rest, he'd fall asleep at the wheel. Glad for the respite—the Oompa-Loompas didn't have to offer twice—a change in the tenor of the room brought Noah back to alertness. The work was ongoing, but it had slowed a hair, and there was an electric, if surreptitious, interest being directed at the door leading to the Factory proper. Checking it out for himself, Noah turned a curious glance towards the shadows.
"Willy," he said softly.
"Noah," Willy acknowledged, equally softly, moving further into the room. "Hey, guys," he said, surveying the Oompa-Loompas at their task. "How's it going?"
Nods and smiles were his answer. Willy smiled back, scanning faces to see who was in charge.
"It's cold outside, wouldn't you say?"
Willy could only be talking to him. Noah answered, though coming from Willy, the question was remarkably obvious.
"Sure is."
"Thought so. How many people are left?" Willy's voice had softened again.
"Around twenty or so... There's not much left to do." Noah spoke slowly, with studied calm. "Most have gone home. I don't think there's but one or two more trips with the truck, and it'll be all over but the clean-up."
"'Twenty?"
"Give or take."
"'Kay, then."
Willy turned to the Oompa-Loompa who had peeled himself away from the others, and began signing. And then he stopped. With Noah present, it was rude.
"When you've emptied this truck, can you fill it with cases of ice cream, please? I think we should have assorted flavors, but don't forget good ol' Dutch Chocolate and French Vanilla. You know the kind I mean… Enough for the number of people Noah just said. And then some, so they can take some home with them."
The Oompa-Loompa nodded vigorously, ten of his compatriots already having detached themselves and heading for the doors, to fulfill the request. But Willy wanted to be sure, and so not to spoil the surprise for Noah, signed exactly the kind of ice cream he meant. When Willy finished, the Oompa-Loompa smiled, he'd understood at once, and they exchanged salutes. Rising, Willy found a crate of his own, and settled down to wait, near enough to Noah to speak to him in a low voice.
"I'd like to go with you on your next trip down the hill."
"Like that?" Noah's voice climbed with his eyebrow. Willy was looking very Willy: top hat, walking-stick, purple gloves. He was even wearing those same goggles he'd had on earlier that evening.
"Yeah. Like this."
Noah paused. Thought.
"Um—"
"Um?"
The accompanying glance and smile were artificially perky. Noah took his time.
"Terence isn't there, you know."
"I do know." The sigh was fleeting. "But I want to do something. Something they might like. Money goes a long way, but it's cold. Like an icicle."
Noah settled back. Willy was right. The sentiment wasn't one Noah was sure Willy had known. That he did went a long way with Noah. The silence Noah let build was a friendly one. In good time, the cases began arriving. The truck was loaded, and they were set.
"Ready?"
"Ready."
Riding in silence, half-way down the hill, Willy turned to face Noah.
"Aren't you tired? Don't you have that toothpaste factory to work at tomorrow? Don't you work with machines? Aren't you afraid, if you go, you'll end up with some useful body part being chopped off, or mashed up? Working around machines can be dangerous, ya know."
Noah tightened his grip on the wheel and kept his eyes on the deserted road. It was hard not to laugh. It was such a outburst, and so heartfelt! But those strange round goggles, staring at him! They reminded him too much of a bug, trying to give him advice. All Noah could think of, could hear in his head, were the plaintive cries of The Fly: 'Help me! Help me!' That image: not very helpful. Noah swished his tongue over his teeth, wondering how best to reply. How about the round about way? Willy seemed to enjoy that sort of thing.
"Nora thinks we should keep our eggs in more than one basket. I don't necessarily think we are, but at this point, it's easier to go along with her."
After a minute, his mouth a little 'o' of surprise, Willy sat back.
"Ya don't say. Still. Number of baskets aside, with no sleep, aren't you afraid of breaking some eggs? They might be eggs you like."
Noah shot him a glance. Willy wasn't going to let this drop until he gave him an answer. A specific answer.
"My plan to keep the eggs intact is to call in sick tomorrow, and sleep in."
"Today," said Willy, with a happy smugness.
"Uh, sure… Right, today."
Willy paused, taking the opportunity to arrange the folds of his coat.
"Aren't you afraid your manager will be angry?"
"Angry that I'm doing what I need to do to keep my body parts from being chopped off, or diced to pieces?"
The bluntness elicited no response. Judging from the tilt of Willy's head, he was looking at his hands, fiddling with his walking-stick. Noah smiled, and had Willy been Charlie, he'd have stretched his hand over Willy's to quiet the anxiety. But Willy wasn't Charlie, and Noah's fingers tightened over the wheel again.
"Between you and me, Mr. Wonka… Willy, I was flabbergasted to get my job back at that toothpaste factory again, so soon after they let me go, and just days after Charlie visited your Factory. I sure was! And it was a better job than the one I left! Much better. The thing that struck me the most about the whole business, was that they came to my house— My own little house… to tell me. You could've knocked me over with a feather! And since then, they've been very… uh… ah… accommodating around me. Sure have! So my manager may think what he likes, but I'm sure the Boss calling the shots will approve of my plan completely."
Willy squirmed in the seat a little, and turned his head towards the window.
"Oh, really? You're sure?"
"I'm sure," said Noah, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
With the hint of a smile, Willy turned back.
"I'm sure, too."
Noah exchanged a look with the goggles—they really kept you from believing you were reaching Willy—but he must be, because when the goggles turned quickly away, the feeling in the truck's cab was embarrassment. That's it, thought Noah. I am sitting next to the Boss calling the shots at the toothpaste factory. But there was no need for embarrassment, and Noah took steps to correct it.
"When we get there, do you want me to introduce you?"
"Yes, please. Starting isn't my thing, but I do okay jumping in. Talk until I talk."
And Willy turned again to the window, until they were parked, because he really hoped he would talk, but you never knew. Reaching the site, Noah turned the key, killed the engine, set the parking brake, and sat back. There was no hurry. When the tension in the truck rose to a level Willy imagined to be more than the tension he'd feel outside it, he laid a hand on the door handle. Noah responded.
"Ready?"
Willy laughed at Noah's nonchalance, and his own nervousness, and at about to be finishing the echo of what they had said to each other back at the Factory, and then he proceeded to imagine himself someone else.
"Ready."
The professor and remaining students watched, as a tall figure stepped out onto the frozen muck from the Wonka truck's passenger's side. He was wearing a long, flowing, black greatcoat, and a black top hat. A top hat just like the top hat on all the Wonka wrappers, but that would be true of any top hat, wouldn't it? That didn't mean a thing. In his purple-gloved hand he held a cane. Almost no one made the distinction that it was a walking-stick, but, despite the Nerds it was filled with, and the implied pun, it was. Canes have handles, and this didn't. His hair, what they could see of it in the artificial lights, was cut in a throwback to the mop-top style favored by sixties musicians, unless you wanted to be churlish about it, and say the style was a throwback to the Dark Ages. But the dark-lensed, purple-rimmed goggles he wore topped the cake: sunglasses, at night!
Work stopped. It had already slowed. Mr. Bucket had been slow to get out of the truck this time. Usually, he was out almost before he'd got it stopped, ready to lend a hand with the loading. The whispers were starting; people grouping into knots and speculating. Someone pointed. Someone else gasped. Someone saw the goggles and sniggered. Noah lost no time in rounding the truck and joining Willy.
"Everyone, I am pleased to introduce to you, Mr. Willy Wonka."
The gathering went from hushed to silent. Noah looked to Willy, who looked as if he'd swallowed an unset cement-sicle, and it was hardening in his esophagus as they stood. Noah wasn't that big on talking, either. Now what?
"He brought us all some ice cream."
The professor was helping close up the last of the crates. If this wasn't the last trip, it would only be because the truck couldn't fit all the crates. He started across the ground to greet Mr. Wonka. The man might be paying them, and handsomely, but he himself was a sight. Enough of a sight to convince the professor the chocolatier would need reinforcements. They were all tired. Tired in the way that made everything funny. Tired in the way that made the idea of ice cream, on a freezing cold night, hilarious. The buzz of whispers at the announcement turned to titters, and then to outright guffaws.
"You gotta be kidding—"
"That's Willy Wonka—"
"Ice cream—"
"It's freezing—"
"Is he an idiot?"
They were talking over each other, like AM radio signals at night: scratchy, other-worldly interferences, barely heard, snippets only, bleeding through. Willy heard them all. The 'idiot' comment stood out. He'd heard that one recently, at the beginning of the month, from a certain cretin called Mike Teavee. Willy's laugh joined softly in, its lilting quality drowning out the mutterings of the speculators. Or, more accurately, hearing it, its lilting quality was something the speculators wanted to hear more of, so they quieted.
"No and yes," crowed Willy, in motion, heading for the back of the truck. "You there! Open this, please. I don't think I'm am an idiot, but you be the judge, and yes, as not an idiot, I brought you ice cream. To say thank you. For the work you've put in on this project. And for staying here all night to finish it, in the freezing cold. I think you'll find you like this ice cream. I recommend it highly, as exactly the thing for this nippy occasion! I invented it myself. The ice cream, not the occasion. Try some."
Willy Wonka energized was engaging to behold. Willy Wonka unleashing his passion for his inventions was irresistible, but like the sun, difficult to approach. The student who had lifted the door at the back of the truck stepped back.
Not so fast, thought Willy.
"You there, person who opened the truck. What's your favorite flavor of ice cream?"
"Um," the boy was suddenly tongue-tied.
"Um? I don't have 'Um'," said Willy, gently. "I'm still looking for that flavor. You'll have to think of another."
"Rum Raisin," shouted out another boy, elbowing his way to the front. This story was gonna make him famous.
"'Um Raisin, I've got that," sang out Willy, with a nod to the first boy, "that's sort of 'um'," he staged-whispered to the lad, "though not the flavor I'd pick most days."
Tongue-tied grinned, and Willy hopped into the back of the truck, eyed the boxes the Oompa-Loompas had packed, selected one, opened it, and presented the elbower with his choice. That's a feat in itself thought Noah, watching.
"Do you have any chocolate?"
Willy only giggled, and digging into another box, presented Noah with his request.
"There's a spoon under the lid."
Now that it looked like he wasn't going to be the first one to try the ice cream, the boy with the Rum Raisin tore off the lid, grabbed the spoon, and shoveled a scoop into his mouth. The effect was immediate. His whole face changed, from greedy and pinched, to open and astounded.
"Oh. My. God!" His eyes closed, and he stood like a statue. And then he was shoveling in another bite, and standing rapturous again. "Oh. My. God!"
The other students were crowding around now. One stuck his finger into the open container, licked it, and had the same reaction.
"Holy crap! This is fucking delicious! And it's warm! It's making me feel warm! Warm all over!"
"Told ya!" beamed Willy. "It's hot ice cream, for cold nights. And days. Warms you up. Makes you tingle. But there'll be none of that other nonsense. Delicious is asexual, and that's all the more mention we're going to make of that."
"Sorry, Mr. Wonka, I got carried away."
After that, the ice was broken, as it were. Everyone wanted some, and everyone had some. Some had more than some. Some had more than more. In the meantime, the boxes of ice cream were unloaded and divided up amongst the helpers. Willy had brought a selection of about every flavor you could imagine, except for 'um'. Not bickering over the divvying up of the ice cream was rewarded with Willy taking off his goggles. With those off, he looked less like an alien, and more like a human. It made it easier for everyone to relate, but best of all, they could vouch for themselves that he really did have amethyst colored eyes. In the end, when it was time to take the truck back to the Factory, Noah, and Willy, and the professor formed a receiving line. One by one, the students filed past, and Willy thanked them, shaking each of them warmly, if briefly, by the hand.
When the last student had filed past, Willy turned to the professor.
"Thank you. The undertaking of undertaking this house for later resurrection was short-notice, and unusual, but your taking it on has been very useful to me."
"You're welcome, Mr. Wonka, thank you. Unusual brightens my day, and your brand of unusual is in, um, good taste, as well."
"Ha! You are too kind. Now we must be going—"
"I know the house is finished, but shall we stay to help you load up the rest of your equipment?"
The cords of all those lights and generators may as well have been ropes, preventing his escape. Willy turned in a circle, making a mental inventory of what he saw.
"Can you dig any of this stuff ending up on any of your digs?"
Joy and disbelief warred on the professor's face. Domestically, maybe not internationally, this equipment would be invaluable, it'd be a fortune to buy, and having it would save him another fortune in rental fees.
"Are you saying—"
"I'm asking if you want it. Cuz if you do, it's yours."
"Mr. Wonka!"
"My administrator will see you receive the necessary paperwork. Snag the decals, can you, Noah?"
"Sure."
That was easy; the trademark 'W' decals were magnetic, they peeled right off, and only the generators sported them.
"Then wonderful, we depart. Toodles!"
And that was that. Willy took off for the truck, and Noah, decals collected, trailed after him. The professor, rubbing his hands together, hardly noticed, as he shouted orders to secure his new possessions.
In the truck, with Noah focused on driving, Willy felt like a million bucks: green and dirty. Terence said that. Willy thought it odd, but it fit. He stripped off the purple gloves he'd been wearing, and inside-out, let them fall to the floor. They were goners, but it was all good. He had the pale, spider-silk pair he'd been wearing all day underneath. The only thing missing from this happy ending was Terence. But Willy was sure, when Terence returned—if Terence returned—he'd love hearing the story, and appreciate the gesture Willy had made on his behalf.
Thank you readers, reviewers, and those who fav and/or follow. I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended.
Thank you, Squirrela, I'm glad you liked the use of the coat. I do think it's funny, with all that the man has, that he's using his coat the way he is. Linkwonka88, thanks for your speculation, but as you recall, Dr. Wonka didn't tell Pops who he was. Would that Pops did know! Gosh! What then? There's a bombshell for you, and one that's bound to go off. Dionne dance, you are surely right, it has indeed been a long day for our Mr. Wonka. I hope you enjoyed its ending, and thanks for your review.
