"I'm not launching it," said Willy when he was told about Eat-Your-Words. "Not worldwide anyway; I'm playing with it. And how can you possibly say it's successful? No one has eaten any yet." He paused. "That I know of. On with the tour? The machines a-wait, and so we a-way!" Willy's widened eyes and accompanying grin made him appear a tad demonic. "Who's going?"
Mr. Bucket, Mrs. Bucket, and Charlie were the answer to that question. Joe elected to stay with Josephine so Nora could go, Josephine elected to stay successful, and Georgina left with George for Terence's shop. The tour, heading deep into the lower levels of the Factory, was a smash hit for Noah. The hydro-turbines he saw there were as sleek as they were efficient, and Willy recognized the light in the other man's eyes: it was love. Nora saw it too, and she knew things were going to change.
"You guys can hang out here," said Willy, with a glance at his pocket watch. "Don't fall in. That river is freezing, freezing and you'd be people-cubes in a minute. I have my return engagement to attend to."
"Don't be silly, Willy" clucked Nora, done with the roar of rivers and turbines. "We're all going."
If the morning sighting and ensuing conference had been a 'maybe' thing, the promised noon conference was as sure a thing as was likely to be got from an eccentric candy maker, and the crowd reflected it: it was triple the size of the first go-round, limited largely by the size of the area around the gates.
Armed with sheafs of Eat-Your-Words, Willy and company sallied forth, taking up the same stance as they had in the morning, and saying the same things. It was the crowd that went off script.
"What's wrong with this paper?" yelled more than one. "The words disappear!"
"That would be the names," Willy countered.
"It's defective," yelled another.
"Yep," nodded Willy, "if permanence is what you're after."
"Can I have our autograph?" said a little girl, offering her own piece of paper.
"Not on that paper, little girl, but you can have it on this paper."
"Forget it kid, it's not worth it," said the reporter next to her. "It's not gonna last."
"Neither does Halloween," she answered back, with a flip of her ponytail, "but I like it anyway."
Through the bars, Willy gravely offered her the note-paper with his name on it.
"You're a terrible man, Mr. Wonka," said a woman standing three rows deep. "You should have hired back the workers in the town here, and not brought in those awful foreigners."
At that, with studied decorum, Willy stepped back. "Wonka's chocolates are the best in the world. If you don't believe us, try some for yourself."
For the next hour, that was all that any of the four of them said. Strings of words, some like missiles, sailed over their heads, from reporters and public alike, but the mantra never wavered. After twenty minutes, the ranks began to thin. At forty minutes, most had melted away, their lives calling them. At the end of the hour, it was only the reporters, and a few die-hards still willing to harangue.
"That's all the time we have for this," said Willy, when he determined the tide was out as far as it was gonna go. "We'll be back at six."
"I won't be," muttered one reporter.
The corners of Willy's mouth lifted, as he headed for his Factory.
The six o'clock crowd rivaled the morning crowd, which is to say that it was smaller than the noon crowd, with Willy's smile genuine as he saw the way his plan was working. The reporters were desultory, with no new questions coming to their minds, and being tired of asking the old ones. The television personality held out her microphone and then lowered it, not wanting to listen to that commercial again.
That might have been the end of it, but a man from the public, gathered by the street, pushed his way through the knot of press. It was the man who had taken the paper at the morning session. He was back, and happy, with a corner of colored swirl held in his hand.
"You can eat this," he said.
"Isn't that neat?" beamed Willy, nodding.
"Yeah, it is," said the man. "I knew you had to be up to something with this."
Television-woman jumped to life, the microphone at the bars. "It's edible?"
"Eatable," Willy corrected her.
"The color of the pens determines the flavor," added Charlie.
"Can you mix and match?" asked the evening paper's man.
"'Course you can," said Willy, "mix away."
Bedlam broke out after that, the reporters wanting a taste, not waiting for the flavor to spread before eating, earning 'tsks' from Willy, with Nora chiming in, telling them to show some patience, the crowd wanting in on it, the candy note paper running out, and, in general, a good time being had by all. The paper itself had a vanilla flavor, with the fruit flavors from the pens giving the confection a creamsicle effect, but without the drips or chill.
"Why bother with the writing?" asked the morning's paper's reporter, his question muffled by his munching of the treat.
"Why not?" shot back Willy. "Haven't you ever been told you're gonna have to eat your words? Wouldn't you want them to be delicious?"
There was laughter heard from more than one person, and more than one person colored, as if they knew only too well what Mr. Wonka was talking about. Nora laughed, and took up the explanation.
"What about lists of chores you don't want to do? A list made with these papers and pens would soon have no chores left on it to do."
"What about thank-you notes for gifts you're not thankful for?" threw in a voice from the back of the crowd— one among many, coming up with their own uses for the paper.
"And yet it's still a nice thank-you," said Willy, lest his invention be thought churlish. "It's a gift in itself. Eat-Your-Words will be in limited release in local stores on Monday."
The reporters had been scribbling notes. The television crew had been filming. The still photographer was snapping away. The media were going to have a story tonight. Willy Wonka wasn't all bad, and this time, with something to file, it was they who took their leave.
"Nine o'clock tomorrow," called out Willy, as he and the Buckets retreated across the courtyard. Going to plan, the crowd the next morning should be smaller still.
It was Nurse Grimes who brought the news to Dr. Wonka's attention. "Isn't that wonderful," she said. "Your son is bringing out a new candy. Let's see," she turned up the sound on the tiny television she'd found in a corner of the kitchen. "It's called, Eat-Your-Words." Hearing nothing from Dr. Wonka, she realized he couldn't hear her from her place in the living room. She unplugged the set and took it to the surgery, bustling about to get it plugged in. "The news on the other channel may still have it. You can see for yourself."
Dr. Wonka roused from a light sleep.
"What are you doing?" His mouth felt like cotton. "Get that contraption out of here." Speaking was an ordeal. "I hate television."
"But your son—"
"What about my son?" Energized, Dr. Wonka fairly spit the words, his disappointment with Felix's failure yesterday bitter on his mind. Telling Dr. Wonka about it, that toady had squirmed like a worm on pavement, and he hadn't appeared at all today, the coward.
Having left the television playing on the scrapbook table, but with the sound down, Gertrude crossed to Dr. Wonka's bed, smoothing the bedclothes and generally checking on him. She handed him some water. He seemed agitated. "His new candy—"
"What new candy?" His words came easier for the sip he had taken.
"It's called—"
The gates of the Factory flashed onto the screen.
"Who are those people?"
Dr. Wonka had sat up in bed, waving his finger like a drunken house fly at the TV. Watching his hand gyrating the way it was, the thought crossed his mind that he was on too many painkillers to be coherent. That would have to stop. He had things to do before he died; important things, and to do them he needed his body functional, and his mind lucid. He wasn't going to spend his last weeks, or days, if he decided on that, in a twilight-land of stupor. "Bring it here. I can't see it clearly."
Nurse Grimes fetched the television, but by the time it was plugged back in again, the news had moved on. "I'm sorry, Doctor, but you would interrupt me, and now it's over."
"It's over."
Sinking back onto his pillow, Dr. Wonka seemed despondent.
"I'll tell you about it."
The lifting of his eyes in her direction was all the encouragement Gertrude needed. She told him all she had seen and heard, and when she was done, at his command, she took the television and left the room. When Grimes was gone, Dr. Wonka adjusted his morphine drip, closing it off. Gertrude was proving a better spy than Felix, but they were both going to disappoint him. He'd have to do the rest of this himself.
Closing his eyes, his little soldiers, swam into view. Standing at attention in the basement, below this very floor, they were an array of metal gas cylinders, in two long rows, hooked-up in parallel with each other. Dr. Wonka would need to check on them; check their valves; check the tubing; make sure that all was in order, one last time. In his mind's eye he could see their silver-grey bodies and bright white shoulders; of the yellow shoulder color—the color they had been delivered with those many moons ago—there was no trace. A smile touched his dry lips. With painstaking love, he'd painted the white over that color.
That they'd been waiting for such a long time didn't matter; the integrity of the cylinders was good: what they held would keep indefinitely. Thus far their wait had been in vain, but that would change ... It must! In his determination, his tightened muscles had hurt him, and Dr. Wonka closed his eyes, trying to relax. He slowed his breathing; wondered how long it would be before he'd feel the pain allowed by the withdrawn morphine. Too little would be as bad as too much. In the morning, with a clear head, he'd insist on a delivery method he could control. With the thoughts of action calming him, he thought again of his servants in the basement. Unlike these incompetents, they wouldn't disappoint!
Trying again to sleep, Dr. Wonka wondered if he'd have the strength to get up and down the flight of stairs; to pat his fellows one more time, and say goodbye. And then he sighed, relaxing further against the cool linen. It didn't really matter if he didn't get to it. His invention needed only one more adjustment from him, easily made, from this very room, and it would be foolproof! The last thing Dr. Wonka heard, before sleep took him, was his own chuckle: with The Boy involved, his plan would have to be foolproof.
"I've made a terrible mistake," said Willy, peering at the crowd outside his gates, come Sunday morning. "My plan isn't working."
Noah, at his shoulder, shrugged. It wasn't easy to see through the door Willy had opened only a crack, but it was easy enough to hear. "Maybe; but it was all over the news last night that you're introducing a new candy. It shouldn't surprise you that people want it."
"I said: on Monday," sniffed Willy, showing disdain, and stepping away. Nora and Grandpa Joe moved up to get a look. "On Monday, when I walk Charlie to school, they'll all be in the stores, buying the new candy. Isn't that a good idea?"
Grandpa Joe had no comment. He remembered Willy and some of his plans from Cherry Street. Charlie took his turn at the crack. There was definitely a crowd. Nora pursed her lips, deciding to put in her two cents.
"You've been passing out samples. What did you expect? It may still work, Willy. This is Sunday. May I ask? How did you come up with this candy so quickly?"
Willy tore his eyes from the others assessing the gates, and onto Mrs. Bucket. "I didn't; it's only quick to you. I always have something or other waiting in the wings, for contingencies' sake. Ya never know when ya might need something, fast. You know, to eclipse the other guys, and their new stuff. And what's wrong with samples? Don't cha think samples are fun?"
Willy went back to the door, the others making room for him, and his eyes flicked back to the gates. "This crowd is worse than the big one yesterday."
Everyone agreed, first with silence, and then, Noah, with a cough, mentioned the elephant standing beside them.
"Handing out samples will do that to crowds, Willy; almost every single time."
Willy's shoulders slumped. Feeling frail, Georgina had hung back. It had been decided that the furniture moving could wait until the media had lost this burst of interest, and she and George had been returning to the Factory at night. They left and returned from a side entrance, feeling privileged to have been shown its location, but the treks she was making were taking their toll, and she'd been grateful today was Sunday: on Sundays the shop was closed. A rest would be heaven, but with this crowd, Willy could use support.
"Let's get cracking," she said, her choice of word inspired by the door.
"Let's not," replied Willy, with a glance, "and say we did."
He stepped away again, letting the door close. There was a note in Georgina's voice Willy didn't like, and her eyes were too bright for his liking. They had the sheen of fresh peanut-brittle, and fresh peanut-brittle wasn't something for someone's eyes. George, ever absent, was a likely excuse. Willy cupped a hand to his ear, the tops of his fingers nestled against the brim of his top hat. "Isn't that George calling you, Georgina? Cuz I think so. I'm gonna be busy today, and you know how underfoot he gets. Any chance you can watch him? Keep him outa my way? Cuz if ya can, now would be good."
He paused. She stared.
"'Kay?" Extending his arms, Willy made shooing motions. "Scoot. I mean it."
Nora let out a sigh of relief, almost resting her hand on Willy's extend arm. Her mother was game, but this was a game for the younger people. Georgina, thankful for the reprieve, showed more brass than her daughter. She lightly bumped her fist against Willy's upper arm. "I'm gone, Killer! Knock 'em dead for me!"
"I would," grinned Willy, for half-a sec covering her hand with his, "but they'd arrest me, and then I won't see ya later. So see ya later."
"I'll tell you one thing," said Noah, as they all watched her go, with all of them wishing they were doing the same thing, "you can't hand out any more of the new candy today. If you do, the crowd at noon will be bigger still."
His eyes finding the ceiling, a corner of his mouth turning down, with a shake of his head, Willy bent down to Eshle, and handed him his supply of the note paper. Following Willy's example, the others did likewise.
"Are the trucks loaded for Monday? The second batch ready?"
Eshle nodded.
"The drivers are lined up?"
"They'll be here at five."
"Make it drivers in the cabs at seven-thirty. We'll leave after they do. With the town following them, we have a chance."
"I can follow you," Noah offered, "be an escape ... if you need it. Do you have an unmarked vehicle?"
"Do I have an unmarked vehicle, Eshle?"
"You will on Monday morning."
"Make it two," said Nora, butting in. All eyes turned to her. "They won't expect that."
Willy considered, his face registering his thoughts as they came and went. "Yeah; make it two. We won't need 'em, but I don't want to be wrong about that. It's almost nine."
Screwing-up his courage, Willy's hand reached for the door. This was awful, but he'd done it to himself.
"Willy."
With slight annoyance, Willy's hand dropped to his side. Courage screwing-up wasn't easy; whatever this was, this wasn't the time.
"Noah."
"I want to work in your Factory. I want to work on your machines. I want to quit Smilex. Is there a job for me in your Factory?"
As Noah spoke, Willy lowered his head, until, when Noah finished, Willy was studying the toes of his boots against the weave of the carpet. Slowly, a smile spread across his face, and he lifted his head. This I-want was a welcome I-want—as so many of them aren't—and not entirely unexpected … It was a little sooner than expected … But it was welcome. Who could resist his machines?
"Yes!" Willy clapped his hands together, his walking-stick held in his right hand making that difficult. "There is! And you may! Isn't that lovely, Eshle! Aren't you thrilled, Charlie? Mrs. Bucket? Grandpa Joe, sir? Isn't this completely wonderful? It's the decay unto decimation of the forays into dreary tooth-town, for our dear Mr. Bucket!"
Floored by Willy's sudden exuberance, the Buckets—all except for Noah—could only murmur, glancing amongst themselves. Noah was dancing a jig, said expression of joy learned from his father.
"Ya know what else? Ya know what?" Willy carried on, seeing the others had no idea at all. "Now I can introduce you! Without putting Charlie under the klieg lights! That was my biggest worry. Why are you people in this Factory? They were asking all day yesterday. I gotta tell 'em something, sometime. They'll never let Charlie alone if they think he's my apprentice. I can't tell them that! Charlie," Willy bent down, "ya wanna know who you are? You're the very lucky son of my new mechanic. How d'ya like that?"
"I love it," chimed Charlie, thrilled at this turn of events. His father would be working in the Factory! Everyone he loved would always be around him! He felt as happy as Willy looked.
"Good; then let's go out and tell the world!"
I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading, reviewing, clicking favorite or follow, or any combination thereof!
Squirrela: It's lonely out there, and you're a champ for making it less so. Thanks for your review. I'm glad you're enjoying the interactions. That interaction with the girt, though, was just from the bit the rockets kicked up; the man wasn't knocked over. ;-)
