Tarantella

Chapter 1: Charlie

Cobbswatch is a nice town.

It is not very unusual or very different from any other small town, except for one thing – it is the homestead of one of the largest chocolate factories in the world. You've probably heard or read about it, I'm sure.

My grandfather talks about it all the time – he used to work there, you see.

"And it was the happiest time in my life!" he'll say, smiling.

On a good day, he remembers who I am – but most of the time, he doesn't. Still, I don't mind. I smile and nod at him anyway.

When I was younger, I would make him remember all of it so that he could tell me. I used to love hearing all of grandfather's stories about the Wonka factory. The candy that came from that factory was different – exceptional, even. We couldn't afford more than a simple candy bar a year, but it if came from Wonka, you could be sure that it was the best chocolate you'd ever have.

Now I'm older, and things change.

People change too.

When I'm not working nights at the local shoe factory I'm at home taking care of my grandparents. It's the five of us now – the others are gone.

But there is an hour each day that is all mine. When they're all taking their afternoon nap at home, I sneak out to the park nearby. There is a vending machine there that's faulty, and sometimes I manage to get a free meal from it. The other good thing about the park is the man feeding the pigeons.

I don't remember when he started showing up there. But one day he was just sitting there on a bench, a large shopping cart always accompanying him, carrying his belongings. He always wears enormous black sunglasses, effectively obscuring most of his face. His clothes are dirty and unkempt. He doesn't ask about my meager attempts at petty theft from the vending machine, and in return I don't ask why he keeps coming to feed the birds every day.

It's a nice routine, actually.

Sometimes he'll mention the weather situation in passing, and I'll look at the sky and frown.

"Hail tomorrow."

"Really? In the spring?" I'll say, hands on my hips. I never know if he's making this up or not.

The man on the bench is always confident about his weather predictions - and most of the time, he is right.

"I can smell it coming. Can't you smell it?"

"Not really, no."

Then he'll take a loaf of bread, or a full bag of cinnamon rolls – break it up into tiny pieces, and feed it to the pigeons that are always circling him wherever he goes. They'll be waiting for him at the park, and when he arrives they will start to squak and coo, trying to get his attention.

And every time, I too will eye the bread with hunger.

Sometimes, I think about asking for it – or better yet, just take the bread from his trembling fingers.

But I don't. I never do.

Even on those days when I'm almost dizzy with hunger, I don't.

He's even asked me about it once.

"Why don't you take some too? " he asked, bag full of pretzels held out to me. It would have been so easy to-

But I swallow down the hunger immediately, the sensation.

"No, thank you." I say politely and turn my head away. I pet the pigeon sitting on my arm instead.

"Would be better than stealing..."

"It's different. "

In a weird sense, he's the only friend I have.

I've always been very isolated, even as a child. It's not easy being poor – you're bullied for your clothes, the way you look, the way you can't do things others can't.

"Why do you have a boy's name anyway? "

"Look at her, she's going to cry!"

Especially after mother passed away – that just made it harder. People at school refused to talk to you because they simply didn't know what to say anyway.

While I do love my grandparents, I have essentially become their caretaker – the only one who cares whether they live or die. Can't afford to give them proper care, or put them in a nursing home. And most of the time, even they don't know or remember my name.

But the man on the bench does. Even though he himself claims to have no name at all.

"I am not here, I am not there – so in result, I am no one." he simply said after me asking. I frowned and shook my head.

"But you are here, sitting on this bench right now. You are a person, talking to me."

Then he had smiled – it was the first time he had done so in my presence.

"Perhaps I am choosing to be no one then, in this moment." he had muttered, almost as if to himself.

"That doesn't make sense."

"Don't look so hard for logic, Charlie. Chiefly his reflection, of which the portrait Is the reflection, of which the portrait Is the reflection once removed."

Another thing about the Wonka factory – no one has been seen either coming or going from it for almost 40 years. And yet, the factory is still open for business. And the owner of the factory hasn't been seen for a long time either, and nobody is quite sure why that is.

When I asked my grandfather if he knew the reason, his demeanor completely changed. Usually, when he talked about Mr. Wonka, his eyes would light up with joy. Now, they had grown cold, steely. He would look at me as if I were an outsider – someone he could not trust.

"You shouldn't ask that. You should never ask me that."