Candyfreak: A Journey Through the Chocolate Underbelly of America (20 page)

The next day, Dave headed off to the clinic where he works as a doctor and Lisa and I spent the morning trying to keep the Wrecking Crew from killing one another, themselves, us. In a moment of unexpected laxity, Lisa agreed to take the kids on an expedition to the Jelly Belly factory. I had imagined we would be allowed down onto the factory floor to watch the machines bang out beans. But the tours were actually conducted by means of video presentations. The Wrecking Crew was not really at the point where it processed information passively. Which is to say: It needed to be in motion. It needed to touch things. It was not prepared to sit quietly and watch a video on the intricacies of the starch mogul. At one point, Daniel, in a heroic (if errant) attempt to reach the factory floor, opened a door marked
EMERGENCY EXIT
and set off a blood-curdling alarm, causing both him, and then Lorenzo, to start bawling.

Here again, the gentle reader might fairly claim that freak disaster has risen up and squashed freak joy. But this trip was actually something of a turning point for me. Not that I enjoyed seeing the Wrecking Crew in anquish, those smooth cheeks flushed and shimmering. Such naked hurt! Such soft soft hearts! I wanted to snatch them up and carry them away from the alarm, the sourpuss tour guide, the terrible indignities awaiting them. But that wasn’t an option. The basic provisions of life include a certain portion of sadness. Against this, we have only the love we grant one another, and the love we grant ourselves. And so Lisa and I picked the boys up and brushed away their tears and carried them as far as we could, to the end of the factory tour, where they were each awarded a bag of jelly beans. The effects were instantaneous. Daniel wriggled from his mother’s arms and performed an impromptu Dance of the Freak. Lorenzo began to lick his bag.

Downstairs, the Crew, restored to a state of relative equilibrium, insisted we stop at the pushcart where a young woman was doling out samples. Daniel watched intently, ferociously, as the Mistress of Bean reached into one of her 40 drawers with a tiny silver scoop and bestowed unto each child a single Jelly Belly. Then he sidled over to the little stool at the end of the cart and climbed onto it and reached matter-of-factly for the nearest drawer, which happened to contain root beer beans. Lisa was busy trying to prevent Lorenzo from eating samples off the floor. The Mistress of Bean was tending to other screaming freaklets. Thus it was left to me to restrain Daniel. I was conflicted. Obviously, this was not a good situation, in terms of discipline, in terms of germs. And yet: you had to admire the kid’s form. He had cased out the joint, fair and square, and figured a way in. Root beer was an excellent flavor. In the end, I managed to coax him away from the cart by (somewhat reluctantly) offering him
my
free bag of beans.

Outside, the sky was blue, the traffic was mild, the Crew was in high spirits. I knew there was heavy weather waiting for me back in Boston, where the clouds hung fat with rolling pins of doubt. But, for the first time in months, I felt I could foresee the day those clouds might lift. Something essential was shifting inside me, taking shape, something not unlike faith. America, with its insatiable needs, its flagrant solipsism, was redeeming itself a little, in the form of the Wrecking Crew, who seemed, at that particular moment, as they scampered across the empty parking lot, laughing, their tongues stained a joyful red, to represent the single unassailable blessing of our homeland: the pursuit of happiness as a redemptive impulse.

Daniel, for his part, understood this. He had managed to score two free bags of Jelly Bellies, which he blissfully munched to extinction on the ride home. He spent the remainder of my visit gazing plaintively into my face, repeating a single, solemn incantation:
I want jelly bean
.

There is hope for him yet.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book would not exist without the concerted enabling of the following freaks:

The entire Almond family, especially Team Head Contusion, for not yet disowning me; Pat Flood, Holden Lewis, Bruce Machart, and Keith Morris for reading the first draft and urging me to write a second; Erin Falkevitz, Tim Huggins, Victor Cruz, Kirk Semple, Tommy Finkel, Dave Blair and Zach Leber for indulging countless vices; Joël Glenn Brenner, Lisbeth Echeandia, Steve Traino, Ray Broekel, and Bob Stengal for answering my idiotic questions; the Big Ruskie, the Gay Lumber jack, and the rest of my various poker freaks for supplying me a small (and undependable) weekly stipend, Eve Bridberg, Chris Castellani, and all the Grub Street freaks for keeping their muse on, my students for putting up with my rant-first-take-questions-later pedagogy; all the Chocolate Gods for so generously (and foolishly) welcoming me into their world, especially Manny De Costa, Chris Middings, Dave Bolton, Joanne Barthel, Carl and David Goldenberg, Marty Palmer, Russ Sifers, Dave Wagers, and Susan Karl. A special shout out to Kathy Pories, Mistress of Pain, for whipping this bad boy into fighting trim, and to anyone who owns or works in an indie bookstore for pimping what you love, and to anyone who still reads—bless you for feeling what you are inside.

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