“This is the Taffy Well,” our guide says, “I’m sure you can imagine it takes quite a bit more power to pump taffy up through those pipes than, say, water or anything like that. We have to get the pump engines special-made from partners in Germany.”
Below us, on the factory floor, a series of pipes shake and twist. One segment seems to consist entirely of thick rubber tubes, expanding and contracting cartoonishly. Steam bellows out of the machine at 30 second intervals and the engine powering it roars endlessly.
I raise my had and people groan.
“Yes, sir? Another question?”
“Yeah, sorry. Where is the taffy coming from?”
“I didn’t catch that, sir.”
“You said you’re pumping the taffy ‘up,’” I shout over the machine, “Where are you pumping it up from?”
“Oh, from underground,” he says, “The next room…”
“Underground where?” I ask, ignoring several glances, “From storage or something? It’s not actually like a well, is it?”
“I can’t hear you, sir. Let me get back to that in the next room.”
I glance down at the squirming pump again and see a factory worker frantically moving between the pipes with a stethoscope-like tool. After several stops the woman leaps back and seems to radio in several other employees, all of whom approach the spot cautiously and take turns with their own stethoscopes. They gesture wildly to each other, their words lost in the noise of the engine.
“Sir!” the guide is signaling from the door, “We’ll need to move on!”
‘‘Schulz Taffy’ is an American standard, a candy that is unbound by region. It is the universal bottom-shelf treat, boasting several vague flavors at a quarter-a-piece or five-for-a-dollar. Few people would claim ‘Schulz’ as a favorite. Fewer still would recall ever buying it. ‘Schulz Taffy’ is a candy made for sitting in bowls at reception desks. It sinks to the bottom of trick-or-treat bags, consumed as an afterthought in late November.
In September of 2008, ‘Schulz’ drew media attention for adding a sixth, ‘mystery flavor’ to their traditional five. Contrary to similar marketing tactics, the company apparently did not plan to reveal the basis of the new flavor at any point and grew defensive when customers reached out with guesses via social media. ‘Schulz’s’ CEO would later remind the digital masses that the company, at no point in the past, had ever named the first five flavors and that, for reasons unknown, seemed to comfort the dubious customers. Many questions remain regarding ‘Schulz’ as a company and a product but, considering the nature of this book, the most relevant is, perhaps, why would a company like ‘Schulz Taffy,’ with such a keen interest in secrecy, offer free, factory tours?’
The next room is much quieter and the catwalk is encased in glass. The floor below is nearly empty, an absurd amount of space for what appears to be a single machine. A pipe leads from the south wall and enters a cube, maybe 6’ tall and shining, obsidian black. Another pipe leaves the machine and enters the north wall. Neither could be more than a few inches wide.
“This is where we filter out the impurities,” the guide says and he checks his watch. “The next room is real treat…”
“What?” I ask.
“Sir?”
“What impurities? And all the taffy runs through there? What is that thing?”
I point to the cube and see the pipes now run from east to west. The north and south walls show no signs of ever once having a fixture.
“Did anybody see that move?” I ask. I try a chuckle to ease the atmosphere. “I could have sworn those pipes moved east to west a second ago.”
“The filter was designed to use gravity to its advantage,” the guide says, “It means ‘Schulz’ consumes less power, and provides for a greener world.”
The cube is now suspended in the air by pipes running from the ceiling and draining into the floor. I watch it carefully for several seconds.
“Sir,” the guide says, “I’d ask that you not touch the glass.”
“I’m not-”
“Shall we continue?”
Our guide leads us down a hallway and through several swinging doors. We pile into an elevator and, as we ascend, he hands out ‘Schulz’ branded ear plugs.
“Things are going to get noisy again here in a moment,” he says, “Don’t be alarmed!”
Finally, as the elevator door opens, I see my own concerns reflected in the faces of those around me.
“The process of pulling the taffy,” our guide yells, “releases a variety of gases from hidden air pockets. It’s funny, what people say they hear in the noises- bird calls, whistling-”
“Screaming,” I say, “It’s screaming.”
A great wad of taffy is suspended in the room, pulled and folded by thick, rotating arms. The air is warm and thick with sugar and screaming.
“Screaming, huh?” the guide says, uncomfortably, “That’s a new one…”
“Surely not,” I insist, “That doesn’t sound like birds- it sounds like screaming. Like people screaming. Doesn’t it sound like screaming?”
One of the children on the tour cautiously nods and I point to it as a sort of confirmation.
“I could see how a person unused to screaming might think that,” the guide calls, “But I wouldn’t personally draw comparisons between the two sounds.”
The screaming is interrupted for a few seconds by a series of hoarse coughs but quickly picks up again.
“See?” the guide says.
“See what?” I yell, losing my temper, “It coughed and started screaming again.”
“It’s taffy, sir,” the man explains, “It can’t cough or scream.”
“Normally I would agree with you,” I say, “Taken out of context I can see how I would be the crazy one, here but given we’re standing in a room full of screaming taffy-”
The screaming stops, suddenly, as the machine finishes its cycles and plops the monstrous taffy into a vat. A lid lowers to seal the candy inside and the machine begins to piece it out onto a conveyer belt that leads through a window into another room.
“Sir!” our guide exclaims as I dig my ear plugs out, “Sir you must keep those in for safety!”
Without the plugs I can hear the taffy’s muffled screaming from inside the vat. I shake my head and gesture to the others to follow suit and they look nervously between us.
“It’s still screaming in there!” I shout.
“Please, everyone, this man is clearly upset. Do not remove your ear plugs until we are safely-”
“I feel fine!” I yell, “There’s no noise but the screaming in the machine!”
Several employees are now looking up at the catwalk, alerted to my outrage. Several more man the conveyer belt and inspect the taffy pieces with stethoscopes.
“Are those pieces screaming too?” I yell, “Is that what you’re listening for?”
A short time later I am escorted off the ‘Schulz Taffy’ grounds and asked not to return. The radio crackles as I mount the bike. It has been silent for a long time.
“Something bothering you, traveler?”
“I feel like shit.”
“Sick, again? Your pockets are empty…”
“How would you know?” I ask, pulling away under the eyes of ‘Schulz’ security.
“Heh, heh,” the radio laughs, “Heh, heh, heh…”
-traveler
