by Greig Thomson
A little plastic cup of tepid orange juice, full of flavonoids, hesperidin, naringenin, good for the brain fat, crossing the blood-brain barrier. Helps the inflammation, blood flow, gets the brain tick-ticking. Good for a sunny disposition, picks the heavy corpse of depression up off the linoleum floor. Got to get that gut microbiota–brain axis back horizontal, fist around the joystick, wrestling with the horizontal gauge, and the cabin is on fire with the heat of the death spiral. Just a little plastic cup of juice, level out the wings, activate the landing gear, and bring her in for a safe landing. We’re all part of the juice trials, a single-blind, randomized and controlled trial, eight week duration. And oh, the ups and downs this juice adventure. Juice at breakfast, lunch, dinner, sitting by the window in the comfy chair with a fist full of juice. But is it juice or is it orange drink? I saw the carton, made me think we’re missing out on precious flavonoids. Nothing else, no water, no diabetic cordial in between the juice stops. Got to dehydrate the brain, ring it out, squeeze the cerebral trauma through the brain flaps, leave a yellow crust on top of the brain, trauma butter sucked out with a trephination if necessary.
And they watch us take them, all those little pills, like we might smuggle them in our pockets, save them up, try and off ourselves when the lights go out. So, we wash them down with a little plastic cup of orange juice. The pills froth up in the mouth, that metallic taste mixes with the brain tang! of the juice, and we’re going to sleep through the night terrors tonight. Just smiling suns, cheeks bright red, so chuffed, peeping toms in our mind’s eye, singing those folk songs, riding bikes around the orange groves, getting a good sweat on, and on, and on, and up, and up we go.
***
Pinned down clawing at the clothes, the skin, the face, the orbital bones. And when they have us, incapacitated, arms behind the back, a knee on the chest, out comes the booty juice. ‘Cause that fit of anger, that constant hub-ub of laughter, that crying in our pillow, all of it, that’s immoral. We need the booty juice to calm us down, think about what we’ve done. And the needle splurts a little before it slides in, the doctor’s special brew, Lorazepam, Quetiapine, nice and easy, into the left buttock. And when we’re settled, they let us be. Drowning deep in the linoleum floor, the earth opening and we’re looking up at the faces, miles and miles away, with those big eyes, and those echoing voices. When we wake up, it’s the next day, or the day after that, and we’re rolling around in our own filth, the sodden bed sheets, the body heat, the sweat lingering, muddying the air.
***
A little plastic cup of tepid orange juice, sitting next to us. We’re mid-coma, right? And the birds are all chattering, the common room quiet. That smell of ammonia, bleach, vinegar. The plastic chairs, plastic shelves, plastic covered window-sills. We sleep on a plastic bed – safer, easier to clean, just needs a wet wipe. And, at lunch, we’re back on the juice. But I don’t think this stuff helps the anxiety, when we’re so juiced its filling us up, turning us bright orange. And looking out across the eating area, they’re all orange, fucking Oompa Loompas, marching, following the rhythms of the system, the imposed hospital mechanics, dumping the meat loaf, ladle the mashed potato, squeeze out the sauce, pour out the gravy, a handful of frozen vegetables, a plastic cup full of fucking orange juice. And it’s the loneliness, the sensory deprivation, the monotony, then the spikes of madness, the kitchen swaying, the hanging pots and pans, the ladles, the knives clattering to the floor, the gally of a great ship. How can they cook anything in these conditions? We’re standing up, swaying back and forth, and we’re so fucking angry, we could crush the little plastic cup of juice in our hands. We’re screaming somewhere inside ourselves, and the cup of juice fires across the room, bouncing off the wall… we will not drink one more cup of fucking orange juice even if it kills us.
***
One day? Two days? That booty juice is strong. Sitting in the comfy chair, a dead weight bound by blankets, sweating it out in the heat oppressed air. The birds chattering. The common room quiet. We reach out and take a sip of our orange juice.
***
Image by Samer Daboul on Pexels
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