Day Three. The last day of the juice cleanse. By now the Juicers are easy to spot - they’re best described as “zombie-like.” Call a Juicer by name and they’ll stop shuffling, turn towards you and sniff the air. But the Juicers don’t see you. Their eyes are dead, as if their very souls have been turned into desiccated husks despite their bodies being flooded with cashew milk and kale pus.
More have fallen off the wagon since yesterday. The pressure of being at home alone surrounded by solid food has proven too great for many to handle. There is power in a union of Juicers, perhaps, but left to their own devices their willpower can quickly and easily fracture. Without fellow Juicers around to buttress their defense against the rage of hunger they fall victim to the cabinets which call out to them, “Open meeeeeee. Open meeeeeeee. Foooooood here…” It’s very hard, so I’m told.
“I had coffee,” sighs one former Juicer. She bites her lip in an effort to hold back the tears. Of course that’s pointless: Her tear ducts are empty. Everything is being diverted to her stomach in an effort prevent her cells from cannibalizing one other.
Of course the Chewers are robust and healthy, clearly energized by their lunch of grilled focaccia sandwiches from the nearby café (highly recommend the chicken pesto). It’s the first non-Bangladeshi lunch I’ve had in three days so don’t think I’m not making sacrifices too, Juicers.
I’m jealous of the Juicers in a way. They’re experiencing the camaraderie of struggle in a way that the Chewers can not. Having survived this battle together they’ll be closer, more spiritually connected. It’s like we Chewers stayed home while the Juicers stormed the beaches at Normandy together. But instead of Germans they fought hunger pangs and had to drink flogged parsnips and ginger spit.
Come tomorrow morning, it will all be over. Those who persevered will have a war story to tell. As will those who cheated but didn’t get caught. They’ll be able to embellish their accomplishments; like Connecticut Senator Dick Blumenthal they’ll misspeak about their service.
Come tomorrow, we will no longer be divided as Juicers and Chewers. We’ll once again be identified only as employees. Though, as management wisely mentioned: Should the newly liberated Juicers over-indulge their sensitive gastro-intestinal tracts right away there’ll be hell to pay, and they’ll have far worse war stories to tell on Monday.