Juicebox

When my high school best friend left the South for the cold and grey of a northern city, I became the foster mother to her perfectly white, somewhat hefty gerbil, Juicebox.

Juicebox was quiet and wary of strangers. He mostly kept to himself and enjoyed the everyday thrills of his hamster wheel and chunks of cardboard that I would slip into his cage for him to gnaw down to dust in a matter of seconds. My family regarded Juicebox kindly and Dad utilized him for the disposing of bank statements and otherwise confidential information.

In essence, Juicy had it made. He could rely on me to change out his cedar chips and feed him pebbles every morning. I made a point of holding him a few times each day and stroking his soft white fur while I told him all about my distaste for the educational system. He was a patient listener, terrified and edgy. Occasionally Juicy would disregard my small talk and make a run for it, hurling himself out of my gentle grasp and landing with a thunk on the floor. While I was happy for Juicebox to experience the exhilaration of a full-throttle run, I’d spend the rest of the afternoon coaxing him out from under the sofa with a combination of love ballads and threats of rat poison.

I made sure Juicebox was perfectly comfortable while he waited around to die. For months I watched his little body quiver from each strong heartbeat. He ate and drank and chewed. He bit me a few times but more often than not he’d sit on my shoulder and wait for his next chance to hide away from life under his bunker of cedar chips. Just before I reluctantly left for college, Juicebox kicked the bucket. I should have realized this sign.

Seven years later, I am Juicebox. Content to just be and delighted by the same simple thrills that Juicy reveled in. I live in my own hamster paradise and my parents call to monitor my cedar chips and food intake. They prevent me from any preventable fatalities and they most definitely won’t let me live out my days underneath the sofa, even though I keep trying. Back in the day, I pitied Juicebox.

“He’ll never be free. He’ll never accomplish anything.” I thought, wildly shaking tin foil to frighten him out of his hiding place. Then again, what did I expect Juicy to accomplish? He wasn’t tech savy nor did he have thumbs. What’s wrong with just being a gerbil? 

Now I've taken Juicy's place in front of that frightening yet oddly unmotivating, sheet of thrashing tin foil that the world is waving at me.
"What do they want from me?" I wonder from the dark recesses of my light grey sofa, ready to bite any fingers that extend in my direction.

Maybe if I'm really still, they won't see me.