Vyvanse for Algernon (2026)
Updated: Oct 8
invocation
SING,
Muse of Pharmacy!
Administer a dose to all
who swallow a bitter tale,
the 2008 epic of
Kyle Johnson of Lake Forest,
son of Dale, last scion of
the Viking house of Jonsson,
his surname unceremoniously neutered
at Ellis Island, trading an s
for a suburban mortgage.
Sing O daughters of Michigan,
freshwater naiads who churn the lake
gray with long, pale fingers; toss sea
glass ashore; turn zebra mussels
upward to stab our fleshy soles.
Sing now of Kyle Johnson--
sixteen, inattentive,
D-minus in Algebra,
whose mind lay three miles west
in the office of a nurse practitioner
who prescribed the orange
bottle of pills
now in Kyle's
Jansport backpack.
Kyle had considered emptying
the bottle and storing kief
in it. But for some reason,
that day, he elected to obey
his NP oracle. He popped
an orange-and-white capsule
during Math, swallowed it dry.
Skol.
the quickening
Ms. Teacher factored a quadratic
on the overhead projector, smearing
marker from the transparency with salivated fingers.
Kyle waited for the little black numbers to jump
and dance, blurring into a tangle that buzzed
in his brain; it had happened since first grade.
But the buzz of frustration did not come.
Not this time--the numbers stayed in place,
fixed as fossils in sandstone. Steady.
Sensical. Legible. Something clicked.
Then everything clicked. The error
in the textbook. Every problem read like
a clean directive. His brain hungered.
He finished the page silently while
Ms. Teacher drawled. Then he finished the
chapter, which referred to another theorem
that required proof. The proof assumed--
Kyle's parents were elated. His GPA shot up.
He corrected Ms. Teacher on the provenance of
the quadratic formula.
Doctors tested him thoroughly.
Math first. Then chemistry, Latin, music
theory, cartography, Keynes, Kant. Whatever
his sweaty fingers touched diffused through
his skin and into his mind.
For the first time, the adult was confused
instead of Kyle. It felt good.
the gifted program
He was now the Golden Boy.
His test scores were perfect.
His teachers took credit.
Then they asked for his autograph.
He ravaged books on music
and ideas and sex and
Boltzmann brain, the Fermi
paradox, quantum immortality,
general immorality, fungal
intelligence, the bicameral mind--
He predicted the recession, you know.
the offering
Dale and Jayleen told everyone.
At dinner parties over Jell-O salad,
waiting for their drip coffees at Nectar & Rune:
My son predicted the recession, you know.
Harvard offered a scholarship.
MIT, a laboratory.
Google put stock in him.
The government offered nothing
they could put in writing.
He got TV spots at first.
Then the money came.
Then he got laid. Then
he gave a TED talk
in Singapore.
It got millions of hits
on YouTube.
He bought a pool
for his new mansion
and a blue Lotus
for his driveway.
He wore a Gucci belt.
Pharrell did a spot on Kyle's
sneaker collection for MTV;
it shamed Imelda Marcos.
They asked Kyle what he wanted.
For years, he had plenty of answers.
the diagnosis
The dealer called to talk
about the 2013 Lotus. That
was when it started. Kyle said
no. That wasn't usual.
He felt sated.
His Android phone worked.
His Jordans fit.
His Lotus was blue.
His pool was blue, and it smelled clean.
His pool held all the water it could hold.
He could swim infinitely,
but infinity had become banal.
An executive said,
"We're seeing reduced consumer churn--"
and Kyle hungered for a peach.
He hungered to walk on the beach.
He hungered to fuck somebody he loved
and hungered to spin an old record to inspect
the shapes of clouds floating face-up in his pool.
He hungered to know if octopuses dream.
He hungered to sit in the grass.
A bank associate asked,
"Would you like another house?"
"Why?"
Then everyone got nervous.
the correction
The subject displayed
diminished acquisitive motivation.
They checked Kyle’s blood.
Thyroid normal. Everything
worked.
He denied depression.
He denied anhedonia.
"Do you still enjoy your life?"
"Yes."
This complicated matters.
Dale and Jayleen felt the buzz
of frustration in their brains. Was
their son no longer exceptional?
"Can't you put him back on something?"
"Not legally. Not anymore."
Then the battle became Kyle.
the treatment plan
For years, they showed him advertisements.
Dancing babies, Cockney geckos,
Puppy Monkey Baby.
"So you'll switch carriers?"
"Nope."
"Shit."
Next they attempted scarcity:
"Only four of these Patek Philippe watches exist."
"Why only four?"
"It denotes a certain exclusivity."
"Make five."
They told Kyle that Zuckerberg
bought a bigger house than his.
"Good for Mark."
They gave him a platinum blonde,
Circe of LA, whose talents turned
lesser men to swine.
He wanted Laura from the
Environmental Coalition instead.
And she was free.
They collected him.
Purchases. Porn. Music. Medical records.
Childhood drawings. Favorite food.
Heart rate. Ex-girlfriends. The exact
second he paused over an image of
an Atlas moth perched on a rosebud.
They devised the perfect advertisement.
It all came crashing together: Lake Michigan.
Peaches. Music. Viking blood. Atlas moths. Sex.
Blue water churning. Fossils. Something about
octopuses.
Kyle watched twice. He shed a tear.
"So you'll buy it?"
"Buy what?"
So they took the Lotus. Fine.
They took the mansion. Fine.
They froze his accounts.
They took his devices.
They took his access.
They left him wrapped
in a Transformers sleeping
bag at his parents' house.
They asked him what he wanted.
"A peach would be nice."
apotheosis
Kyle walked the shore
of Lake Michigan
wrapped like a prophet in his
Transformers sleeping bag.
Numbers couldn't find him here.
Someone saw him swimming.
Someone found a trail of peach pits.
Someone heard a record playing.
Someone swore they saw his footprints.
They ended where the water began.
The daughters of Michigan
stirred the gray lake
with their long, pale fingers.
They threw peach pits with
sea glass.
The water still churns.
Skol.
