You have ADHD. Or, you think you do. It’s hard to be sure because your thoughts are always running off. What you do know is that every thought is a fractal of thoughts, diverging in the infinite directions of dopamine. Luckily, Adderall brings the dopamine to you, by luring it with decoy dopamine.

Not the most sporting approach, you suppose, since most people hunt dopamine in the wild, but it’s good for bagging groceries, which you’re doing for the next nine hours in the neighborhood Piggly Wiggly. Without the drug, bagging was work—rote, tiresome, subject to innumerable anxious distractions—with it, bagging is a game. A game you call The Bag.

As the game’s sole player and coach, you decide what gets The Bag. In short, everything. Smartwater, smart bulbs, Smartfood white cheddar popcorn. Everything smart gets The Bag. And everything stupid too. Even the Swedish Fish Oreos.

Without the drug, your hands themselves are bags. They flutter and drag, as if the air were water. With the drug, your hands are tractor beams, abducting everything into The Bag.

Speaking of which, if your coworker Tommy, the scanner, doesn’t shut up about his date with “The Prude,” he’ll get The Bag too.

Speaking of which, you are angry, because none of the customers appreciate you or chat with you. It’s possible they’re alarmed by the rapid twitching of your jaw, which is only twitching because it would like to chat. With anyone but Tommy.

Meanwhile, you are pleased, because you are an engine firing. And because the neurological ping-pong team in your synapses is playing one hell of a match. Such chemistry in the way they communicate, unlike Tommy, who rambles just sporadically enough to ensure he never has to listen.

And without the drug, neither would you. Without the drug, your mind makes movies about witty, beleaguered employees of Piggly Wiggly and rides submarines through reefs of Fruity Pebbles. Which means you can tune Tommy out. Which means you can chill. With the drug, your mind is clear, attentive to the items and The Bag but also to Tommy. Boastful, intolerable Tommy.

Speaking of which, the people from the People on the impulse rack are confiding in you. Angelina says Brad told her he had a foot fetish but never acted on it because of her awkward pinky toes. Matthew McConaghey and a cabal of Texans are actively forgetting The Alamo, according to Hilary Duff. Paris Hilton exists, and Julian Assange wants the code to the Wiggly’s wifi.

Speaking of which, Swedish Fish swim madly across the conveyor belt. They’re tired of their cameo in Oreos. You scoop them from the black river and look around for help. Do the fish get The Bag or not? You hold them in the cup of your hands, worried the air will drown them. Quickly, executively, you give the fish The Bag, then double-knot it to shield them from the toxic air. In front of you, a puzzled man in his 40s holds the torn package of red Scandinavian seafood.

“I’m not sure how it happened,” he says. “Sorry.”

Speaking of which, you are sorry because people never get everything right. You bag and bag and still the fish end up on the belt. Now, this man of average size and meekness looks you in the eye and repeats, “Sorry.” He wants a response, but you can’t think of one because Tommy is bragging about how much better his life has been since choosing polyamory.

“Shut up Tommy!” you yell. “You’re not poly you’re just single.”

Tommy shuts up. Finally, some peace. You look the customer in his averagely-dilated pupils and say, gritting your teeth, “It’s okay.”

He grabs The Bag and hurries out.

“What the fuck,” says Tommy. “You’re such an asshole.”

Tommy is staring at you. So is a long line of customers. They’re pissed, and maybe frightened, but there’s nowhere else to go. The Wiggly is understaffed.

You fix things by bagging faster. If you can just escape this moment, the next one will be different. A clean slate. For now, the belt hums. Jennifer Aniston whispers the name of an anti-aging cream. Her voice is almost ASMR. The lights flicker. The belt moans. Even the unsweetened almond milk will one day expire. You bag faster. A can of sardines. Some Takis. Looks like someone’s going through a breakup. Ha! Tommy touches your elbow.

Oh no, did you say that out loud?

“Hey dumbass,” Tommy says. “There’s no bag,” And it’s true. A pile of junk has accumulated under your hands. But your hands don’t know that. They’re grabbing Snickers, Doritos, Peoples, giving them the imaginary Bag so hard the Snickers’ nuts rattle in their shell of nougat.

The adrenaline drives a wedge into your brain, and you’re afraid you might freeze. ADHD meltdown, your doctor called it. The eternal question: to pop or not to pop another Addy? You are always pondering this because you always have more Addy.

On the one hand, you like how much better it makes you at any task, not just work. You like feeling sharp, dexterous, and confident. On the other hand, you dislike the gritty feeling of the come-up and the impatient, angry thoughts that hover on the border of your focus, especially around Tommy. But on the first hand, you like feeling stronger than Tommy, like your will can crush his. But on the second hand, you fear what else it might crush. But on the first hand, you like having something relevant to say. But on the second hand, hate dulling your imagination. But on the first hand, you love dulling your imagination, particularly when you’re at work.

These two abstract hands can play patty cake all they want. What the decision really comes down to is the fact that a lot of pissed-off people are staring at you, wishing your actual hands would do something. You need focus. So you drop into a squat behind the checkout counter and pop another Addy.

When you rise, the fear melts from your face. You put on a smile and go back to bagging like nothing happened. Tommy leers, then turns to face the next customer.

“Will that be cash or card?” he says.

The rest of the line keeps a wary eye on your hands. Fear, contempt, anxiety, everything gets The Bag. You are falling, and it feels good.  

You land on a thought. Or rather, a fixation. The Conveyor Belt: an ever-revolving metaphor. You see its symbols ride along in succession. The way; the grind; the river of Time; Samsara; Sisyphus; the Funyun; the Bundt cake; the pink icing donuts in a 3x4 grid; birth, school, work, death, rebirth; the map; the clock; the cul-de-sac; the parking lot; the ouroboros: a Trolli Sour Crawler eating itself; The Bag, dropped into another Bag, double-Bagged.

You want to end this fixation, but you can’t give it The Bag. It’s too heavy. Your vision blurs as the Conveyor Belt turns. As the Conveyor Belt turns. As the Conveyor Belt turns.

At times, the only thing worse than no focus is total focus. Pure, absolute focus. You are locked in to the Belt. It pulls on your skin. You can see yourself riding it, standing helpless among the groceries. You run upstream but you cannot outpace it. You will be carried over the ledge and crushed in its underbelly. Unless…

Unless a hand, some divinely focused Hand, lifts you and drops you into The Bag. You wave your arms. You scream. Now, all at once, you feel it. The touch of that fated Hand on the back of your neck. A Hand to pluck and Bag you.

“Hey!” A Voice calls to you.

The Hand shakes you. You smile for the first real time in your life. It feels exquisite. You wonder what it will feel like inside The Bag.

“Hey! You!”

You turn to meet your Bagger, but The Hand is attached to Tommy. He shakes you again. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Look how long this line is.”

For the first time you can remember, Tommy is right. The line is very, very long.

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