The Fix 

by Robert Herbst

I don’t think what I’m saying can be fairly disputed. It’s a small town – not even a stop on the journey to where you’re going – though it used to have a function. People lived their lives, trucked and bartered, had friendships and love affairs and moved through this place with something like pride.
You don’t think the opioid crisis didn’t hit us like an alcoholic father? That the state around us hasn’t boomed with a fervor seen in certain cancers? This isn’t true bitterness – only skepticism and high ideals. The kid gets this.
He’s a quiet type – looks younger than he is. Born and raised, he’ll tell you, leaving the important part unsaid. Not ruined by smack, not fled to the city. He has a girl he wants to marry. He’s 22. The sheer simplicity of him, in our age of caveats and exceptions, fortifies me. He is a good thing. He is good.
Most of what we do concerns domestic issues. Private violence becoming too public. Battery, but generally the AAA type – little, mostly harmless assaults. Firearms violations. The worst is the fentanyl overdoses. If it’s a younger person, often as not the kid knows them. “Spanish class, sophomore year,” he tells me after a failed resuscitation. He won’t show emotion. Jesus, what must it feel like to see the people you grew up with turned to corpses? To be called to the scene of their final self-destruction?
We like to have fun, the kid and I do. Rock climbers will blow through our town going 20 over. Big ol’ vans full of carabiners and ratty crash pads and tie-dye rope. I take the time to know the gear, understand the lifestyle. It puts a finer point on my distaste.
We hate these bastards, make a pastime of it. Sometimes a good honest hatred is just the thing. Let’s you know who you are and who you aren’t. Makes you glad you aren’t who you aren’t.
He’s a good kid. Lets the girls flirt with him, leans into the window with that grin like we’re-all-friends-here. Slaps ‘em with a four-pointer. Suspended license right there. No more climbing trips, it seems like.
Important to have a sense of humor, you know? Gotta give as good as you get in life.
He’s a good kid. Lovely manners, as my Nana would have said. Pulls the seat out for the lady to sit, that sort of stuff. His girl’s nice, too. Beverly – quiet little bird. Joins us at the bar sometimes, falls asleep after one beer. He gives her a fireman’s carry out to the car, and when she wakes he says “hush, OK? Just hush now.”
Not afraid to get his hands dirty either. Called in on a B and E, the kid chased the perp down in a dead sprint. Tackled him like a goddamn linebacker. Turned out it was just Gene – that sonofabitch - trying to steal from his own mother. She pressed charges – a diamond in the motherfucking rough, that one.
Yeah, the kid’s not too spick and span. Knows the right time to throw an elbow. The punctuation of the law, I like to say. Toss someone rough against the car(;), twist the arm a little bit (,) pop ‘em nice and quick(.). Nothing to it. Kid’s a regular Emily Dickinson.
OD gets called in. It’s the girlfriend of his baby bro. Pretty little porcelain face, all smeared with vomit, eyes wide open and bloodshot. Not even 18. Kid handles himself like a pro; calm face, steady as he takes notes. I lean over his shoulder. Location, date, time, cause of death. His handwriting is blocky, fourth-grade like. 
We set up the traffic stop. The little things in life, you know? Must be some kind of holiday, because the climbers scuttle in like cockroaches. Aging stoner stumbles into town in his camper. We nab him, and the kid sees some white powder on the dash. Probable cause, he shouts at me. If I’ve ever seen it, I shout back. The dude is complaining, his hands on the hood as the kid snaps on gloves. Bleating, “pigs! Pigs!” The kid pops him a little for the lip. Stoner guy keeps the bleating. Says he knows his rights. Stoner guy says that we’ll regret this.
He’s a good kid, really. But what does that matter when all anyone has in mind is going 25 miles over and flipping you the bird? What does it matter that people are out here dying, and the kid is taking it on the chin like a champ, as long as the scum of the earth have rights?
I watch the video – at the station, then later in court. The sharp little jab the kid throws. Neat, clean, honest. Kid kicked off the force in a fortnight. A month later, I pick him up wandering down the street at three in the morning. A bitter November night, and he had 10 grams of meth on him.
A good kid. Took care of his mom – bought her flowers and ate dinner at home every Sunday. A good older brother. Stood side-by-side at the funeral, each of them smooth and stoic as classical statutory. Treated his girl right – took her swing dancing, charmed her friends. He wanted to marry her. He was only 22. Ended up at the state penitentiary. Ten years for intent to sell. His girl left town too. All the way up north, I hear, to the Idaho panhandle. Last little speck of the country. I imagine that’s still pure, but it won’t be forever.
I know his joint. All alone in a wide valley dashed with Indian paintbrush. Barbed wire on the walls, but if anyone escaped, where would they go? There’s nothing – and I mean really and truly goddamn nothing, for miles. Pretty place - the mountains all ruby red in the sunset, the wind calm at the end of the day. Turkey vultures flying 1,000 feet overhead – you only know it’s them by the wing shape, the way they can soar and soar without ever seeming to move a muscle.
I’ve said my bit and now I’ll say this: everyone’s got their own fix coming. They roll down toward us like balls of graphite on a smooth track. At night, I take the squad car out and watch the town, my breath misting the windshield like a ghost. Mr. Dashcam is out there somewhere, wandering through the wasteland. I’d like to break him in just the way that he refuses to be broken. Perhaps I roll toward him. More likely, though, that thing out there rolling toward him, it’s rolling toward both of us. So I sit, and I wait for my fix too.

Robert Herbst (he/him) is a writer and violinist based in Chicago. His work has been published or is forthcoming at Witness, Litro, The Offing, Maudlin House, HAD, New World Writing, and other publications.  He is a member of the Civic Orchestra of Chicago, and he enjoys the company of his dog, Reba, who is a very good girl. You can read more work at robbieherbst.com. Twitter: @rickarob