"Full of gorgeous language and wild insights."—Nick Flynn

Set in the beleaguered heart of Indiana’s opioid crisis, Brian Allen Carr’s timely and tender novel about a teen struggling to find his place in the world—and come up with $800 rent—is at once a moving rumination on the hopeful power of story and a harrowing insight into modern America. It is a book you won’t soon forget.


Seventeen-year-old Riggle is living in rural Indiana with his uncle and uncle’s girlfriend after the death of his parents. Now his uncle is missing, probably on a drug binge. It’s Monday, and $800 in rent is due Friday. Riggle, who’s been suspended from school, has to either find his uncle or get the money together himself. His mission exposes him to a motley group of Opioid locals—encounters by turns perplexing, harrowing, and heartening.

With empathy and insight, Carr explores what it’s like to be a high school kid in the age of Trump—a time of economic inequality, addiction, Confederate flags, and mass shootings. Through the voice of its unforgettable protagonist—charismatic, confused, searching, by turns cynical and naïve, wise and impulsive—Opioid, Indiana pierces to the heart of our moment.
Brian Allen Carr lives in Indiana. He is the author of the novel Sip, along with several novellas and story collections. He is the winner of a Wonderland Book Award and a Texas Observer Story Prize. His short fiction has appeared in Granta, Ninth Letter, Hobart, Boulevard and other publications.
I’m from Texas, but most of this story takes place in Indiana, where the winter weather sits like iced gray vomit on the cornfields. Every restaurant serves fried pork sandwiches. Half the men over thirty-five are so numb on opioids you could win a bar fight just by swinging a dead cat over your head and running in circles. Not that I can get into a bar. Shit, I’m seventeen.
     In Indiana kids my age vape with nothing in it but flavor. Might as well eat candy fog. I’m not the biggest fan of getting fucked up, but if I’m doing something, I’m doing it for real. None of the Mexicans I knew in Texas vaped and I never chilled with whites before moving to Indiana. They’re fine. I’m one of them. But I’m not gross. I don’t sit around eating food-stamp Frosted Flakes while ragging on black folks because they’re looking for handouts. I don’t scream “Build the Wall” every time I hear a language other than English.
     Whites aren’t supposed to talk race, and I didn’t realize that until I came here. Back home, almost everyone’s Mexican American or Mexican Mexican, so we’d talk about being white all the time, because my non-white friends were curious, and mostly back home when you talked about being white, you’d talk about how mean white people’s parents are. Mexican kids never get told to leave home. They can live in converted garages until they’re seventy-five years old and not a single soul would judge them.
     If you’re nineteen and white and not paying a grand a month for an apartment, you’re a piece of shit. Whites can’t keep long in their parents’ nests. Gobbling up their parents’ food. Watching cartoons on their parents’ cable.
     White folks also get bad sunburns, and that was the other thing my friends would ask about. I’d show up with pink cheeks on some Monday and they’d ask if I was wearing makeup.
     Maybe I didn’t belong in South Texas. It’s a place mean with heat, but Mexicans seemed at home there, standing on that thorny land with their backs to the sun. Singing hymns to Quetzalcoatl in nearly lost native languages. Hoping for rain. Healing off medicine made from plants. Rubbing eggs over babies’ bellies to cure them of fever.
     Indiana is mean with cold, but whites go wrong here too. They get too doughy. They get that Mountain Dew mouth. Like they brush their teeth with candy. Like the only time their hearts race is when they’re screaming at news channels. Popping pills to catch boners. Popping other pills to get their dicks back to soft. And when I saw these white boys in Indiana vaping nothing but flavor, it about made me sick. Might as well boil some water, huff the steam and then chew gum. Jesus, take control of your dick and be somebody.
     All that said—Texas is the greatest country on the planet and Indiana is the greatest state in the nation. Honestly, in some ways these Hoosiers are just Mexicans with white skin. They love cars and America and guns and the military, and that’s just like Mexicans. And both old whites and old Mexicans are racists too.
     Here’s a story: I had an across-the-street neighbor back in McAllen, Texas, who used to mow lawns. He  was ninety-four years old. I swear to God. He’d been in the military and he was as skinny as a suit on a coat hanger, and one day he came to my house and knocked on my door. I can’t remember his name but it might’ve been Emilio. We talked all the time, but I only called him “Sir.”
     He was at my door and it was like this: “Hey, Riggle.”
     That’s my name, and I was like, “Hey, Sir.”
     “Look,” he told me. He unbuttoned his shirt and widened his eyes. They were like gray fried eggs. A few different lifetimes swam in the color of them.
     “What’s that?”
     He had a bandage on his chest that he pulled back and it sort of flapped open like a hanging white tongue to reveal a stapled-shut stretch of Sir’s newly shaved chest. “Open heart surgery,” he said.
     “What the hell?”
     “Touch it,” he told me. It was like a dare. Like if I didn’t I could never be a man, and he gazed away into some distant and masculine abyss. I laid my hand on the bumpy scar. “Quadruple bypass,” he said, and my hand seemed to absorb some of the energy from his healing. “Do you have any beer?” He licked his lips and buttoned his shirt back. “The wife won’t let me buy any, ever, since the operation.”
     My hand was still sort of tingling as I processed the request. “Should you be drinking?”
     His mouth tightened. “Are you a doctor?”
     I sniffed my hand. “Nah.”
     “Then do you have any beer?”
     I always had beer. My guardian would buy cases of Lone Star and I’d pinch a few whenever, and hide them
at the back of the vegetable drawer because my guardian was a fat ass. “Meet me out back.”
     I lived backed up to an alley, and we stood out there on the asphalt in the heat of September sipping beers and he told me his tales as we both sweated in the sun.
     “When I was about your age,” he said, “I joined the army. I was stationed in El Paso.” When he said the words El Paso, it was like the ghost of every Mexican Christmas Past came dancing a hat dance from out his throat. A tumbleweed drifted across a desert highway. Somewhere, a whip cracked. “There was a movie theater there,” Sir said. “Me and all the boys would go.” He took a long swig of his beer. Swallowed. Looked down the alley. “We were Mexican. Had to sit in the balcony. Can you imagine? Had to sit up there in our US Army uniforms just because our skin was brown.”
     There was terrific silence in the heat of the alley. You could smell the asphalt roads turning back into tar.
     “That’s terrible, Sir, I’m sorry.”
     “You think we’ll ever have a Mexican president?” he asked. “In my lifetime?”
     “Dunno. I hope so. Maybe. Women ones too.” This was back when Obama was still president, before we knew Trump would be next.
     “Hm,” he said. “Just makes me mad we had a monkey before a Mexican.” He drained his beer in one final and dramatic chug, and he chucked the empty can at the asphalt and it tipped and tapped down the way a bit until it came to a rest, glinting in the September sun. “Thanks for the drink,” he told me. He pounded his chest with a fist. “I gotta mow some lawns.”
     He walked off and I drank the rest of my beer and kicked at weeds that grew through the cracked-open asphalt and thought to myself: Did Sir really call Obama a monkey? And in the context of that story? Like, in that theater in El Paso, where would Sir have had Obama sit?
 
 
Here is something that should shock you: in Indiana, there are Confederate flags everywhere. I mean, that’s an exaggeration, but there are more than in Texas. And that is not an exaggeration. These corn growers fly the bars and stars all over. Two blocks away, this old dude’s got a truck that has Heritage Not Hatred painted on his tailgate above a rendition of Old Dixie, and that shit just eats me up. Whose heritage, struggler?
     When I was growing up in Texas, I was always under the impression that the Confederate flag was something white Texans should be ashamed of. I mean, rednecks flew them, but rednecks would sneak into goat fields on moonlit nights to sex the doe goats. Call that losing your hick virginity. I always wondered what that smelled like. Out there in pasture. Your Wranglers tucked into your
Red Wings. Thrusting back and forth as the messy she-thing bleated in the dew-wet grass.
     These Hoosiers fly them bars and stars like they’re paying homage to their forefathers. Their forefathers were heroes. My forefathers were Twilight Zoners. They wanted black men to pick their cotton and black women to swallow their seed, and they wanted to repay that work and humiliation with more work and humiliation. Why would you take up a thing I’m ashamed of from my past and claim it as your own?
     I think it’s a trick. It’s like someone said, “So long as you fly this flag, the worst thing you’ll ever be is a sharecropper.” But I don’t buy it. You can’t get less slave. You can get less rich and you can get less poor, but you are a slave or you are not.
     Right now I’m staying at my uncle’s place. My last guardian, my dead father’s cousin, got tired of me stealing his beer, and that’s why I’m in Indiana, and that’s why I’ve seen snow. Hell, some’s falling right now. It drops like goose feathers and lands like white scabs on the skin of the world. The first few times I saw it, I got excited. Now it makes me depressed. The days have been gray for months. Schools across the country keep getting shot up by angry boys who can’t get their dicks wet, and the president’s always tweeting nonsense, and my uncle’s girlfriend, Peggy, drives me crazy. In the sex way.
     My uncle’s been gone a few weeks, and Peggy is in the living room singing along to Brandi Carlile. I’m seventeen. I’m from Texas. I’m a struggler. Peggy is like, “Wherever is your heart I call home,” and I’m like—my heart is in my chest and I’m in the next room yearning and last she talked to my uncle, he was off to binge-snort meth or drop low on Oxy. Off to hunch somewhere and wait for the firemen to hit him with Naloxone or maybe go out to chop down trees to cure his meth boredom. Meth heads will do it. Meth heads will do all kinds of weird meth shit. Hell, if we could just get honest, America could be the cleanest place on earth. You could have hordes of roving tweakers turning in sacks of litter they found on the highways for lines of meth. You could drop them in the ocean with snorkels to pick plastic off sea turtles’ snouts. Surfacing every so often to smile their rotten teeth and hand over garbage and get more crank.
     Peggy’s the type of woman who falls in love for pain. Women do it. I know that around the country right now women are trying to change things, and I get it. Hell, a time or two I should’ve kicked my uncle’s ass just on account of how he treated Peggy. But those times he was on meth. If he’d have been on painkillers, I might have thrown hands at him. But you can’t fight someone who’s on meth. They don’t feel a thing. If you’re on painkillers you can get your ass kicked. If you’re on meth you’re invincible.
     But women like Peggy aren’t always like the women on the internet. I’ve got 174 Twitter followers, which isn’t much but I don’t have unlimited data, and I read my feed and I see what the people I follow post. But girls still date boys who are mean to them. Maybe not the honors girls or athletes or cheerleaders. The regular girls. The ones who are just there. And I guess all of that is fine. Do what you want. But don’t be surprised when illogical shit leads to illogical shit.
     Peggy will say she wants to be treated good, but she gave her heart away to a druggie.
     I don’t want to tell you the name of the town I’m in, so we’ll call it Opioid, Indiana, and it’s near Indianapolis, and I suppose it’s home to me.
Shortlisted for the 2020 Indiana Authors Awards
Longlisted for the Aspen Words Literary Prize
An October 2019 Indie Next selection

Praise for Opioid, Indiana

Opioid, Indiana is narrated by an orphan, who from the outside could be called broken, yet his days are lit by sideways kindnesses and glimmery wonder. Full of gorgeous language and wild insights, by the end it seems possible that everything is going to be okay. I burned through his world with him.”
—Nick Flynn, author of Another Bullshit Night in Suck City

“Tragically funny, Opioid, Indiana is a dynamite explosion of a book, busting through our misconceptions about small towns to reveal the secret holiness in the life of a teenage boy. It’ll blow up your brain.”
—Juliet Escoria, author of Juliet the Maniac

“Brian Allen Carr’s Opioid, Indiana is a propulsive, haunting novel taking the reader through the week of a family on the fringes of collapse. Carr’s spare prose and ability to write about struggle in such a powerful way will surely mark him as an important writer to watch. I loved it!” 
—Brandon Hobson, National Book Award Finalist and author of Where the Dead Sit Talking

Opioid, Indiana shot straight through me and left pieces of itself in my heart and my gut. It’s like Catcher in the Rye but even better. A smart, funny, sweet-sad book with a totally irresistible narrator.”
—Mesha Maren, author of Sugar Run

“With refreshing, authentic teenage bluntness, orphaned narrator Riggle sees right through our contemporary American self-deceptions—while also unraveling the mysteries of his own wounded family. Unpretentious and genuine, this poignant coming-of-age novel doesn't shy away from the question: How will today's young people make sense of the broken world we've left them?” 
—Chandler Klang Smith, author of The Sky Is Yours 

“Electrifyingly good.”
New York Magazine

“Carr brings a wide range of ideas into the project, from the legacy of white supremacy to the desolation of rural drug addicts, but they are distilled neatly and convincingly into a near-perfect anthem of disaffected youth in a small frozen town . . . Opioid reminds me of a book I would have devoured in high school, read half a dozen times.”
—Minneapolis Star Tribune

“A hero in which teenage readers might just see themselves . . . Riggle also has no clear solutions or shortcuts, just imperfect effort. Most teenage boys should find something of themselves in a character who shows what it looks like on their own ground floor. I hope they can see a roadmap through their own struggles. Riggle is a hero for showing that perfection isn’t the requirement to goodness.”
—The Daily Beast

“Opioid, Indiana
 is lyrical in unexpected ways. Despite his slangy diction, Riggle's voice rings with innocence—as he openly questions the stupidity of racism; as he mulls over the recent school shooting in Florida and wonders about his teachers and classmates; as he gets a job washing dishes and explains in poetic detail the way the dishwater affects his psyche. Carr uses this misfit lyricism to create a distinctly American character: scrappy, sullied, but sincere in heart.”
—Shelf Awareness, Starred Review

“Carr has given us one of the most vital coming-of-age novels of the Trump era.”
—InsideHook

“Brian Allen Carr isn’t messing around. Opioid, Indiana drops you right in with seventeen-year-old Riggle and his dire situation: his parents are dead, his uncle is missing, and he needs rent money fast. His desperation leads him face-to-face with the opioid crisis. Sometimes gut-wrenching, sometimes heartwarming, Opioid, Indiana paints an empathetic portrait of a survivor.”
—CrimeReads

“Hilarious, heartbreaking . . . Carr’s style is delightfully straightforward, and he takes special pleasure in absurdity. The climax of the story is so strange, horrifying and darkly hilarious that you may have to put the book down because you’re laughing so hard.”
—BookPage

“The landscape of Middle America is grim but has glimmers of hope in this outstanding novel from Carr . . . Both gripping and timely.”  
—Publishers Weekly 

“Wonderfully crafted and artfully poignant in its reflection of our times.” 
—Kirkus Reviews 

The Catcher in the Rye for Generation Z . . . Riggle is easy to love, and his story is unforgettable and cathartic.”
—Booklist

“If you have not read Opioid, Indiana by Brian Allen Carr, you should, you really should. It's one of the best books I've read this year. Carr vividly details the lives of those in small-town Middle America, where drugs and neglect, both social and personal, are endemic. And yet this is a hopeful book in which 17-year-old Riggle goes out looking for his addicted uncle and the rent money, and finds purpose and possibly a future. The descriptions of Central Indiana weather are particularly spot on, and poetic. Don't walk, run, to your library and get this lyrical, heart-wrenching, life-affirming novel.”
—The Chicago Public Library

Opioid, Indiana picks you up by the collar. I had both laughed and cried by page 24. The plot is compelling, but there's so much more going on in this book about the nuances and complexities in people . . . the kind of truth that polarized news cycles just can't quite reach. Few writers can capture the balance of the light and dark of being human quite like Brian Allen Carr.”
—Tiffany Phillips, Wild Geese Bookshop (Franklin, Indiana)

“Misery, pain, suffering, and sky full of a myriad shades of grey. That’s what fills up Brian Allen Carr’s town of Opioid, IN. Seventeen-year-old Riggle wanders through a perfectly of the moment milieu—a burnout on a bicycle flying a Confederate flag hollers MAGA slogans at our all-too-decent young narrator —searching for his addict uncle who’s disappeared with the rent that’s due at the end of the week. Riggle spends just as much time remembering his deceased parents and the tough past that landed him in Indiana as he does looking for a better way to get by, and his hope, mixed with snippets of philosophy and fantasy, make a week spent in Opioid, Indiana unforgettable.”
—Chris Lee, Boswell Book Company (Milwaukee, WI)

Opioid, Indiana is the first novel of the 21st century that gives me hope for the future. It's Mr. Penumbra as a realist.”
—Pete Mock, McIntyre's Books (Pittsboro, NC)

About

"Full of gorgeous language and wild insights."—Nick Flynn

Set in the beleaguered heart of Indiana’s opioid crisis, Brian Allen Carr’s timely and tender novel about a teen struggling to find his place in the world—and come up with $800 rent—is at once a moving rumination on the hopeful power of story and a harrowing insight into modern America. It is a book you won’t soon forget.


Seventeen-year-old Riggle is living in rural Indiana with his uncle and uncle’s girlfriend after the death of his parents. Now his uncle is missing, probably on a drug binge. It’s Monday, and $800 in rent is due Friday. Riggle, who’s been suspended from school, has to either find his uncle or get the money together himself. His mission exposes him to a motley group of Opioid locals—encounters by turns perplexing, harrowing, and heartening.

With empathy and insight, Carr explores what it’s like to be a high school kid in the age of Trump—a time of economic inequality, addiction, Confederate flags, and mass shootings. Through the voice of its unforgettable protagonist—charismatic, confused, searching, by turns cynical and naïve, wise and impulsive—Opioid, Indiana pierces to the heart of our moment.

Author

Brian Allen Carr lives in Indiana. He is the author of the novel Sip, along with several novellas and story collections. He is the winner of a Wonderland Book Award and a Texas Observer Story Prize. His short fiction has appeared in Granta, Ninth Letter, Hobart, Boulevard and other publications.

Excerpt

I’m from Texas, but most of this story takes place in Indiana, where the winter weather sits like iced gray vomit on the cornfields. Every restaurant serves fried pork sandwiches. Half the men over thirty-five are so numb on opioids you could win a bar fight just by swinging a dead cat over your head and running in circles. Not that I can get into a bar. Shit, I’m seventeen.
     In Indiana kids my age vape with nothing in it but flavor. Might as well eat candy fog. I’m not the biggest fan of getting fucked up, but if I’m doing something, I’m doing it for real. None of the Mexicans I knew in Texas vaped and I never chilled with whites before moving to Indiana. They’re fine. I’m one of them. But I’m not gross. I don’t sit around eating food-stamp Frosted Flakes while ragging on black folks because they’re looking for handouts. I don’t scream “Build the Wall” every time I hear a language other than English.
     Whites aren’t supposed to talk race, and I didn’t realize that until I came here. Back home, almost everyone’s Mexican American or Mexican Mexican, so we’d talk about being white all the time, because my non-white friends were curious, and mostly back home when you talked about being white, you’d talk about how mean white people’s parents are. Mexican kids never get told to leave home. They can live in converted garages until they’re seventy-five years old and not a single soul would judge them.
     If you’re nineteen and white and not paying a grand a month for an apartment, you’re a piece of shit. Whites can’t keep long in their parents’ nests. Gobbling up their parents’ food. Watching cartoons on their parents’ cable.
     White folks also get bad sunburns, and that was the other thing my friends would ask about. I’d show up with pink cheeks on some Monday and they’d ask if I was wearing makeup.
     Maybe I didn’t belong in South Texas. It’s a place mean with heat, but Mexicans seemed at home there, standing on that thorny land with their backs to the sun. Singing hymns to Quetzalcoatl in nearly lost native languages. Hoping for rain. Healing off medicine made from plants. Rubbing eggs over babies’ bellies to cure them of fever.
     Indiana is mean with cold, but whites go wrong here too. They get too doughy. They get that Mountain Dew mouth. Like they brush their teeth with candy. Like the only time their hearts race is when they’re screaming at news channels. Popping pills to catch boners. Popping other pills to get their dicks back to soft. And when I saw these white boys in Indiana vaping nothing but flavor, it about made me sick. Might as well boil some water, huff the steam and then chew gum. Jesus, take control of your dick and be somebody.
     All that said—Texas is the greatest country on the planet and Indiana is the greatest state in the nation. Honestly, in some ways these Hoosiers are just Mexicans with white skin. They love cars and America and guns and the military, and that’s just like Mexicans. And both old whites and old Mexicans are racists too.
     Here’s a story: I had an across-the-street neighbor back in McAllen, Texas, who used to mow lawns. He  was ninety-four years old. I swear to God. He’d been in the military and he was as skinny as a suit on a coat hanger, and one day he came to my house and knocked on my door. I can’t remember his name but it might’ve been Emilio. We talked all the time, but I only called him “Sir.”
     He was at my door and it was like this: “Hey, Riggle.”
     That’s my name, and I was like, “Hey, Sir.”
     “Look,” he told me. He unbuttoned his shirt and widened his eyes. They were like gray fried eggs. A few different lifetimes swam in the color of them.
     “What’s that?”
     He had a bandage on his chest that he pulled back and it sort of flapped open like a hanging white tongue to reveal a stapled-shut stretch of Sir’s newly shaved chest. “Open heart surgery,” he said.
     “What the hell?”
     “Touch it,” he told me. It was like a dare. Like if I didn’t I could never be a man, and he gazed away into some distant and masculine abyss. I laid my hand on the bumpy scar. “Quadruple bypass,” he said, and my hand seemed to absorb some of the energy from his healing. “Do you have any beer?” He licked his lips and buttoned his shirt back. “The wife won’t let me buy any, ever, since the operation.”
     My hand was still sort of tingling as I processed the request. “Should you be drinking?”
     His mouth tightened. “Are you a doctor?”
     I sniffed my hand. “Nah.”
     “Then do you have any beer?”
     I always had beer. My guardian would buy cases of Lone Star and I’d pinch a few whenever, and hide them
at the back of the vegetable drawer because my guardian was a fat ass. “Meet me out back.”
     I lived backed up to an alley, and we stood out there on the asphalt in the heat of September sipping beers and he told me his tales as we both sweated in the sun.
     “When I was about your age,” he said, “I joined the army. I was stationed in El Paso.” When he said the words El Paso, it was like the ghost of every Mexican Christmas Past came dancing a hat dance from out his throat. A tumbleweed drifted across a desert highway. Somewhere, a whip cracked. “There was a movie theater there,” Sir said. “Me and all the boys would go.” He took a long swig of his beer. Swallowed. Looked down the alley. “We were Mexican. Had to sit in the balcony. Can you imagine? Had to sit up there in our US Army uniforms just because our skin was brown.”
     There was terrific silence in the heat of the alley. You could smell the asphalt roads turning back into tar.
     “That’s terrible, Sir, I’m sorry.”
     “You think we’ll ever have a Mexican president?” he asked. “In my lifetime?”
     “Dunno. I hope so. Maybe. Women ones too.” This was back when Obama was still president, before we knew Trump would be next.
     “Hm,” he said. “Just makes me mad we had a monkey before a Mexican.” He drained his beer in one final and dramatic chug, and he chucked the empty can at the asphalt and it tipped and tapped down the way a bit until it came to a rest, glinting in the September sun. “Thanks for the drink,” he told me. He pounded his chest with a fist. “I gotta mow some lawns.”
     He walked off and I drank the rest of my beer and kicked at weeds that grew through the cracked-open asphalt and thought to myself: Did Sir really call Obama a monkey? And in the context of that story? Like, in that theater in El Paso, where would Sir have had Obama sit?
 
 
Here is something that should shock you: in Indiana, there are Confederate flags everywhere. I mean, that’s an exaggeration, but there are more than in Texas. And that is not an exaggeration. These corn growers fly the bars and stars all over. Two blocks away, this old dude’s got a truck that has Heritage Not Hatred painted on his tailgate above a rendition of Old Dixie, and that shit just eats me up. Whose heritage, struggler?
     When I was growing up in Texas, I was always under the impression that the Confederate flag was something white Texans should be ashamed of. I mean, rednecks flew them, but rednecks would sneak into goat fields on moonlit nights to sex the doe goats. Call that losing your hick virginity. I always wondered what that smelled like. Out there in pasture. Your Wranglers tucked into your
Red Wings. Thrusting back and forth as the messy she-thing bleated in the dew-wet grass.
     These Hoosiers fly them bars and stars like they’re paying homage to their forefathers. Their forefathers were heroes. My forefathers were Twilight Zoners. They wanted black men to pick their cotton and black women to swallow their seed, and they wanted to repay that work and humiliation with more work and humiliation. Why would you take up a thing I’m ashamed of from my past and claim it as your own?
     I think it’s a trick. It’s like someone said, “So long as you fly this flag, the worst thing you’ll ever be is a sharecropper.” But I don’t buy it. You can’t get less slave. You can get less rich and you can get less poor, but you are a slave or you are not.
     Right now I’m staying at my uncle’s place. My last guardian, my dead father’s cousin, got tired of me stealing his beer, and that’s why I’m in Indiana, and that’s why I’ve seen snow. Hell, some’s falling right now. It drops like goose feathers and lands like white scabs on the skin of the world. The first few times I saw it, I got excited. Now it makes me depressed. The days have been gray for months. Schools across the country keep getting shot up by angry boys who can’t get their dicks wet, and the president’s always tweeting nonsense, and my uncle’s girlfriend, Peggy, drives me crazy. In the sex way.
     My uncle’s been gone a few weeks, and Peggy is in the living room singing along to Brandi Carlile. I’m seventeen. I’m from Texas. I’m a struggler. Peggy is like, “Wherever is your heart I call home,” and I’m like—my heart is in my chest and I’m in the next room yearning and last she talked to my uncle, he was off to binge-snort meth or drop low on Oxy. Off to hunch somewhere and wait for the firemen to hit him with Naloxone or maybe go out to chop down trees to cure his meth boredom. Meth heads will do it. Meth heads will do all kinds of weird meth shit. Hell, if we could just get honest, America could be the cleanest place on earth. You could have hordes of roving tweakers turning in sacks of litter they found on the highways for lines of meth. You could drop them in the ocean with snorkels to pick plastic off sea turtles’ snouts. Surfacing every so often to smile their rotten teeth and hand over garbage and get more crank.
     Peggy’s the type of woman who falls in love for pain. Women do it. I know that around the country right now women are trying to change things, and I get it. Hell, a time or two I should’ve kicked my uncle’s ass just on account of how he treated Peggy. But those times he was on meth. If he’d have been on painkillers, I might have thrown hands at him. But you can’t fight someone who’s on meth. They don’t feel a thing. If you’re on painkillers you can get your ass kicked. If you’re on meth you’re invincible.
     But women like Peggy aren’t always like the women on the internet. I’ve got 174 Twitter followers, which isn’t much but I don’t have unlimited data, and I read my feed and I see what the people I follow post. But girls still date boys who are mean to them. Maybe not the honors girls or athletes or cheerleaders. The regular girls. The ones who are just there. And I guess all of that is fine. Do what you want. But don’t be surprised when illogical shit leads to illogical shit.
     Peggy will say she wants to be treated good, but she gave her heart away to a druggie.
     I don’t want to tell you the name of the town I’m in, so we’ll call it Opioid, Indiana, and it’s near Indianapolis, and I suppose it’s home to me.

Praise

Shortlisted for the 2020 Indiana Authors Awards
Longlisted for the Aspen Words Literary Prize
An October 2019 Indie Next selection

Praise for Opioid, Indiana

Opioid, Indiana is narrated by an orphan, who from the outside could be called broken, yet his days are lit by sideways kindnesses and glimmery wonder. Full of gorgeous language and wild insights, by the end it seems possible that everything is going to be okay. I burned through his world with him.”
—Nick Flynn, author of Another Bullshit Night in Suck City

“Tragically funny, Opioid, Indiana is a dynamite explosion of a book, busting through our misconceptions about small towns to reveal the secret holiness in the life of a teenage boy. It’ll blow up your brain.”
—Juliet Escoria, author of Juliet the Maniac

“Brian Allen Carr’s Opioid, Indiana is a propulsive, haunting novel taking the reader through the week of a family on the fringes of collapse. Carr’s spare prose and ability to write about struggle in such a powerful way will surely mark him as an important writer to watch. I loved it!” 
—Brandon Hobson, National Book Award Finalist and author of Where the Dead Sit Talking

Opioid, Indiana shot straight through me and left pieces of itself in my heart and my gut. It’s like Catcher in the Rye but even better. A smart, funny, sweet-sad book with a totally irresistible narrator.”
—Mesha Maren, author of Sugar Run

“With refreshing, authentic teenage bluntness, orphaned narrator Riggle sees right through our contemporary American self-deceptions—while also unraveling the mysteries of his own wounded family. Unpretentious and genuine, this poignant coming-of-age novel doesn't shy away from the question: How will today's young people make sense of the broken world we've left them?” 
—Chandler Klang Smith, author of The Sky Is Yours 

“Electrifyingly good.”
New York Magazine

“Carr brings a wide range of ideas into the project, from the legacy of white supremacy to the desolation of rural drug addicts, but they are distilled neatly and convincingly into a near-perfect anthem of disaffected youth in a small frozen town . . . Opioid reminds me of a book I would have devoured in high school, read half a dozen times.”
—Minneapolis Star Tribune

“A hero in which teenage readers might just see themselves . . . Riggle also has no clear solutions or shortcuts, just imperfect effort. Most teenage boys should find something of themselves in a character who shows what it looks like on their own ground floor. I hope they can see a roadmap through their own struggles. Riggle is a hero for showing that perfection isn’t the requirement to goodness.”
—The Daily Beast

“Opioid, Indiana
 is lyrical in unexpected ways. Despite his slangy diction, Riggle's voice rings with innocence—as he openly questions the stupidity of racism; as he mulls over the recent school shooting in Florida and wonders about his teachers and classmates; as he gets a job washing dishes and explains in poetic detail the way the dishwater affects his psyche. Carr uses this misfit lyricism to create a distinctly American character: scrappy, sullied, but sincere in heart.”
—Shelf Awareness, Starred Review

“Carr has given us one of the most vital coming-of-age novels of the Trump era.”
—InsideHook

“Brian Allen Carr isn’t messing around. Opioid, Indiana drops you right in with seventeen-year-old Riggle and his dire situation: his parents are dead, his uncle is missing, and he needs rent money fast. His desperation leads him face-to-face with the opioid crisis. Sometimes gut-wrenching, sometimes heartwarming, Opioid, Indiana paints an empathetic portrait of a survivor.”
—CrimeReads

“Hilarious, heartbreaking . . . Carr’s style is delightfully straightforward, and he takes special pleasure in absurdity. The climax of the story is so strange, horrifying and darkly hilarious that you may have to put the book down because you’re laughing so hard.”
—BookPage

“The landscape of Middle America is grim but has glimmers of hope in this outstanding novel from Carr . . . Both gripping and timely.”  
—Publishers Weekly 

“Wonderfully crafted and artfully poignant in its reflection of our times.” 
—Kirkus Reviews 

The Catcher in the Rye for Generation Z . . . Riggle is easy to love, and his story is unforgettable and cathartic.”
—Booklist

“If you have not read Opioid, Indiana by Brian Allen Carr, you should, you really should. It's one of the best books I've read this year. Carr vividly details the lives of those in small-town Middle America, where drugs and neglect, both social and personal, are endemic. And yet this is a hopeful book in which 17-year-old Riggle goes out looking for his addicted uncle and the rent money, and finds purpose and possibly a future. The descriptions of Central Indiana weather are particularly spot on, and poetic. Don't walk, run, to your library and get this lyrical, heart-wrenching, life-affirming novel.”
—The Chicago Public Library

Opioid, Indiana picks you up by the collar. I had both laughed and cried by page 24. The plot is compelling, but there's so much more going on in this book about the nuances and complexities in people . . . the kind of truth that polarized news cycles just can't quite reach. Few writers can capture the balance of the light and dark of being human quite like Brian Allen Carr.”
—Tiffany Phillips, Wild Geese Bookshop (Franklin, Indiana)

“Misery, pain, suffering, and sky full of a myriad shades of grey. That’s what fills up Brian Allen Carr’s town of Opioid, IN. Seventeen-year-old Riggle wanders through a perfectly of the moment milieu—a burnout on a bicycle flying a Confederate flag hollers MAGA slogans at our all-too-decent young narrator —searching for his addict uncle who’s disappeared with the rent that’s due at the end of the week. Riggle spends just as much time remembering his deceased parents and the tough past that landed him in Indiana as he does looking for a better way to get by, and his hope, mixed with snippets of philosophy and fantasy, make a week spent in Opioid, Indiana unforgettable.”
—Chris Lee, Boswell Book Company (Milwaukee, WI)

Opioid, Indiana is the first novel of the 21st century that gives me hope for the future. It's Mr. Penumbra as a realist.”
—Pete Mock, McIntyre's Books (Pittsboro, NC)

Celebrate 100 years of James Baldwin

We’re celebrating the centennial of James Baldwin’s birth by sharing a collection of his work. Explore titles and learn more about the literary legend and civil rights champion.   James Baldwin (1924–1987) was a novelist, essayist, playwright, poet, and social critic. His first novel, Go Tell It on the Mountain, appeared in 1953 to excellent reviews, and his

Read more

The New York Times’s 100 Best Books of the 21st Century

The New York Times recently published their list “100 Best Books of the 21st Century.” We are pleased to announce that there are 49 titles published from Penguin Random House and its distribution clients included in this list. Browse our collection of Penguin Random House titles here. Browse the full list from The New York

Read more

2024 Middle and High School Collections

The Penguin Random House Education Middle School and High School Digital Collections feature outstanding fiction and nonfiction from the children’s, adult, DK, and Grupo Editorial divisions, as well as publishers distributed by Penguin Random House. Peruse online or download these valuable resources to discover great books in specific topic areas such as: English Language Arts,

Read more

PRH Education High School Collections

All reading communities should contain protected time for the sake of reading. Independent reading practices emphasize the process of making meaning through reading, not an end product. The school culture (teachers, administration, etc.) should affirm this daily practice time as inherently important instructional time for all readers. (NCTE, 2019)   The Penguin Random House High

Read more

PRH Education Translanguaging Collections

Translanguaging is a communicative practice of bilinguals and multilinguals, that is, it is a practice whereby bilinguals and multilinguals use their entire linguistic repertoire to communicate and make meaning (García, 2009; García, Ibarra Johnson, & Seltzer, 2017)   It is through that lens that we have partnered with teacher educators and bilingual education experts, Drs.

Read more

PRH Education Classroom Libraries

“Books are a students’ passport to entering and actively participating in a global society with the empathy, compassion, and knowledge it takes to become the problem solvers the world needs.” –Laura Robb   Research shows that reading and literacy directly impacts students’ academic success and personal growth. To help promote the importance of daily independent

Read more

New Thematic Educator Guides: Teaching About Student Wellness

The COVID-19 global pandemic heightened issues around mental health as adolescents found themselves anxious and isolated from their peers and other systems of support. Educators today are increasingly aware that their impact extends beyond the classroom, and they know that teaching with a whole-child approach is critical if they want their students to succeed both

Read more