One Bossy Offer (75)

Pinnacle Pointe: The Peak of The Opioid Crisis





At first glance, Pinnacle Pointe seems like another idyllic small town nestled on an island along the Olympic Peninsula. Tourists usually stick to the main strip or The Bee Harbor Inn, a long-time favorite until its recent closure.

Just past miles of sandy beachfront with picturesque shorelines, you’ll find the town’s general store, an Irish pub, and a diner that’s only open through lunch.

That’s it. That’s Pinnacle Pointe, a place that looks too honest for secrets.

Or is it?

Two blocks up Blakely Street, a different story begins to unfold.



An image fills the screen. It’s a residential neighborhood.

I recognize a few of the houses, most of them are in various stages of disrepair. Some of them look like they might blow over with a strong enough wind. The caption reads, 'The Real Pinnacle Pointe.'



There’s an old neighborhood in need of repair. Then there’s two more up the street. The same grim chapter of old-world Washington in decline that’s played out a hundred times, except here, it’s the entire story.



Another busted-up neighborhood fills the screen. I scroll past pictures of homes with worn, dislodged siding and greenish algae on the roofs.



Until 2001, Pinnacle Pointe’s poverty rate was steady. Then the fishing industry went into a downward spiral, faced with fierce competition from larger corporate mergers and foreign suppliers.

With job loss came peril, and soon, destitution.

Now with only a handful of local businesses left, job opportunities are scarcer than ever.

Anyone who can, plans their escape. The town’s negative population growth just keeps diving as young people exit for better opportunities.



Another image pops up. A tiny brunette woman with lines carved by stress on her cheeks, holding a microphone in front of a waitress I think I recognize from Murphy’s.



Jessica King says, “I can’t wait to leave this town! The pub is the only work in town, and so many customers don’t even tip. Try living on minimum wage with guys getting grabby. And sometimes, when the tips do come in from the summer crowd, you’ll see another customer trying to swipe the cash from the table. It’s awful.”

Jessica’s desire to leave for greener pastures is clear, so I ask what keeps her here.

An elderly mother with bills piling up.

A grandmother at the only retirement home in town.

An uncle who hasn’t managed to stay sober, but who never stops trying.

With ample obligations and little money, Jessica reckons it will be a while before she has enough to leave this city.

Like so many others mired in the town’s economic abyss, she’s effectively trapped. Time and hope are both running thin.

I roll my eyes. These situations are hardly unique to Pinnacle Pointe, sad as they may be, so why write about it?

And what’s it got to do with drugs?

I keep reading.



If Jessica’s despair seems shocking, it isn’t the absolute bottom.

One candid townsperson went on record anonymously.

“There’s money to be made in the Pointe, right or wrong,” he said. “You just gotta know where to find it. I’ve had my own business since eighth grade. Used to be a lumber factory in town. Then my old man got sick and got laid off. We couldn’t afford his medicine. I had to help the family out.”



This sounds like a good kid. He’ll set things straight, right?



“I started off selling uppers on the docks as a side thing. It was enough to buy us food for a week. Soon, it was adding up to three thousand bucks a month. The summer crowd went nuts for the pills, especially the college kids. But everyone wanted them, and I only had like sixty pills a month with my own prescription and the ones I could pull from my friends.”

At this point, the young man pauses and grins.

“I started making runs to Portland and hooked up with suppliers. But some dude in a leather jacket showed up a few months later at the drop site. He told me they were watching to make sure they got their cut, and if I started stiffing them, I’d be 'done.' Don’t think he just meant cut off. So I freaked. I got paranoid. I tracked every pill I sold religiously, and paid them extra just so we were good.”

The young man hesitates. His eyes flick over his shoulder. It doesn’t matter that we’re in a closed office, he’s that nervous about who could be listening.

“My Portland guy wanted to recruit me for more. He promoted me.”

Our anonymous source now sells prescription painkillers and other illicit goods all over town at meeting sites we agreed not to highlight.

“Tourists always pay the most,” he says. “Everybody wants to have a good time away from home—but the people who buy at church are steady customers in the slow season. Plus, they can’t rat you out without going down with you.”

The young man gives us a calculated smile.



God.

My heart thrums in my chest, shell-shocked that anything like this was going on there. And apparently for years?

It just keeps getting better as I read on.

The next section rattles off five “robberies” that happened in Pinnacle Pointe over the summer. But from the descriptions, they seem more like trumped-up petty thefts.