I’ve been coming to Portland since the late seventies, and there are days when everyone I encounter on the street there seems either drug-dependent or mentally ill. Since the mid-nineties, all my visits have been work-related. I go at least once a year and stay downtown, within walking distance of the theatre I perform in. The city always had more than its share of panhandlers, strident ones who’d yell, “You could at least say hello, asshole!,” as you passed them by, but the place took a definite turn for the worse in 2020, when voters approved a measure to decriminalize the possession of illicit drugs, at least in small amounts. After that, you saw people dealing openly on the street. You saw addicts shooting up outside restaurants and grocery stores and came upon them bent over in what’s commonly called “the fentanyl fold,” seemingly unconscious yet somehow still on their feet. How is it that they don’t topple over? I’ve always wondered.journey-inline-newsletterinline-newsletter