You Know You Are Getting Old...

From the “You Know You Are Getting Old” file: I ran across a news story this morning that warned of a potential future calamity should things remain status quo. A year of reckoning was included in the article: 2040. Without asking why, I calculated my age at that fateful moment in time. And if all goes well, I thought—I might very well be deceased when the chickens come home to roost. After all, I would have arrived then at the average life expectancy for an American male. Of course, I could drop dead tomorrow or live until 2060—neither of which appeal to me.

This particular story concerned plastic and how by 2040 there could be triple the amount of it in our oceans. The piece was accompanied by a rather startling image of a completely plastic-littered shore with a wild boar or some such animal rummaging through the mess. Earlier this year—before the world turned upside down—a single-use plastic ban went into effect in New York State. It’s still on the books, but not enforced as far as I can see, which is understandable considering the more pressing messes.

That said: I cannot help but notice the litter baskets around town, which are overflowing onto the sidewalks. And ditto the litter in the parks and in the streets. Among the teeming refuse is lots and lots of plastic, particularly take-out containers, cups, and utensils. With the COVID-19 city budget clearly scaled back, including sanitation services, the plastic conundrum endures more potent than ever. The restaurants that have opened for outdoor dining are serving everything on disposable plastic plates with disposable plastic forks, spoons, and knives. Considering the seriousness of the moment, I certainly understand why, but it’s not a Marshmallow World that we live in—it’s a plastic one.

Supporting my local eateries and delivery people, I regularly order food via GrubHub. All the plastic used for the simplest of orders never ceases to amaze me. I take some solace in that I can and do recycle the stuff, but the more I learn about what actually gets recycled—when push comes to shove—the more I worry about the 2040 scenario and beyond.

I recall fondly the days of patronizing my favorite local diner for a hamburger, French fries, and cup-of-soup takeout with no plastic used at all. What could be wrapped in paper was wrapped in paper. Liquids were poured into cardboard cups. Everything was then placed in a brown paper bag. I remember, too, purchasing a sixteen-ounce Nedick’s brand orange soda from Pat Mitchell’s little grocery store in Kingsbridge. It was in a glass bottle—not a single item, in fact, in the place’s freezers was in plastic. Yes, I know, there are environmental and manufacturing issues with glass and paper, too.

Looking on the bright side of plastic: Several years ago while riding as a passenger with an all-too aggressive driver-friend of mine, a road rage incident occurred. My chauffeur refused to let a car into a merging entrance lane of the Major Deegan Expressway, I-87. Shortly thereafter on said expressway, a vehicle pulled up alongside us, slowed down, and opened its passenger-side window. Out came a very angry head with an empty plastic soda bottle in hand, and then a second one, which he ferociously tossed onto our windshield. Fortunately, even ferociously tossed empty plastic soda bottles land with a whimper and not a bang, especially on windy highways and byways. And that, apparently, was all the ammo available to them as they sped away. Nevertheless, it caused an uncomfortable swerve and bona fide scare as well. And we were left to wonder and worry if the bottle throwers might be lying-in-wait rearmed up ahead. 

Now, there’s no telling what empty glass bottles in lieu of plastic ones might have initiated in the above retelling. From the looks on the perpetrators’ faces—who were angrily cussing out my friend—they would have tossed, if they had one on hand, a fully loaded safe at us. In any event, I lived to tell the tale of two plastic bottles, but for how much longer no one knows.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)