“I’m not supposed to be here”: a tale of recycling woes and plastic pollution
I don’t know my exact ‘birthday.’ If you wanted to take a long view, you might consider the microorganisms from millions of years ago who ultimately formed oil, which was used in my creation. My first memory, however, was zooming along the production line, spiraling around machinery in a massive metal jungle gym with thousands of my peers. It was a bright start.
I’m part of the new generation, engineered to use less plastic. You can tell by my slender shape and the crunchy feel when you squeeze too tight.
From my home factory, I journeyed to a new facility where I learned my purpose in this life: to deliver water to some thirsty soul. I now realize how naive I was, but at that moment, I felt I had a profound job to do. So much so, that I pitied the plastic wrap that bound me with others because I knew its role was short-lived and insignificant by comparison.
Sure enough, several truck trips later, my crew awaited our new owner in the gleaming grocery aisle, and it was only a matter of days until Daisy — as I call her, for I never knew her name — pulled us from the bottom shelf and slid us into her cart. We hadn’t even left the parking lot before she’d torn through the poor plastic wrap to pluck out a fellow bottle.
Then came the most blissful, but far too short, period of my life: the refrigerator. I felt special when I joined the armful of bottles selected to leave the car crew and carefully arranged on a clear air-conditioned shelf. I didn’t even mind the smell of spoiled milk and rotten vegetables, which seemed to be replaced often but never consumed.
One morning, Daisy was running late; we could tell by how many times she frantically flung open the fridge door only to forget what she was looking for and slam it shut again. Some of the other bottles felt anxious, but I knew this was my moment. She needs me. A cool sip of water will do her good. When she summoned me from the refrigerator on her fourth visit, I was so full of pride — I cringe when I think back on it.
Rushing to her SUV, Daisy wasted no time jettisoning her other items to the passenger seat, swiftly positioning me in the cupholder, and screeching out of her parking spot. She directed the car into a throng of traffic and then chugged my water like she was on a game show. I hardly had enough in me to last her commute. I felt completely depleted and simultaneously fulfilled by the time she stopped the car and dashed to her office. Only later, as the car heated up beyond belief — how spoiled I’d become in that fridge — I began to wonder why Daisy hadn’t taken me inside to be recycled so that I could begin my new life as a carpet or chair.
For days after, I rolled around in the floorboard of the passenger seat, having been replaced by water bottle after water bottle, each of us as expendable as the rest. When our barren bodies got to be too much for Daisy, she gathered us up and dumped us into a sidewalk trashcan.
I was outraged. We weren’t meant for your everyday trash receptacle, going the way of spoiled produce. We can’t decompose into something new; we must be recycled to live on. I wanted to blame Daisy for her carelessness, but with time, it dawned on me that the trash bin was alone on the street, leaving Daisy little choice.
Then an angel came. A scruffy, slightly smelly sexagenarian, but an angel nonetheless. With his wobbly grocery cart that seemed to have at least one dysfunctional wheel, he fished through the garbage for plastic bottles. I was so relieved when his weathered hands wrapped around me that I forgot to feel bad for the plastic bags and cups that didn’t satisfy the requirements for his treasure hunt. The angel took us on a tour of a few other trash bins, making enough stops to fill his cart to the brim. We ended up behind a grocery mart, where the angel carefully counted and offloaded us under the watchful eye of an employee. In a flash of cash, he was gone.
No longer in limbo, I felt cautiously optimistic I was back on the right path. I eventually made my way to the recycling plant. It did not live up to my imaginations. Unlike the pristine cleanliness and efficiency of my home factory, the plant was dark and dingy and seemed to operate in slow, subdued chaos. By the time I finally got sorted onto the conveyor belt, the whole system had shut down twice after flimsy plastic bags and coffee lids had flown into the gears, stalling out the machines.
I was organized into a collection of my closest peers and loaded into a shipping container. After what felt like an eternity, we arrived in China, only to learn that our collection did not meet their new recycling requirements. I silently cursed the sorting facility. Some time later, my fellow bottles and I found ourselves disembarking in Malaysia. Our collection was divided into trucks, and the vehicular swarm set off on bouncy roads. I was filled with foreboding as we passed burning trash heaps, trying to ignore the stench of my evaporated plastic cousins.
Our caravan bumbled over a bridge, and at the exact inopportune time, a gust of wind lifted me from my comrades and deposited me in the stream below. I sometimes wonder where I’d be if not for that unlikely event.
To call it a stream is being generous. I suppose it was at one point, but by the time I reached it, the waterway had been so completely clogged with waste, a person could probably walk right across without fear of getting wet. This was my graveyard for many moons, and I was so lost in despair and tedium, that I’m not sure how much time passed before I reached the ocean.
And here I stay. I prefer it to the stream, although the difference in water quality is moot. At least tides and currents keep things interesting. For a while, I was washed up on a nice beach; it was fun to watch people frolic about. I did lose my cap to a seabird, though, and I can only hope the bird had better use for it than food because I can’t imagine it would sit well.
A storm eventually pulled me back to the waters, and without my cap, I sunk to the bottom. I feel rather degraded these days, even though I know it’ll be many, many years before I completely disintegrate. But I’m not entirely without hope. Word is there are some plastic collection efforts, so who knows, I may get to be a bracelet or something after all. Time will tell.
