James B. Nicola

James B. Nicola  is the author of eight collections of poetry, the latest being Fires of Heaven, Turns & Twists, and Natural Tendencies. His book Playing the Audience won a Choice magazine award. He has received a Dana Literary Award, two Willow Review awards, and eleven Pushcart nominations.

My Old Neighborhood

As a kid, I had a paper route and delivered The Evening News for years and years. My route was too big to carry all the papers on my bike so I went on foot and, in seasons when I didn’t have to worry too much about black ice or puddles or mud, I usually managed to read the paper cover to cover, too. So I tended to know more than just the daily batting and pitching stats of roughly the entire Red Sox roster. For the most part, I was also pretty aware of what was happening in the world, what had been happening, and what was coming. News.

The Armstrongs, 66 Rolling Ridge Road, were my first customers to get “vinyl siding” for their house. I knew what that was. Not only were there ads for it all over the Sunday “Homes” section, but there had been an article about it in a Friday “Living” section. 

One day, when the workers had just posted their company’s sign in the front yard (but before they started work), I asked Mrs. Armstrong, “Won’t it get hot in the summer when you live in a plastic house?” ―It’s not plastic, it’s vinyl. ―Isn’t vinyl plastic? ―But it looks like wood. ―But it is plastic. ―But this way we won’t have to paint. ―But won’t it get hot? ―Why would it get hot? ―Because unlike wood, plastic does not breathe.

An older brother of mine happened to work in a factory in nearby Leominster, “Plastics Capital of the World.” He was actually on the assembly line that put the yellow on yellow raincoats, and pointed out to me once that plastic made great raincoats precisely because it was not porous. Which meant it did not breathe. Not a bit. On the plus side, it meant I could deliver my newspapers rain or shine or hail or sleet or snow without getting totally soaked to the skin. 

That summer, the Armstrongs’ air conditioner was on whenever I delivered The Evening News.

That fall, Mr. Armstrong told me that the amount their electricity bills went up during the summer months totaled way more than what it would have cost to get their house painted every year, no less every three or five years, so they didn’t save money after all. And the plastic was already beginning to show the dirt. Like the plastic of our favorite iced-tea pitcher, vinyl held on to stains forever. 

I shared with him another interesting thought. Having your house painted, when you were too busy to do it yourself, employed an otherwise out-of-work professional, or started a teen or two from the neighborhood on a trade they could bank on. “After which your house used to look real nice, didn’t it?” Mr. Armstrong seemed to agree, because he said “You’re a smart kid, James.” But for a second I thought he might have actually said “smart-ass”—except that he then sighed, “but done is done.”

Nevertheless, plastic housing, marketed as vinyl siding, caught on. By my last year of delivering The Evening News, I noticed that everyone on my route lived in a plastic house and kept their doors and windows sealed tight while air conditioners blasted—cha-ching cha-ching—all through the summer months, day and night.

On collection days, if a customer asked me to step inside their front door while they went to get their wallet or bowl of change, I started to notice that many of their house plants were plastic, too. When I remarked on this, they told me they thought it was too much trouble to water and prune and repot.

More and more, I noticed the grass and bushes and trees were plastic as well. “If AstroTurf® is good enough for sports stadiums, why not our lawns?” one customer quipped. Others said they loved “no-maintenance topiary.” Evergreens like pine and spruce were next to be converted, followed by birch and maples. Giant oaks were last: until finally all plants, indoors and out, were plastic.

And then the pets. ―No need to walk ’em three times a day. ―No poop to pick up. ―No litter box to clean every week. ―No having to book a kennel or hire a sitter when we go on vacation.

Last time I went back to my old neighborhood, I noticed that no one breathed. I looked closer and saw only plastic people anymore. 

And no smart-ass kid delivers the news.