At the A&P’s exit door, an elderly woman’s plastic bag full of groceries tore down the middle.  A carton of eggs, tin cans, apples and oranges spilled across the floor.  Some of the items rolled outside.  Incoming children raced to retrieve them.
        “Clean up out front,” the bag boy yelled.
        At the checkout counter, another bag ripped as the clerk started to fill it.  “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do with these things,” she exclaimed.  “They didn’t work the first time they tried them.  Biodegradable?!  They degrade before we can even use them.”
  
The woman in line with her green hemp-cloth bags smiled smugly and held them up for all to see.  “It’s about saving trees.”
        The man behind her said, “I can remember way back when they cut hemp out of the ditches and called it marijuana.”
        “Tell me, sir,” the green bag lady said.  “Is that your pick-up out there with the two big dogs in the back?”
        “No,” he replied.  “Fine looking fellows, aren’t they?  But, do you know what all those folks at the east end of the parking lot are waiting for?”
        Before she could answer—the last woman in line, glancing at her watch, asked, “Is it that late?”
        “Pardon?” the man asked.
        “The box truck is coming,” she said.
        “I suspected as much,” he said.  “But isn’t even Homeland Security cracking down on that?  I mean the black market?”
  
Word passed down the line.  Customers hurried through the check-out lanes, put their bags of groceries into their carts and rushed out to the parking lot.
        “Whew!” the bag boy said.  “I need a break.”
        The manager waved him outside.  There, he leaned against the building and smoked his cigarette.
        “That’s a disgusting habit,” an elderly woman said.  She stepped on his discarded butt.  “You’ll set something on fire someday.”
        The bag boy lit another.
  
They watched as a dilapidated, unmarked, straight-back delivery truck pulled into the parking lot and drove across to the east end.  The crowd surged to meet it.
        “Oh my,” said the elderly lady.  “Please.  My car’s out there.”
        “Okay.  Okay,” said the bag boy.
  
Two men jumped out of the delivery truck. They dropped the back gate.  With some pushing and shoving, the crowd roughly formed a line while digging bills out of their pockets, purses and wallets.
        “There’s a two-box limit today,” the first trucker said.
        “Only two?” the crowd asked in unison.     
    
    

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        “It’s getting harder and harder to get them these days,” he explained.
         “The whole west coast is on fire,” someone in the crowd yelled out.
        “And the price is going up,” the second trucker added.
        The crowd groaned.
  
Each customer grabbed his or her allotted cardboard boxes.  They shoved money into the truckers’ hands and rushed to transfer the plastic bags into the boxes, then into their cars and pickup trucks.
        The bag boy unloaded the elderly woman’s cart and helped her into her car.
  
Wailing sirens, flashing lights, squealing tires—the local black-and-whites careened into the parking lot from both entrances.
        “Just stop right there!” a police officer with a bullhorn ordered.
        “Gather them all up,” the captain told his crew.
        Bags ripped as the boxes were unloaded.  Soon the parking lot was filled with wayward cans, broken bags of flour and sugar, even a puddle of spilled milk.
  
One large woman with a cane fell.  As the policemen helped her up, two young men grabbed her boxes and threw them into the back of their battered pickup truck.  They jumped into the cab.
        “Get them!” the captain yelled. “Now!”
        When the police pulled the young men from the pickup’s cab, the two dogs in the back launched onto the officers.
        The bag boy lit another cigarette.
  
From the center of the crowd, a ragged youngster ran—clutching a woman’s purse.
        “Stop thief!” she cried.
        One policeman stopped, looked askance.
        “Leave him.  Leave him,” the captain ordered.  “Purse snatching is a misdemeanor.  Trafficking in cardboard boxes is a felony.”
        A high-pitched whine preceded the throb of the blades as a news chopper swept the scene.  The crowd cheered when the downdraft blew bags and boxes everywhere.
        “Get them,” the captain yelled. “Now!”
        “There goes the evidence,” the bag boy said, as the backwash sucked the cigarette from his hand. 
    
    
                       About the Author
     
        “On Going Green” grew from a dream Eleanor’s son, Matt, had one night.  He insisted it would make a story—until she made notes.
        Eleanor Michael’s stories and/or poems have appeared in various small magazines; those still in print include Calliope, where she has earned several fiction contest awards, Lucidity, and Smile.