A Bag In The Hand Is Worth Two in The Store

I had just finished my weekend food shopping when I had a sudden urge for an ice-cold beer. After loading a dozen bags of groceries into my car I drove over to 30th Avenue, found a parking spot, and stepped into the Shillelagh Tavern. I noticed my old friend, Vernon Jackson, seated at the far end of the bar, perched beneath a television that was broadcasting the races from Aqueduct, a pile of crumpled bills and a Daily Racing Form spread before him. I sidled up and took the stool beside him. The bar was crowded but Fran, the bartender, quickly noticed me, nodded and poured me a beer.

"Take that from here," said Vernon to Fran as he tapped the bills in front of him.

"Thank you, Vernon," I said. "What is the source of this sudden generosity? Having a good day with the horses?"

"Nah," Vernon shrugged. "But I'm on the cusp of a sure money-maker." He reached beneath his stool and hoisted a plastic bag full of pennies. I took the bait. "What's this about?" I ventured.

"You'll soon see," he replied. I sipped my beer and moments later two young boys with armfuls of supermarket plastic bags entered the bar. Vernon motioned the boys to the back room.

"I'll be right back," he told me. "I've got some business to transact." He stood, took a gulp of his beer, and with the two boys and his bag of pennies retreated to the back room. A few minutes later the boys gleefully reappeared, stuffing their pockets with pennies as they raced out the front door. My curiosity piqued, I stepped into the back room and observed Vernon neatly packing the plastic bags into cardboard boxes. There must have been 30 packed boxes lining the rear wall, with dozens of empty boxes scattered all over. The floor and pool table were covered with all kinds of plastic shopping bags—Pathmark, Stop-and-Shop, Trade Fair, C-Town, Associated, and on and on. I stood there speechless.

"Look at this," Vernon muttered with some disgust. "This bag here has a hole in it." He tossed it aside and went on to inspect another one. "This one's okay," he said as he added it to a box.

Finally I found my voice. "Are you crazy?!" I said.

"Nothing crazy about it," he replied. "Don't you pay attention to current events? The mayor now wants to put a five-cent tax on plastic bags, with an additional penny to go to the store. That's six cents per bag, and you know very well that most groceries have to be double-bagged— though I doubt our billionaire mayor realizes that. Heck, when was the last time he stood on a supermarket line?"

"But Vernon…" Before I could finish my thought, two little girls, arms laden with bags, entered the room. "Stack them on the pool table," said Vernon. The girls waited anxiously as Vernon carefully inspected each bag, returning any that were torn or dirty or had holes in them. Vernon paid them a penny a bag. "Tell your friends," he told him. "I'll be here all day—and tomorrow, too."

Vernon turned toward me with a determined smile. "I'm going to corner the market on plastic bags. Promise me you'll keep this a secret. I don't want any competition."

"But Vernon, there's no guarantee that the mayor's idea will be enacted into law. It's just an idea."

"Are you kidding?" responded Vernon. "This tax on bags is all the rage in Europe. Only a matter of time before it's done here. And when it is, I'll be ready."

I returned to the bar and finished my beer. Fran, the bartender, poured me another. "You gotta give Vernon some credit," she said. "He's got that entrepreneurial spirit, the stuff that makes capitalism so successful."

I sipped the fresh beer. "Have you been following Wall Street lately?" I asked.

Vernon returned to the bar. "Yes, sir. I'll be into the money before long. I'm going to rent vans and set them up outside the supermarkets. I'll charge three cents a bag. That's a 200 percent markup for me, and half what the shoppers have to pay in the store. It can't miss. The city says it can raise $16 million with this tax. Heck, I'll be happy with half that."

"You forgot one thing," I said. "Suppose the mayor decides to tax your sale of bags? The power to tax is the power to destroy."

Vernon pondered this for a moment, but was interrupted when a group of kids with bags entered and lined up beside us. "Back room," he told them. As he stood up to follow them he turned to me with a worried look. "I hope I have enough pennies left," he said.

I finished my beer and bade the bartender goodbye. When I arrived home I opened the car trunk to fetch my groceries. There they were, all double-bagged. "Maybe Vernon isn't so crazy after all," I thought.

John J. Cox is a resident of Woodside who occasionally recounts the timely adventures of himself and his friend, Vernon Jackson, in this newspaper.