was the code Mitch would bark over the grocery store’s intercom, which meant any employee who was able to could drop what they were doing and run out the front entrance to chase down a shoplifter, and every time this happened you’d see a cross section of the store’s worst running through the parking lot like Brown (stained) Apron from the deli department, who once had porn playing in the background at a party he hosted, and Red Aprons 1 and 2 from the meat department, with their knee-length white coats underneath stained with old blood, who both drove primer-colored 5.0 Mustangs and boasted about running Honda Civics off the road, and White (crumpled) Button-up from bookkeeping, who everyone knew was living in his car after he got caught cheating on his pregnant wife, and Blue Apron from the frozen food/dairy section, with his perennially bloodshot eyes and said apron flapping behind him like a last-string superhero, and none of them thinking how any car in the parking lot could just pull out of its spot and cream them or how Brown Apron puked from just ten seconds of running or how no one knew what this shoplifter looked like—they just all laughingly and foamingly followed our tall, skinny manager Mitch, who always parked that polished 1991 Mitsubishi Eclipse across three parking spots and would always snort before saying he had a better version of whatever you had and was the first person I ever heard use the N word casually but always justified it by saying that that word meant anyone who was a piece of trash, who let this gang breathlessly tackle this shoplifter to the pavement at the back of the parking lot, who let them take turns yanking this shoplifter back towards the office like a sweaty trophy, who let them believe they did something right.