He wouldn’t call it “manifest destiny,” but Michael Boss said his name destined him for a position of power. He was born to be a leader.

Leaders, he said, author rules.

We would not refer to him as “Mr. Boss” but call him just “Boss.” With only one syllable, we would communicate name and title. His directives were efficient.

And our logo’s colors would be, without exception, white and alizarin crimson. Our logo would an eagle gripping the sun, and the image’s outlines were alizarin crimson.

Boss had approved a team for the Cancer Walk. He had budgeted a donation, as well as dollars to purchase t-shirts, not only for the five walkers but for all of us. We would wear them the Friday before. We would fight cancer and build morale.

I was in charge of ordering the shirts.

Alizarin crimson and electric crimson are very similar. I used electric crimson in my design, which included the sun but not the eagle sitting between “TEAM” and “SUN.” I ordered 50 baby blue shirts. Boss didn’t see the order beforehand and, therefore, could not approve them.

They arrived Tuesday.

“We have rules, Mr. Hensley,” he told me after calling me to his office.

“Yes, Boss,” I said.

“You might not always understand rules, but before we understand rules, we must follow rules,” he explained. “Societies are built on this notion.”

“I’m sorry, Boss, but I hope we still can use the shirts,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to waste money.”

“Absolutely not,” Boss said. He was stern, and his anger was collared. “No one at this company will wear those shirts. That logo is not the approved logo.”

Boss’ eyes could distinguish shades of red.

“And that is not alizarin,” he said. “Obviously, the shirt is blue, and it’s direct insubordination, I would say, to choose that gross color instead of simply picking white. But don’t think I didn’t notice the red. That’s electric crimson, and it’s completely unacceptable.”

I said nothing.

“Send these shirts to a third-world country … somewhere they need clothes,” Boss said. “They shouldn’t be a total waste. But I do not – Do not! – want to see anyone here wearing these shirts.”

The walkers, he said, would wear our standard shirts, which carried small, simple, approved logos on the chest.

I left his office and carried the box of shirts to my car.

Larry had been the first to see the shirts. “I love them!” he had exclaimed.

I told Larry the shirts were rejected.

“What total crap!” he said. “I want one of them before you ship them toZambia.”

Later, in the parking lot, I gave Larry a large t-shirt. On Wednesday, he wore it.

“Was I not clear?” Boss asked after calling me to his office. “Was I not clear that no one here would wear them?”

“I thought he just wanted it as a souvenir,” I explained.

“A souvenir? What? A souvenir of defiance?”

I paused, not knowing how to respond.

“I’m suspending Larry, and unless you want me to do the same to you, get rid of those shirts,” Boss said. “We have rules for a reason, Mr. Hensley, and when we break rules, we face consequences. You need to worry about following the rules and spend less time wondering about them.”

Later that day, I gave Karen five of the shirts. She then distributed them to others who had heard of the shirts and wanted their own. Karen had asked nicely.

On Thursday, I was in Boss’ office.

“Five more suspensions, and they’re all on you,” Boss said. “I guess you have a hard time with authority, so I’m going to have to suspend you, too.”

He stared harshly, but I said nothing.

“And before you go, you need to bring me the rest of the shirts,” he said. “I’ll get rid of them myself.”

But when I went to my car, I just drove away with the remaining shirts in the box on the backseat.

At 4:30 a.m. on Friday, I returned and began stuffing the personal mailboxes with shirts. I kept a few in the car.

I wore one Saturday, the day of the Cancer Walk. I wasn’t a member of Team Sun, but I hurried to our walkers and flung the leftover shirts at them.

“Wear these and be proud!” I shouted. “The day of electric crimson is upon us!”

“Hensley!” Boss was watching from a sidewalk as walkers from all over gathered. “Come here! Give me those shirts before people see them!”

I ran. I had painted my face and legs in electric crimson. My gym shorts were baby blue. My feet were bare.

I glanced back toward our team and saw they were putting on the shirts. One walker was in a tug-of-war with Boss, whose violent grip ripped at a shirt.

He would not catch me. I ran two miles before cutting down a side street. Those I passed would see my shirt, my colors. They would see this rebellion but would never know the rules I broke with my marathon. They would see this electric crimson and perceive nothing but red. And Boss could not stop it.