It’s Thanksgiving evening, roughly 7:30 p.m. “Are you sure you don’t want to bail?” my mother-in-law asks, with barely concealed concern, as we approach the exit for the Secaucus, New Jersey Walmart. I promise I’ll text updates and swear that if something goes hideously awry and I’m marooned in a sea of big-box parking lots, I’ll check into the nearby Courtyard Marriott. And I made sure to pick a Walmart without a history of tramplings, pepper spray incidents or disorderly conduct arrests. Nevertheless, I remove my dangling earrings before bouncing out of the car. Just in case. Black Friday has a reputation as America’s annual low point. Depending on your perspective, it’s either a testament to our materialistic excesses or a vivid example of the stark gap between rich and poor. Regardless, it’s widely considered a shit-show, a spectacle—a bunch of damned adults duking it out for discount TVs. An actual headline from last year: “Calm Black Friday: Only 1 Death, 15 Injuries Attributed to Big Shopping Day.” Any incident anywhere in the country instantly becomes a national news story and an opportunity to opine on The Way We Live Now. Plus, it’s creeping steadily into Thanksgiving itself, with stores…