Dúc has type AB blood and is studying to be a translator. By the time you pull into Freedom, he has told you many things, such as the Communist Party bought his ticket to the United States and that in order to save money, the party flew him from Hanoi to Bangkok to Osaka to LAX to O’Hare to Madison; he also claims that during his ten-hour layover in Los Angeles, he was given exactly six #2 pencils by blind people. Although his English is almost perfect, Dúc says he has trouble converting Vietnamese into English on the spot. Once, last year in Hanoi, at a conference of ASEAN leaders, he told the Malaysian economic minister that the Vietnamese foreign deputy couldn’t wait to discuss how Malaysia’s pubic works functioned.

Dúc says he has spent most of his summer watching cable TV. He says he now understands forty percent of American slang, but such knowledge won’t help him with his work despite the fact that he’s almost mastered in what spaces one can use the word motherfucker. “If I get good enough,” he says, “maybe the party will send me to Washington, D.C. later this fall.” He puts his sunglasses back on, adjusts them in the side mirror. “It is only a matter of time,” he adds. “Soon, relations between America and Viet Nam will be normalized and we will have an embassy in your country.” He gets his glasses just the way he wants and turns to you smiling — you can almost see the montage of his future plans flashing before his eyes.

On the outskirts of Freedom Dúc tells you he can’t believe some of the things he’s seen in America. “On State Street, I saw a man sitting barefoot and dirty on the curb asking people for money.” He shakes his head. “I even saw some kids with rings in their faces and blue hair. They also asked me for money. Is this common?” Last night in the Cardinal you heard him ask other Americans the same question, another about the income gap and why so few are allowed to own so much.

“We’re here,” you say, trying to hide your relief.

The road into Freedom is littered with hardware stores and beauty shops. In its entirety the downtown consists of a court house, a Presbyterian church, and a Culver’s. You follow the long line of cars heading to the same place. School starts in two weeks, which means the outlets will be full of back-to-school shoppers. Two nights ago the local ten o’clock news ran a story about Freedom. On-camera the manager of The Limited claimed back-to-school was second only to Christmas in volume moved. You remember being surprised by this, but here waiting in line behind what feels like a thousand minivans, you believe.

Dúc takes a piece of paper out of his jacket and irons it out over his knee. You glance at it and realize it’s an internet print out of the outlets, which stores are where. He taps his long slender finger like a cigarette on store D12. “Samsonite,” he says. You wonder how he ever got here without a suitcase, why he needs one so badly, but decide not to ask. “Make a right,” he says. You do, and the overwhelmingness of it all hits you.

It’s like an oversized maze, the stucco buildings sand-colored and sprawling, cosmic. One hundred and sixty three outlet stores, everything from Talbot Kids to Bed, Bath & Beyond, the parking lot alone the size of a small town, cars in long serpentine lines waiting for someone to leave in the hopes of snagging that spot next to the handicap space in front of Kitchens Etc. And the people! People on cell phones, people with ice cream, people waiting for the open-air trolley that will take them to stores N-Z. You wonder if Dúc notices how many of these people are pear-shaped, sedentary, their vowels as flat as the landscape.

Dúc practically has his head hanging out the window like a dog out on a drive. You’ve seen such looks before, mostly in black and white photos of the sun-stunned crowd of runners just before they loose the bulls in Pamplona. It’s a look of anticipation, temptation, arousal. All this for a suitcase, you think, and pull into a spot far away from D12, the store a tiny temple shimmering in the distance. “Let’s do this motherfucker,” you say.

Dúc swings his denim jacket over his shoulders like a cape. He pulls out his blood-red box of cigarettes, and much to your chagrin, lights two and hands you one. Because smokers’ etiquette says you can’t refuse a cigarette once it’s lit, you take it, try not to inhale too deeply, and start off toward D12, the sun scorching overhead. By now Dúc has recomposed his face into one that’s above this capitalist spectacle. Like a Buddha with his thick-lidded eyes gazing impassively on the millions doomed to be born again, he sighs, and sets off on his martyrdom. In his polo and khakis, from a distance he looks like everyone else — a man out to spend some money.