“Looks good,” you say, hoping he’ll buy it and that’ll be that. But instead, he rolls it around some more, then lays it flat, pops it open, inspects the space, visualizing where his flip-flops will go, his toiletries. He pulls out a thin wire bar, holds it up.

“What’s this?”

You examine it briefly, tap it on the ground. “You hang your clothes on it, then fold them in half,” you say, though you’re not totally sure.

Dúc puts the bar back and closes the suitcase, kicks it a few times. He flips the price tag over, his eye practically popping out of his head. He rechecks the circular, then the tag again. “Look,” he whispers, his teeth glistening, “it was supposed to be $124 and now it’s priced at $86. I could almost buy two.” Like a bad magician he turns his back to you and lifts his shirt, unzips his money belt. Finally he turns around, shaking his head. “I could buy two,” he says, “but there are some other things I would like to look for while we are here in Freedom. Do you mind?”

“No,” you say, in a voice a native speaker would realize means yes.

“Good,” he says, rolling his way to the counter. “Besides, maybe you would also like to purchase things.” For a moment you think you detect something in his voice, a gauntlet being thrown down, for the briefest of instants his words corporeal in the refrigerated air.

“I don’t think so,” you say, but after standing fifteen minutes with him in line you spot a silver thermal lunch bag, the hand strap tomato red, the bag stylish and sharp, pleasing to the eye. You think of how cold it will keep your chicken salad sandwiches, how your Pepsis will start sweating as soon as you pull them out, and although you don’t really need it at the moment, you might need it some day. No time for losers, you think, grabbing it, and when there are just two people ahead of you in line, you zip back to Times Square and roll out a policeman, a blue carry-on airplane bag, and jump back in line just as Dúc hits the counter.

This is how the poorly planned trajectory of your afternoon unfolds: E6, K11, B2, G14, A9, bingo! namely Banana Republic, the Gap, Old Navy, Baby Gap, Ralph Lauren, each one progressively colder, more crowded than the one before. By J. Crew’s L8 your arms are tired, with each passing store your haul growing exponentially like fruit flies. Actually, when Dúc first proposed this adventure the night before, you hadn’t intended to buy anything at all, but somehow here you are.

In Pier 1 Dúc picks up a ceramic ashtray lined with mother-of-pearl accents. “For Professor Kimball,” he says, and drops it in his basket, the question of whether or not his vegan fifth-year English teacher has a two-pack a day habit seemingly never entering his mind.

“Nice,” you say, but how to explain what’s come over you, your need to match him purchase for purchase? In Sam Goody Dúc buys a Schumann CD, so you buy Johnny Cash. In Tommy Hilfiger Dúc buys a fleece coat, so you buy Gortex pants. Now stalking the shelves of Pier 1’s bric-a-brac, you spot two copper-green frogs holding hands, a small hole for a candle directly between them, and add it to the rest of your finds. Dúc smiles approvingly and moves off into bedding. For a moment you think, do I really need two copper green frogs holding hands, but the question is gone almost as soon as it’s formed, and so you goose-step off into bedding.

Soon Dúc winds his way back to the counter, works his magic, turns his back, a quick zip and voila! cold hard cash. After he’s done you check out too, though your magic is not quite as spectacular. “Cash, check, or charge?” the young woman asks. In the refrigerated August air she wears a white ski parka and knit cap.

“Charge,” you say, your Visa card deceptively light in your hand.