Festival for Three Thousand Women by Richard Wiley

like a meteor, they didn’t seem to have caught any sense of his mood.
    â€œMan, you can run,” said Ron. “We thought we’d just wait out here rather than try to catch you.”
    â€œHey!” said Bobby. “Great to see you guys.”
    He was smiling like a fool, his face round and wet, his voice too loud. Slow down, he told himself, stop your manic ways.
    Ron was driving and Gary was sitting there with a beer in his hand. They were both dressed in army fatigues and Bobby realized, as the truck doors opened, that it really was good to see them—far better, anyway, than spending the night alone.
    â€œI didn’t know it was today,” he said. “I mean, did we set today as the day you’d come?”
    â€œNo, it was Cherry,” said Gary. “She’s going to Japan and wanted to see you to explain her change of plans.”
    When Bobby heard this he was suddenly sure that she was quitting. Cherry Consiliak was going home. When he asked about it, though, Ron said she was on vacation, that she was meeting someone in Seoul.
    All the Peace Corps volunteers were on vacation now that school was out, but it hadn’t occurred to Bobby to leave the country. Christ, he thought, they’d only been here since October. What was she going to use for money?
    â€œListen,” he said, “how long can you guys stay? I can’t put you up but there’s an inn…”
    Ron looked up at the truck and Gary shook his head. “We’re pushing things real hard now,” he said. “We’re on duty. Got to get this truck back by morning.”
    They were near the Pusan-chip, which didn’t serve beer, but Bobby got the idea that these guys might like to try some makkoli. The missile base, surely, was no more than a two-hour drive.
    â€œMy hometown bar is right here,” he said. “Come on. Let’s get drunk.”
    Gary and Ron went around and hopped up into the back of the truck, and while he waited, Bobby turned to look at the Goma, whom he could feel standing near him. It wasn’t the Goma, though, but the crazy woman, and she held out her hand, calmly advancing toward him.
    â€œGive me some money or I’ll bite you,” she said. Was this what she had been saying all along? She curled her lips back and advanced strategically, but though she garbled her words just as she always had, they were suddenly clear. No reason for any trouble, just pay up. Bobby reached into his pocket and found a rumpled note, and when he held it up she closed her mouth, surprised.
    â€œSorry,” he said. “I didn’t understand before.”
    Ron and Gary jumped down from the truck then, so the woman took the note quickly and moved aside. They had gone into the truck to change their clothes and were wearing jeans and sweaters now beneath their regulation army coats.
    Bobby had never known the Pusan-chip to be very crowded, but tonight it was full. The back room held a group of six, and there were only three stools left out front. He looked at Ron and Gary to see how the place suited them, but they seemed fine, so he pulled the stools around and they all sat down. The Goma had come in too and was huddled over by the door.
    â€œAh, teacher,” said the owner. “Welcome.” The other customers had grown quiet, but because of the owner’s friendliness they soon started talking again. Miss Kim was sitting with the group in the back room, and she looked at Bobby and waved. The owner, in the meantime, had brought a pot of makkoli and was staring at the soldiers.
    â€œThis is the best makkoli available,” she said. She then waited until Bobby had translated for his friends.
    Bobby was sitting between the two others, and he quickly raised his bowl, draining it all. Ron and Gary hadn’t touched their drinks yet, so he flicked the residue from his bowl and offered it to Ron, Korean-style.
    â€œThis is what they do here,” he said.