The Chinese Jars by William Gordon Page B

what you’re talking about, Melba,” he mumbled, examining his fingernails.
    â€œKnock off the shit, Samuel. You’re drooling over her.”
    Samuel turned red and was silent for a few seconds. “It’s that obvious, huh?”
    â€œIt’s not a bad thing, sweetie. You’re just going at it the wrong way.”
    â€œWhat d’ya mean by that?”
    â€œIf you want to have anything to do with Blanche, it has to be in an area where you can compete. You’re no more fit to run a few yards than I am. In fact, it might kill you,” she said laughing, taking a deep drag off her cigarette. By that time, Samuel had also lit up, and he began to laugh, too. Now they both had a case of uncontrollable giggles until all the patrons left in the bar were staring at them.
    â€œKind of pathetic, isn’t it?” said Samuel.
    â€œYeah, pathetic, but that’s life,” she said in the middle of a coughing spell.
    * * *
    Samuel and Blanche met Saturday morning at the western end of Golden Gate Park near the Pacific Ocean at the Murphy windmill, one of the two huge Dutch windmills that looked as if they came right out of a Low Country’s picture postcard. They were big, imposing, and in some need of maintenance; their shingles had not been replaced since they started to fall off years before. But they served a purpose. They were used to obtain water for the irrigation of the park and several of its lakes. Quite a chore for the over-a-thousand-acre park, which was designed by the famous William Howard Hall in the 1870s to cover the unruly sand dunes and isolated vegetation, Blanche explained to Samuel.
    â€œIt was made into a modern marvel by John McLaren, who was in charge of it and who lived in the McLaren Lodge until his death at the age of ninety-six in 1943,” she added for Samuel’s benefit.
    It was a typical cold day by the beach. The fog hadn’t lifted and the wind was blowing in toward the city, but the sand didn’t invade the park. It was kept out by the row of Cypress trees between the ocean and the windmills. The trees also told the story of the strength of the wind, as they were all bent heavily toward the east.
    Blanche was dressed in sweats and tennis shoes, looking every inch the athlete, her hair pulled back with a rubber band. Samuel, on the other hand, had on loafers and his usual worn beige sports jacket with the cigarette-burn holes in the sleeves. He’d changed his appearance slightly by donning a Madras shirt, whose brown tones surprisingly blended with his jacket. It was his attempt to be casual.
    â€œI thought it’d be nice to run through the park. There’s less traffic. You can trot along if you like; and since I’ll get there before you, I’ll do some shopping and meet you at Betty’s, let’s say ten o’clock,” Blanche proposed.
    â€œThat’s two hours from now. You think it will take me that long to get there?” asked Samuel, terrified.
    â€œMore or less. It’s okay. I’m not in a hurry today, and it‘ll be nice to talk with you.”
    Samuel sighed. “What happens if I get there earlier?”
    â€œThat would be a stretch! But if you do, you can look for me on Haight. I’ll be the girl with the sweats on,” she said with a radiant smile. And she was off.
    Samuel sat down on a rock by one of the dormant windmills and lit a cigarette while he mulled things over. Things hadn’t worked out the way he’d planned. Instead of spending a couple hours in Blanche’s sweet company, he would spend them running like an exhausted fugitive, alone. He stood up slowly, put out his cigarette, tried to wrap his thin sports jacket around his exposed torso to protect himself from the wind, and ambled south toward Lincoln Way at the southern edge of the park. He waited for a downtown bus, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to keep warm. When the 72 bus arrived, he hopped