The Mission Country Club

In the Lower Mission, people drag themselves along wearing anything they can find. They have few teeth. They sell treasures from the trash. I bought two large, gold-painted picture frames for three dollars.

The upper mission shines in the sun. Cakes gleam under glass, never to land on your plate unless you have seven dollars. And five more for the coffee. The cakes are little, square, pink with a green flower swirled in the middle. “Seven Dollars” says the barista. And I want some sense of apology, sympathy, regret in his voice as he says it, but there is none. He leaves me to stare at the tiny pink cakes.

The baristas and bakers wear starched shirts. The Hipsters cross their legs and laugh. They get to eat the fancy cakes. They decorate their homes with record players and weird art. Their hairdos are smooth or swept into some planned, angular mess. They have thick-rimmed glasses and bright socks. Thrift-store pants and four-hundred dollar shoes. A girl giggles in her stone-washed jacket “It’s my day off,” she says, “why not”. And the Mexicans unload mineral water.

I am wandering around The Mission Country Club.

I came to The Mission to find artists. I found only the skins. Weird shirts and hair astray, sipping macchiatos; they don’t write novels, they don’t think about the human condition. They e-chat. They negotiate. They tweet. They eat seven-dollar cakes.

Shiny white. The daughter of Luck. I wander around The Mission. Straddling worlds. Finally folding, I buy the cake. And the Mexicans pour pathways.