My Mission in the Mission

Most of what follows is true.

It all started in the "soldiers wanted" section of craigslist. Recently home from two trips: one to the Arctic Circle to wrestle polar bears and the other a failed attempt to replace Carl Crawford in left field for the Tampa Bay Rays, I was seeking an adventure a little more conducive to my laid back demeanor. Voila! Baseball Games, Trains & No Automobiles was hatched. That's where craigslist comes in. I needed a subleaser and found Lieutenant Colonel Eingurt. LTC Eingurt responded to my ad saying she had just finished a seven-year tour of duty down in San Francisco and was looking for a nice place in Portland for her two-month leave. Things were working out nicely.

Craigslist is a wonderful idea that has previously helped me out in 100 ways. Although I use the site frequently I had never explored "soldiers wanted". This is where you voluntarily solicit a favor or favors from a commisioned member of the armed services in exchange for an indivudual enlistment. I was skeptical at first, but the advantages of this situation for both parties soon became mutually obvious. I was to receive guidance and discipline from an experienced source while she could order me to do whatever she wanted.

Under a Tahitian moon and with soft grey-green eyes that betrayed a stone-set jaw and healthy teeth clenched around the demolished end of her Corona Maduro, LTC Eingurt commanded me to carry out two objectives, both of which have proved enjoyable. The first, a leisurely directive, required me to frequently correspond with her via email under the expectation that the messages would be both humorous and thought-provoking in nature. This would be easy and was in fact a cover for the second objective, which was my true mission.

The Lieutenant Colonel had spent a lot of time in the bay area and my trip was to take me there for two games (Giants and A's). So it seemed reasonable that her order would take place in San Francisco. Scrawled in squid ink she handed down the real objective on a yellowed parchment. I was ordered to stealthily infiltrate San Francisco's Mission district and devour a burrito: "... eat a burrito in the mission.  Not all burrito joints are equal, and everyone has their favorite.You will need to walk into the nearest bar and ask the bartender what their favorite burrito place is and then go there."

I didn't want to draw too much attention to myself, so I began my approach on foot at AT&T Park where I could blend in with the other 41,000 baseball fans. The stadium was over 3 miles away and gave me plenty of time to assess the situation and analyze my best options for advancing upon my target. I approached from the northeast and my path was soon blocked by a group of confused hipsters that believed they were extras in a STYX video. But I persevered and discovered an unguarded pass along 18th street.

Now I was in the thick of it all. The first step was to indentify the appropriate bar. I passed a place called the Double Play bar and grille and decided against entering due to its rally-killing connotation, but I was still searching for an establishment that felt serendipitous... BANG! I heard a shot (or a tethered pug yelping for its freedom) ring out and I scrambled for cover. To establish my exact position I poked my head out saw a sign from above:

I heeded the harbinger and descended onto The Phoenix, located adjacently.

Of course Phoenix, AZ is where I began this whole baseball tour of duty so I was encouraged by such obvious foreordination. I slinked in and obtained a position at the bar.  In the guise of ordering a Boddington's I met my compatriot already planted on the inside: Tansy. She informed me that this was a region littered with burritos and that if I wasn't careful I could run into some "bad shit." To accurately direct me she swiftly beckoned for her informer and resident burrito expert, Misael. "El Farolito" with a wink and a whisper were the words I'd come so far to hear. I was assured that Misael's information was clean. He passed me a cocktail napkin map that showed me where I'd be sure to come across El Farolito and fulfill my mission objective. 

Tansy, cleverly avoiding direct eye contact

Misael, blurred to protect his identity

Through the war zone I attempted to blend in with the locals by deftly avoiding the haphazard meanderings of tourists while casually aniticipating the changes of all traffic lights and the automobile drivers unaccustomed to obeying them. It was hell.

Not really, but imagining it as hell was all I could do to sustain my focus and prevent myself from succumbing to the hunger bomb, presumably planted by the hot dog terrorists at the Giant's game, about to go off in my stomach. I saw detached nationals with blood rag eyes, tightly uniformed boys with black girlfriends, liberating armies of cursed females, and packs of dogs ruling the night. Who knows what these strangers were packin'?

To conceal my fear I sung my way along, "El Farolito...Kate's little treato...make me burrito...tast-ee indeedo."

There it was, 24th and Mission. I fell into line with the all the other hungry citizens. Each one called upon after the other to place their order with the man behind the counter, only to be given a number and told to wait. Dozens of starving men and women, with listless eyes and sunken bellies, simply occupied space by swaying back and forth to the tornadic demands of their hunger. Finally, I was called upon to offer my own desire. I cleared my throat, smiled and told the great man, "I have been sent here from a long way away. I was told that you have a burrito for me. Please make me the best one you have." A wry smile emerged on the man's face, "Can you eat...everything?" "Yes, yes I can" I dutifully responded. The man hurriedly scribbled notes onto a pad of paper and passed it to his comrade slaving away behind him. "You!" The man pointed to me, "You are number 40."

I did my best to find a place among the others. Shoulders rubbed and invisibly, under the heavy blanket of social tolerance, tempers flared. Time felt suspended, like an ordained penny from a lovesick teenager dropping into a wishing well. It stretched and yawned like a porpoise head under the warm caress of an equatorial waterfall...

"40! Number 40!"

I had it in my hands. El Farolito's Super Burrito full of rice, beans, cheese, avocado, grilled chicken, sour cream, a hint of salsa and a good helping of fate was now in my hands. I became excited. I had forgotten my surroundings. Without checking I made my way to an unmanned table.  I thought I was alone as I de-foiled the top of my burrito. Then, I heard the sounds of a Mexican guitar that was 5 feet directy behind me. The singing began as I bravely took my first bite. How fantastic it was to be serenaded on this occasion. My mission was complete.

Mission accomplished

*Special thanks to Kate, Tansy, Misael, the lovely inhabitants of San Francisco and Porno For Pyros*