"St Kilda Police Station. Yes, the Sergeant’s desk."
Larry scrawls the number onto the shiny, grimy phone booth wall with a carpenter’s pencil then dials with determination.
"I want to speak with the sergeant please. No, I need to speak to the sergeant. Look, why won’t you put me through to the sergeant?"
While the ‘annoying prick’ of a Constable plays his daily phone battle with Larry, just a heartbeat, a heartbreak away the guy and gal hipster crew dish up plates of smashed avo on sourdough (Veg) (V) dusted with dukkah served alongside deconstructed chai lattes.
An ageing rock star - who still does it for the cool kids - saunters by with perfect sideburns on his morning trip to the 711. The AGE and perhaps the odd pack of Craven As. If you please.
Latte constructed I watch as Larry slams the phone back in its cradle, pockets his pencil and disappears into the Acland St throng.