On the 6th of November 2024, I sat down in the Crystal Palace Hotel, a pub near Central Station. With an hour to kill before my friends' birthday dinner, and the U.S. Presidential Election results becoming clearer and clearer, I ordered a beer and wrote what I saw and heard for 40 minutes, inspired by French author Georges Perec.
It is 5:05.
An unmarked bus passes.
A Woolworths truck passes.
The man in a white hat and white t-shirt who was sitting outside comes in to order a beer, then says hello to someone outside my line of sight.
A woman sitting in a group of three references Kanye, then corrects herself; “Ye, sorry.”
The man in the white hat meets a man in a black hat. “Fuck, it’s cold!” — they leave.
The Crystal Palace is half full. An older lady with short grey hair wearing office attire sits at the table next to me. She bought two Peronis, but only placed one on a coaster.
It is 5:15.
My beer is a quarter finished.
The woman at the table with two others asks generally, “what is X saying, what is Twitter saying?”
A young woman with short blonde hair enters, speaks with the bartender quickly, then leaves.
A 461X passes.
Another bus passes.
And another, this one Zero Emissions.
A 439 and a 461X pass.
“Crazy, crazy, crazy. Oh. My. God,” says the woman at the table with the two others.
A charter 270 passes.
The table I’m sitting at has four chairs, four Carlton Draught coasters, four different types of TAB slips and a wine list of four red wines. A glass (150mL) of Little Berry Shiraz is $10.00.
The man with the white hat and the man with the black hat re-enter. They consider taking a seat in the corner but decide on a table further in. They remark again that it is cold, this time inside the pub.
The grey-haired woman at the table next to me leaves two voicemails for two different people. The first—“just wanted to say g’day, can you call me back on Monday? Take care.” The second call is hard to hear.
She makes a third call as the man in the white hat and the man in the black hat leave again.
This time, the call is answered. She asks the person who answers to say hello to someone she hasn’t seen since 2022 at her birthday dinner at a nice Italian restaurant in Wyong. They got lost on the way back. She promises to put the callers name forward—Toby’s going back to work and George isn’t happy.
The conversation continues, regarding workplace politics on the regional railway service. The barman comes and collects her empty Peroni. She has one left.
It is 5:40.
A 413 and a 440 pass by.
A man out of view incorrectly states that Kamala Harris has already conceded the 2024 Presidential Election.
The table is fake wood, but the walls are real.
It is 5:45.
My beer is finished.