Suffer the Poor.

She fiddles with her outdated, scratched handphone whilst waiting for her mother to run errands in the post office. It's a sweltering hot day, but the air-condition is at full blast, cooling her down. The phone has survived many falls, been thrown by her during violent fits, and even has it's very own accidental superglue stain to it's back cover.

She muses to herself...
Dang it! If only I had one of those Quirky Qwerty phones or a cool touch screen phone. Doesn't have to be an I Phone- la... they're rather user unfriendly , but a Samsung Star would do.. Or just one of those Nokia N-series with their excellent 5.0 megapixel cameras...
*huffs and puffs*

Reclining in her chair and listening to the lazy cajoling of bossa nova music, she turns her attention to the dilapidated phone booths in front of her.

Who uses them anymore, anyways? They're just used to test the strength of vandals. The stronger you are, the more of that phone booth follows you home. She smiles to herself, recalling a friend of hers who brazenly yanked a whole phoneset-handle, coinbox, the works... off the booth. It now sits as a trophy in his rented house.

Just then, an Indonesian man, face scrunched up after years of hard labour, comes to one of the phone booths. His skin is wizened and tanned, with a tattered blue baseball cap shielding him from the scorching sun. His shirt is nary to brag about, but kept clean nonetheless- care shown by one who doesn't have much and has to value the few shirts he has, including the one on his back. His pants are aged as well, sporting a hole at left knee cap. But in this case, it was definitely a strategically located tear for stylish looks, but from squatting on it repeatedly.

Slipping a coin in, he frantically pushes in 12 digits, memorized at the back of his head. He nervously tugs at the handset cord, waiting for a reply. The unknown person at the other end picks up, and he puts in coin after coin, urgently relaying his message across whilst repeating his nervous cord-tugging. Numerous coins later, he puts the phone down with a sigh of relief, but looks dismally into his coin pouch. Before walking away, he puts his fingers into the coin return compartment, hoping some of his shillings were not taken, or hoping that perhaps someone else had left theirs behind. He does the same for the other two booths. His prying fingers find nothing in it to please them.

Not willing to give up, he kicks the litter strewn over the ground casually to search for perhaps, some forgotten or hidden treasure - coins, valuables- anything carelesly dropped in the hustle and bustle of those rushing to and fro from the wet market nearby. He finds none.

Her shameless observations are disrupted by two raps on the window- Her mother had finished with her errand, and wanted the doors opened. Leaning over, she unlocks the doors. She focuses her attention back on the man again. This time, he notices someone watching him. He stares back at her, almost indignant at being found out about.

As her mother drives away, she is humbled by the plight of the phoneless and poor. So much for wishing for the latest and trendiest phone, eh?