New job, day 1: 'How may I direct your call?'

I'm convinced. Even if you had an Ivy League PhD, on your first day at a job, they'd assign you to answer phones. That's a task most people want to duck.

When I relocated to Oregon, I landed work at the State Employment Service. Boss Mike introduced me to the staff and to the cube where I'd counsel job seekers. "Our budget doesn't allow for enough clericals, Flo, so we all take turns on the telephone switchboard. You'll be doing that one morning a week." He ushered me to the front cube, an island remote from all co-worker contact. He showed me a contraption with two dozen buttons, each labeled with names and extension numbers. Then he handed me a list. "It's simple. When the phone rings, push this answer button and say, 'Employment Service; how may I direct your call?' The caller will say something like, 'Dan Smith, please.' You find Dan on this paper; all 24 staff members are listed alphabetically. Dan's at extension 21, so you say, 'Thank you, I'll connect you.' Push number 21, hit 'send,' and you're done."

Mike disappeared to his weekly meeting with the chamber of commerce. The phone chirped; a line lit up. I pushed the answer button, and extended the prescribed greeting. "Can I talk to Mrs. Bittersby?" a squeaky 7-year-old voice said.

I scanned the list. "There's nobody here named Mrs. Bittersby; are you sure you dialed the right number?" "She's my mommy, and she works there." "What's her extension number, do you know?" The kid burst into sobs, and slammed the receiver down. The next phone line flashed; I again answered as directed. "I need to talk to Diana Greenburg." Another quick check of the list. "We don't have a Diana Greenburg. We have Diana Hackman and Diana Evers."

"Look. I've known her for 10 years. She's always been Diana Greenburg." We got into the description game, but both Dianas were tall, slim brunettes around the same age. I handled it by sending the caller to one, and suggesting if I'd guessed wrong, he ask to be transferred to the other. The crying kid called back. I asked what his mother's first name was. He didn't know. Then I asked if anybody called her anything else besides "Mrs. Bittersby." He said he always called her "mommy." Two more lines lit up in succession. I put Weepy on hold, pushed the next answer button, and said, "Employment Service; please hold." "I don't have time to hold; I'm a businessman. Just tell me, is Albert at his desk?" "Albert?" "Yeah, I've been waiting for his call all week." I couldn't find an Albert on the dreaded list. Meanwhile the other lines glittered and twittered.

"Do you know Albert's extension number?" "Hey, that's not my job, lady, that's yours. Now put down your nail polish, and your coffee mug, and get over to his desk. Tell him Mr. Pembury, the Cadillac dealer, is on the phone asking about that certified mechanic he promised to send me." "May I call you back in just a few minutes, Mr. Pembury?" "No. I'll stay on the line. I'm fed up with waiting." I put him on hold, and fielded another long-blinking incoming call.

"Do you have somebody there named Smith?" "We have Bev, Dan, Sandy, and Steve Smith." "Which one is married to Dan?" "Sorry. I don't know." "Don't you people there ever communicate? The wedding was a month ago." "So we've narrowed it down to either Bev or Sandy . . . " "That's it; transfer me to Bev Smith." I did, then returned to the winking "hold" button with the kid on the other end. "Honey, what do your mommy's friends call her?" After two more minutes of "ums," and "uhs," he said, "Beberly."

"We have a Bev Smith here; could that be your mom? "Maybe." Now Mommy was on another line with the previous caller I'd sent her. Sonny declined to leave a message. I suggested he call back in five minutes, and ask for Bev Smith. Loud bawling, and the slam of a phone receiver followed.

The subsequent caller requested Dan's extension. "Which Dan do you mean, Dan Smith or Dan Warner?" "He's about 55, six feet tall, medium build, gray hair, wears glasses, and handles interstate claims." They both met that description. "I'll just give you the first Dan on the employee list. If it's wrong, ask for Dan Warner." The call boomeranged back to me on the switchboard. "Operator, that guy isn't picking up; a recording says to leave a message. Let me talk to a human being."

I transferred him to the other Dan, who deflected him right back my way. But at least now we knew whose client that caller wasn't. The squeaky kid tried again. "Can I talk to Mrs. Beberly Bittersby?" Only if you promise to refer to her as Bev Smith, and stop whining.

Next, I set out to locate a misplaced mystery man named Albert. I heard ear-splitting, intermittent blasts of a foghorn. Overhead lights went dark. Phones went dead. "Fire drill, everybody," a uniformed inspector shouted from the doorway. "Vacate this building immediately."

Out on the sidewalk, I learned that Diana Greenburg had married Joe Evers last year. Albert had resigned unexpectedly -- something about a melee following a toga party over a three-day weekend in California.

The following morning, boss Mike displayed a messy pile of complaint forms on his desk.

"Flo, it got back to me that you're not so hot on the phones. But, starting tomorrow you'll be fielding all incoming calls from migrant farm workers applying for seasonal jobs. Can you brush up on your Spanish, and be ready for a fresh start?"

"Mike, do the Cadillac dealer or Bev's kid speak Spanish?"

"I don't think so."

"Then from now on, this job is a breeze."