Femi's First Week (Part 1)

Femi's daily jobs at the small design office on Lark Street were easy to remember: coffee, mail, and the ten o'clock conference call. On Monday morning she wrote all three on her hand.

At 9:58 she sat down in front of the black office phone. It had eleven buttons. Ms. Ortiz was still downstairs.

Femi waited. Then she pressed one.

The client's voice came out of the phone, very loud. Everybody in the office heard it. Femi pressed the same button again, but nothing happened. She pressed two more buttons. The voice got louder.

“Sorry! Sorry, I can't control it!” Femi said.

Two designers turned around in their chairs. Somebody laughed.

Ms. Ortiz came up the stairs and pressed one small button on the side of the phone. When she pressed it, the room went quiet.

“It's not you. That phone is older than me,” she said. “But tomorrow, come at 9:45. You, me, and this phone.”

Femi went back to her desk. Her hand still said coffee, mail, call.