Sorry Wrong Number : It will simutaneously take my call and test my urine.

In the old days, all we had was a telephone.

It worked by dialing a number and saying hello. The process seemed adequate.

But because it seemed adequate, we decided to improve it. Which is why, my friend, you and I may never speak again.

They’ve taken away my phone and they’ve given me a “voice terminal,” and I can’t figure out how the damned thing works.

It has speaker, recall, drop, hold, conference and transfer buttons.

It has a Leave Word Calling system and a Send All Calls system.

It even has an abbreviated dialing PRS List line which, as I understand it, will simultaneously take my call and test my urine for chemical pollution.

The whole thing goes into effect tomorrow throughout the entire Los Angeles By God Times, but there is a great possibility that it will have to go into effect without me.

The electronics of journalism may have finally passed me by.

First the computer, now this.

It didn’t bother me when they put the new equipment in because I figured a phone is a phone no matter what they called it.

Not so.

Just getting the unit installed involved a process. At one time, when you got a new phone, they just took the old phone out and plugged the new one in.

That isn’t the case with voice terminaling. You put the voice terminal in but you also leave the old phone there until they mate.

Quoting from a bulletin to All Times Employees:

1. Use your old telephone to dial 106 plus 101 plus your new 7 digit number. For example, if your old number is 972-1111, you would dial 106 plus 101 plus 237-1111.

2. Answer the call on your new telephone.

3. Hang up.

The “Hang up” had a terse and ominous tone to it. If I didn’t hang up instantly, would the new phone self-destruct? I was careful not to take chances.

It took me a couple of times to coordinate two phones, but I did it. Then the real work began.

Take the abbreviated-dialing PRS List button & Urine Test Device.

A PRS List button, I am told, will allow me to program into my voice terminal, formerly a telephone, a list of numbers I most frequently call, such as my cardiologist and my hypnotist.

Later, when I am ready to dial one of these frequently-called numbers, all I do is push a button. Well, actually, two buttons.

However, in order to program the equipment in the first place, it is necessary to turn to the AT&T; booklet for System 85, Voice Terminals 7303S and 7305S.

Problem One.

I don’t know whether I have a VT 7303S or a VT 7305S. When I asked, I was told it didn’t matter.

“If the publisher found it necessary for you to know,” an editor said to me, “he would have told you.”

True. And since I don’t know, I must assume He is simply protecting me from such knowledge for my own safety.

“Just follow the simple instructions,” our switchboard operator said, “and everything will work out.”

I read the simple instructions:

Press Personal List or dial its access code.

Dial item number on list.

Dial number to be stored.

Press Personal List again.

Hang up.

I did what I was supposed to do. Nothing happened. Even the PRS List light stayed dark.

“The simple instructions didn’t work,” I said to the switchboard lady.

My reputation for an inability to cope with electronics is well known throughout the city room.

“Don’t touch anything,” she said, “I’ll be back there in a minute.”

When she came to my desk, I showed her what I’d done.

“You didn’t hit the asterisk 7 or the asterisk 0,” she said.

“I didn’t know I was supposed to.”

“I’ll do it.”

She went through the process of programming in my home telephone number.

“There,” she said.

“The light isn’t on,” I said.

The PRS List still wasn’t working.

“Your terminal probably isn’t programmed in,” she said. “I’ll report it to electronics.”

I was assured by electronics that I was indeed programmed in.

“It should work,” a technician said, eyeing me suspiciously. “Did you unplug anything?”

“I wouldn’t even know what to unplug,” I said.

“Move over,” he said.

I waited while he read and followed the simple instructions.

“It doesn’t work,” he finally said.

“Right,” I said.

“We’ll have to report it.”

The next day, two telephone experts were in the office. Someone said they were from AT&T.;

I told one of them the problem.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said.

That was the last I saw of him until he stopped by and pressed the PRS button. It lit.

“There,” he said, “that ought to do it.”

I was so happy I could have hugged him but, of course, did not.

I followed the simple instructions again. It still didn’t work.

“I thought it was fixed,” the switchboard operator said.

“It was but it isn’t.”

“Well,” she said, “look at it this way. You didn’t have a PRS List before, did you?”

“Nope.”

“Well, you still don’t.”

And, I am quite certain, I never will have.