The Hatfields & The McCoys

When I finally arrived at work, it was Madeline who taught me how to answer the phones. Madeline could have passed for a Ralph Lauren model, had she cared. She weighed approximately seven pounds, most of which was hair, and dressed in thrift store clothes. She was one of the most beautiful girls I had ever seen, with axe-like cheekbones and a dancer’s grace. She did her best to camouflage all of this.

Madeline was no longer going to be the receptionist as her other duties had become far more pressing. She was responsible for listening to the 1-800 number. This was the number that appeared at the end of every episode of Judge Judy. It was the number that trailer park living thumb challenged out of work Cro-Magnons were encouraged to call if they were in a dispute with their neighbors, The Hatfields or The McCoys. Madeline listened to hundreds of calls a day and then manually typed up all the information the McCoys or Hatfields left. Madeline let me hear the best of the phone messages now and again, but the general gist of it was this:

Beep: Yeah, now this is Spike Hatfield over in Arkadelphia, Arkansas and my goddamned neighbor borrowed my deer huntin’ rifle along about six months ago and the bastard never gave it back. Judy, now is that something ya think ya could put up there on your show? You really in Hollywood? Damn, I can’t believe I’m callin’ Hollywood… (pause)…Honey, c’mere and say somethin’ to Judy. I got her right here on the phone. Hang on; Cindy wants to talk to ya too…

Madeline explained that everyone who called seemed to be under the impression that Judy would actually listen to their down-home babbling. Of course, this was not the case. If the hicks were smart enough to leave a phone number, Madeline dutifully typed up what she could make of their Hee Haw dialects, placed them in a stack, and handed them over to the producers. She had been doing this as well as answering the fourteen line phone, mailing out correspondence, talking down crazed callers, helping type up statements, and any other random tasks assigned to her by “overworked” producers making $5,000 a week. Madeline was bitter. It had taken her years to get off the switchboard.


I watched as Madeline demonstrated her skill with the phone system. The phone rang constantly and most times all fourteen lines were lit up lack a tacky Christmas display. She would answer each one, “Judge Judy, please hold. Judge Judy, please hold. Judge Judy, please hold,” until all fourteen lines were on hold and then go back and answer each one, “Thank you for holding. How may I direct your call?”

Madeline then went on to explain the types of calls I could expect.

“You’re going to get people calling who want to talk to a producer about a case. You need to tell them to leave a message on the hotline – that’s what I listen to. They are then gonna say that they did that ten times and no one called them back, which is probably true. If that happens, ask for their name and number, write it down, and then throw it away.”

“Throw it away?”

“Here’s the thing,” she said, emotionless, “if they haven’t gotten a call by now they never will. If they continue to call day after day, and trust me they will, just explain that the show’s cases are booked solid through the next two years and you apologize for any inconvenience.”

It began to dawn on me that my job was akin to standing on a beach trying to hold back a tsunami with a plastic fly swatter. Madeline was kind enough to explain the other types of calls I would be getting. Not only would people call that wanted to be on the show and had no chance in hell of ever making it, but people who have been on the show would call asking to speak to their producer. They would call because they were pissed at the outcome, they hadn’t received their check yet, they had received their check, but they wanted more money because they had seen the episode and it was better than any other episode EVER. They would call because they had someone else they were going to sue, because they thought their producer was their best friend and wanted to chat, because they were lonely, scared, or afraid the show would air and make them look bad (tough shit, sayeth Madeline, they had already signed their lives away), or because they had gotten pink eye from one of the make-up brushes the “skinny gal” used on their faces before they went on camera. It was my job to appease all of these callers and without accidentally letting them through to the producers who were very busy booking cases for the next show.

“Oh,” said Madeline, “Judy calls this line too.”

I wasn’t expecting this. I would have to talk to Judy? She was famous and, unlike most people who have lived in LA, I had only a few paltry run-ins with celebrities. I saw Dan Hedaya in the canals of Venice Beach and he said hello to me. I saw Keifer Sutherland at a restaurant in Gower Gulch while I was munching a patty melt. I saw Morrissey at The Cat and Fiddle having a cocktail. Seeing a celebrity ambling about in broad daylight was like seeing a dog walk on its hind legs into Starbucks and order a cappuccino. It freaked me out.

I was not cool.