Lady Sings the Blues - Billie Holiday [85]
But you never know. You can leave a hotel to do a show. Anybody can come in the room while you’re away, either to look for something or to leave something behind—something they can come back and look for later. That’s why Louis was so happy when they found his gun. He hoped they’d settle for busting him. But they didn’t find a bit on him. All they can claim is that they found evidence in our room. We’ll see about that when we have our day in court.
In this country, don’t forget, a habit is no damn private hell. There’s no solitary confinement outside of jail. A habit is hell for those you love. And in this country it’s the worst kind of hell for those who love you.
Many a sweet time Louis has risked his own life to try to help me. Husbands, wives, mothers, and fathers of addicts do it every day. And in this country, this makes them criminals.
I can tell you about a big-name performer who had a habit and a bad one. There were times when he had it licked. And other times it licked him. It went around that way for years. He was well known, like me, which makes it worse. He had bookings to make, contracts to fulfill. In the middle of one engagement he was about to crack up and go crazy because he had run out of stuff. There was no way in God’s world he could kick cold turkey and make three shows a day. There wasn’t a doctor in town who would be seen looking at him. His wife got so scared he’d kill himself that she tried to help him the only way she knew—by risking her own neck and trying to get him what he needed. She went out in the street like a pigeon, begging everyone she knew for help. Finally she found someone who sold her some stuff for an arm and a leg. It was just her luck to be carrying it back to her old man when she was arrested.
She was as innocent and clean as the day she was born. But she knew that if she tried to tell that to the cops it would only make her a “pusher” under the law, liable for a good long time in jail. She thought if she told them she was a user, and took some of the stuff in her pocket to prove it, they might believe her, feel sorry for her, go easy on her. And she could protect her man. So that’s what she did. She used junk for the first time to prove to the law she wasn’t a pusher. And that’s the way she got hooked. She’s rotting in jail right now. Yes siree bob, life is just a bowl of cherries.
I’ve had my troubles with the habit for fifteen years, on and off. I’ve been on and I’ve been off. As I said before, when I was really on, nobody bothered me. I got in trouble both times when I tried to get off. I’ve spent a small fortune on stuff. I’ve kicked and stayed clean; and I’ve had my setbacks and had to fight all over again to get straight.
But I’m not crazy. I knew when I started to work on this book that I couldn’t expect to tell the truth in it unless I was straight when it came out. I didn’t try to hide anything. Doubleday carried an item in their winter catalogue that I was writing about my fight with dope and that I knew it wasn’t over yet. There isn’t a soul on this earth who can say for sure that their fight with dope is over until they’re dead. Variety printed an item about it a couple of months before. I’ve been under a doctor’s care and treatment before I went to Philadelphia and since. So what did the police down there think they were proving when they used me for a pigeon? You tell me.
Anyway, they brought me and Louis to the magistrate, who was waiting for us. Both of us were booked for “possession and use,