The Harder They Fall (36 page)

A lot of other stuff happened along the way. I got arrested for assaulting a police officer, which was one of the times I was absolutely innocent. I was trying to get a drunken crew member of mine into a cab after a New Year’s Eve gig in Dallas, and this cop decided we were doing something we shouldn’t be doing. He came up behind me with his nightstick and choked me unconscious, and realizing he had fucked up, he charged me with assaulting him. It cost me $100,000 and a jury trial, but finally, cooler heads prevailed and I pleaded no contest to resisting arrest, or something, and that was the end of it.

I was very open about my drug use. My denial was subtle. Opiates allowed people like me to stare into the darkness without blinking.

In L.A., my cottons were famous. [Drugs are drawn through cotton before injecting.] People wanted my cottons because I did such big, huge shots, and I started speedballing. A friend of mine walked in one morning and he had a little bag of coke. It was like Green Stamps. The dealer was giving away twenty dollars worth of coke if you bought a hundred dollars worth of dope. The dealer knew what he was doing. My friend put about a match head of coke in my spoon after I cooked up my shot. It lit me up like a pinball machine. And then I got into this speedballing thing, which increased the number of injections I did instantly. I also smoked crack a couple of times. I didn’t really like cocaine, but the combination of cocaine and heroin I loved.

I was trying to preserve my marriage, but once I started to shoot dope, Theresa really freaked out. So I tried to quit a couple of times. I went on methadone again. Then while I was out in L.A., I started smoking crack again. So things really got bad, really fast. Theresa wanted to leave me. She had just lost her job in L.A., so she loaded me up in her car and drove me back to Texas. I had no will of my own at all. I didn’t want to leave L.A., but I couldn’t not leave. I had to go wherever she went. I really wasn’t working anymore. I was trying to write music. I had taken an advance from the record company, but I wasn’t getting anywhere with it.

I had a film soundtrack that I was supposed to write but never wrote a note. I was becoming unable to work. All the shit that happened to all those other junkies was happening to me. Theresa took me back to Nashville and then she left me, because I was going into south Nashville and buying crack. I hung out there in the daytime ’cause I wasn’t working, and she got sick of it and left.

During this time, I wrecked a couple of cars, one of which didn’t belong to me. A lot of bad stuff happened. A rumor went around that there was some heroin in Nashville, which there almost never was. This is an area known for cocaine. I wanted to check it out, so I went down to south Nashville and bought some from a guy. I didn’t even go home to try it. I got pulled over and the cops searched my car. They found a syringe so they kept looking, and then they found the dope. The cop wrote me a ticket and didn’t even take me downtown. Simple possession—first offense. He knew
who I was and he was kind of a fan so he wrote me a ticket, which rarely happens in Tennessee but they can do it.

To show you where I was at, I kind of conveniently forgot my sentencing hearing and didn’t show up. I woke up one day and read on the front page of the newspaper that I had been sentenced to eleven months and twenty-nine days. By this time I was married again to a woman I’d been married to before: Theresa. I was married a lot!

Finally I decided, after a whole series of events, to turn myself in. I drove to a neighborhood where I had been buying crack the last few years, ’cause I wanted to get me one more rock. I saw this kid I had known since he was eight or nine. Now he was fourteen or fifteen. His mother was an addict and lived in that neighborhood. I pulled up and he was standing on the street selling. Or at least I thought he was selling, but what he was doing was robbing. He threw a pistol up in my face, so I rolled his arms up in the power window of my car, and I drug him up about a half a block, and then hit the window button and dropped him. Then I went around the corner and bought another rock from another kid. I went and smoked it in the parking lot of my lawyer’s office. Then we went across the street and turned me in. Great idea! “Let’s smoke this rock, get paranoid, and go to jail!” So I started to serve my sentence.

The only thing that got me out of there for a while was that they decided to let me get into treatment. They sent me to a place called Buffalo Valley, a bare-bones Twelve Step treatment center. They had no medical facility, so I did my detox in the county hospital, which I paid for myself. Which was a plus because it wasn’t costing the state any of their money for the program.

I didn’t go to treatment to get clean. I went to get out of an orange suit. And I thought the food was better there, but it wasn’t. But something happened while I was in that treatment center. I remember the guy that drove me to the treatment center from jail. His name was Chuck. That’s what he did at Buffalo Valley. He’d been in jail, so they sent him down to pick people up. We stopped to eat at the Waffle House. I could barely eat. I was still pretty sick.

I thought, “Okay, I’m through the medical part. I’ll go through this
treatment, but I’m going to use as soon as I get out of here.” But around two weeks later, I ran into Chuck and he said, “How you doing?” And I said, “Well, I’m not in jail.” And he said, “You know what? You don’t have to be, ever again.” I realized that I never wanted to be in jail again, and for some reason, I took full responsibility for why I was in jail. I wasn’t a victim anymore. I started listening to people. They had all the people in the treatment center together this one time, and I looked around the room. I knew all the counselors by then, and I knew how much clean time they had. I counted 135 years of clean time that I knew of. It occurred to me that maybe I should listen to them.

After I finished my twenty-eight days of treatment, I had to go back to jail. You know there’s dope in jail, so I was faced with it in my unit three days after I returned. I just pretended that there wasn’t any dope in jail, ’cause there’s not supposed to be. I went to meetings—whatever meetings were available to me. Then I got out. They released me at midnight with the smelly clothes I went to jail in, four-and-a-half months later. My clothes had been marinating in there, and I reached in my jeans and there was forty dollars in my pocket, and I was in downtown Nashville. All I had to do was walk four blocks. Instead I made a phone call and didn’t even leave the lobby of the Criminal Justice Center. And now I go to meetings every day when I’m in Nashville, and to meetings on the road.

(actor)

I suppose I was a successful actor with too much
per diem
. That’s basically what my Hollywood experience was like. I was invited out to do the film
Look Back in Anger
after the big success I had with the play in New York in 1980. I had been doing a bit of cocaine. Not when I was working on the play—that was too difficult. You know, a little recreationally here and there, and when I stopped doing the play and moved to Hollywood to do the film, it started to spiral out of control.

I was brought up in a pub, a bar, and I hated the smell of booze and I hated what it did to people. My father was an alcoholic, so I never really drank much. I kept away from it, but I didn’t realize that cocaine was really the same thing. Alcohol eventually started getting a little out of control, but in the form of “fine wine.” That was my excuse. The truth is, if you buy an expensive bottle of wine at dinner and drink every single bit of it—I would never leave a drop—that should tell you that there is a problem, shouldn’t it? Even if I opened one at lunch, I would drink it all and then go sleep it off. But I didn’t see this as a problem. I would say that we do this every day in Europe—it’s how we are. You Americans are too uptight about drinking wine; it’s like water in Italy and France. That was my excuse. So I didn’t consider wine a problem, but cocaine was a problem, and that got out of hand quite fast. It had a very bad effect on my marriage. The lies and deceit and everything that goes with addiction.

I went from snorting it occasionally to now smoking it, doing freebase.
Doing as much as I could. Finish a batch at four in the morning. Driving around the San Fernando Valley looking for more of it. Driving while completely stoned, of course. How I was never in an accident, I just don’t know. I had a Porsche, and one night I was so paranoid that I actually stopped on the freeway, pulled the car over to the side, because I was convinced there was somebody in the back. Now, you know, the back of a Porsche is an engine, but I had convinced myself that they had moved the engine to the front. I was in such a grip of paranoia. I was obviously totally fucked up!

It was when my second child, my son, was born that I knew I had to get sober. My wife, Mary, put it to me that if I didn’t clean up, I’d never see my son. This brought it home to me. But I know that when you are in the throes of addiction, you’ll do or say anything to keep it going. Anyway, that was kind of it for me. That was 1981. A friend of mine drove me down to the desert, and I checked into a large rehab.