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W. C. Fields
he filed a countersuit of $25,000, maintaining that his recovery had been impeded by narcotics Dr. Citron had given him. The actions seesawed expensively through the courts, as lawsuits do, and if the doctor's original solicitude had been worth $12,000, his legal ministrations perhaps canceled the good works out, for Fields was obliged to drag into court day after day, though he felt wretched and spent. At one point in the proceedings, the lawyers and judges expressed an interest in the comedian's income. "Come into court with all your records of the past year," they told him, or words to that effect. Fields appeared the following week without any visible impedimenta, and when he had ascended majestically to the stand, they said, "Where are the books?" From his pocket he withdrew a used check, on the back of which he had penciled a couple of sentences that gave, in a general, confused way, what his income had amounted to during the year past. Then he eyed the judge vindictively, his manner suggesting that he would be pleased to step into the alley and fight it out. The judge, who had different ideas, allowed the valuable Dr. Citron his $12,000. Fields never got to first base with his countersuit about the narcotics. Like many laymen, he was hopelessly lost in the dark labyrinth of an archaic legal system for tangling the civil affairs of man.
After the long illness, Fields' sleeping became an acute problem. Many nights he never got to sleep at all. His household could hear him, pacing the length of his padlocked room, seeking fatigue, calming his nerves, fighting the black despair of the insomniac. His discovery of sleeping pills tided him over the worst spots. On a little memo pad beside his desk he had written, "First pill 9 p.m., second pill 10 p.m., hope for best thereafter." Always it was his desire to spend his time profitably, and he read hundreds of books during the lonesome watches of his sleepless nights. As he read, he took detailed notes, largely for the purpose of
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