I Got a Name: The Jim Croce Story

by Ingrid Croce

  I want you.

  I love you,

  Jim

  His reassignment to the dumbbell platoon wasn’t a complete disaster. His new sergeant, Leroy Brown, was a huge, swaggering black man with a shrewd sense of humor, and he enjoyed Jim’s jokes. At Jim’s prodding, he rapped nonstop in black street jive. Jim wrote to Rich about Sergeant Brown:

  “He looks like Sonny Liston, Yesterday in joking around, (he’s really nice), he said, ‘Ahm Bad. You know where I lives all the bad people live on one street, and the further down you go the badder they is and I live two miles down that road. Now, I ain’t saying Ahm bad, but when all them bad peoples get together, they all call me boss.’”

  Fortunately, Sergeant Brown didn’t believe Jim belonged in the dumbbell platoon and gave him a special pass for my visit. Elated, he wrote:

  November 13, 1966

  Dear Ingrid,

  Where there’s a will there’s a way. I’ve succeeded in obtaining something which will answer our hopes and dreams. I’ve become one of the few men in the history of this company to get a semi-pass. Next weekend you can come down! I’ve made arrangements at the Port Guest House (about $1 a night) and I got permission from my Sgts. (they really feel sorry for me) to be with you Saturday night and Sunday ’til your plane leaves. I can’t wait!

  Love,

  Jim

  In spite of that glimmer of brightness, Jim hated everything about boot camp.

  The only thing positive about it, other than his enhanced physique, was his new sense of independence and self-confidence. He even began to overcome his preoccupation with germs and diseases, in part because Sergeant “Egg with Teeth” had stopped allowing infirmary visits whenever Jim complained.

  Jim expressed his growing skepticism of and disgust with the army in letters written the following month to Rich and me:

  November 16, 1966

  Dear Rich,

  They really brainwash these young kids here. Everything is directed toward, ‘being a man’. Go Airborne Ranger Special Forces, if you’re good enough to get in. (Yet the statistics show that 67% of the Green Berets get killed in Vietnam.)

  My new slogan is “Join the ranks of the civilians, if you’re smart enough to get out.”

  Brother Jim

  November 18, 1966

  Dear Ing,

  How can I like it here? Men talk of easy ways to kill. One of our sergeants said he’d killed men with rifles, pistols, his bare hands, and with a knife, then went into detail on what each method entailed. I’ve not heard a wise thing since I’ve been here.

  Love,

  Jim

  November 20, 1966

  Dear Richie,

  I went for dinner in a little place in town that’s supposed to be good. I had a half-decent chicken-fried steak, french fried potatoes and a brown lettuce salad. The guy next to me ordered spaghetti and meatballs. He got a plate of cold spaghetti with half of a hamburger and ketchup poured all over it. Can you believe it! There was a sign on the wall, sayin’, ‘This establishment reserves the right to refuse service to people detrimental to business.’ It was dated one day after the passage of the Civil Rights Bill. A Negro is still a second-class citizen in the South. Yet, the owner came over to us and said, ‘Soldiers, we close on Sunday in respect for God and Baptist traditions.’

  It’s a riot of incongruity down here.

  November 21, 1966

  Dear Richie,

  It’s not too bad down here—I haven’t had the urge to run away recently. Oh yay! Everybody but about two of us went on pass last night. I stayed in. It was nice to be alone—no jingling 5,000 dog tags no squeaking bunks, (some guys hitch-hike under the covers), no farts, no shaving cream in the face while you sleep, nobody turning your bunk over while you’re in it. It was a treat.

  See you,

  Jim

  _____

  The weekend before Thanksgiving, I finally flew to South Carolina to visit.

  Confined to Company D, Jim couldn’t leave the base, so Sergeant Brown picked me up at the airport in an army jeep. When we arrived on base, the sergeant parked at a drab green building that served as headquarters for Jim’s unit. As I climbed out of the jeep, I noticed several men in army fatigues leering at me from under a tree. I searched among the soldiers for Jim but didn’t see him. I noticed one soldier in the crowd waving at me, and it made me a little uncomfortable. Thank God I have an escort, I thought.

  Suddenly, the waving soldier pushed through the crowd and jumped directly in front of me. Startled, I backed away and then recognized the grin and the eyes. “Jim!” But he didn’t look at all like the Jim I knew. He seemed enormous and stood so straight. He was muscular and almost bald! This wasn’t the skinny, gawky man I’d fallen in love with. His big, deep-sunken eyes looked even sadder than the day he had left.

  I stood there, feeling shy and uncomfortable. Jim quickly took me by the hand and pulled me toward the Port Guest House, fifty yards away.

  As we walked across the parking lot, other soldiers hooted and whistled. Jim grinned from ear to ear.

  “I’m sorry the guest house is so seedy,” he apologized. “But since I’m confined to base, this is our only choice.” The moment we were through the door, he buried his face in my neck, kissing me hungrily and pulling at my blouse.

  While I still had half of my clothes on, I insisted: “Wait, wait—please Jim, wait! I’ve missed you so much. And I’ve dreamed about being with you every day. But please slow down. This scares me!”

  “Oh Ing, I’m so sorry. I’m being a goat. See what the army has done to me? I’m an animal!”

  “I know how lonely you’ve been, sweetie. Some of your letters are so sad they make me cry. But even if we only have a little time to be together, I still need time to talk with you. I want to tell you about school, how different it is being a married woman, and about my dad. He doesn’t look good, Jim. He really worries me. They say the operations are helping him, but I can’t tell.”

  Jim sat down on the bed next to me. “I’m sorry Ing. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.” He put his arms around me, and I pressed my head to his chest. “I couldn’t help myself. But I’ll try.”

  I tried to put aside my discomfort, and we held each other tight for several minutes until we both relaxed.

  He listened to my stories about my dad, home, school, and visits I’d made to his family. He filled me in on his latest hardships. Then gently, he began to kiss my neck. He unbuttoned my blouse carefully and guided me back onto the bed.

  “I guess we can talk in the morning.” I sighed with pleasure as I unzipped his fatigues. “I need you so much, Jim. I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed my best friend. And I’ve missed making love with you, too,” I laughed. The rooms of the guest house were filled with other soldiers and their wives, girlfriends, or prostitutes. All night long, I heard a chorus of moans, thumps, and creaks from adjoining rooms.

  Four days after I left, Jim wrote home to his family:

  November 23, 1966

  Dear Dad and Mom,

  It’s Thanksgiving eve and with a big pan of Ing’s delicious brownies next to me, I sit down to write. Things were fine until yesterday, when I was selected with six other boys from our company (250 men) to be an honor guard and firing squad member at a military funeral.

  This morning we left sharply dressed and proceeded to Manning, South Carolina, about 50 miles away. The dead soldier was one of three boys in a family currently in Vietnam. His body was accompanied home by his brother, a huge, stone-faced, bemedaled, Green Beret.

  The small Negro community turned out in force. The little white-washed Baptist church was filled. The cemetery was in the back of the church. The ceremony was short and so sad that I’m at a loss to describe it. All of us stood at attention with tears in our eyes until we fired the volleys over his coffin.

  Then the tears ran down my face. The flag was folded and given to his brother, who gave it to his mother. The people were so plain,
so simple as only rural Southern people can be, that it added an extra note of tragedy to the whole funeral. Their grief was so deep, so real that everyone, even our Sgt., who’s going to Vietnam in December, cried. The whole thing in Vietnam is just a waste. Of all the useless ways to go, in some rice-paddy. You’d be surprised how many Army people feel that way too. It’s a shame. I can’t wait to leave the Army life. As short a time as I’ve been here (compared to some of the other people) I still say I don’t care for it. Even better I don’t like it! But soon I’ll be home for good. Then I can forget about this. I can’t wait to see you all again. I miss home more and more each day and exist for Ing’s letters. They keep me going.

  Just thinking civil thoughts (like working) makes my night easy. The days are all the same. We run, run, then run some more. I’ve cleaned my rifle so many times only to have a young Lt. with a Christ complex find a grain of sand in an inaccessible place! I think I’d like to buy an army rifle someday just to fill it with sand and put it in the rain to rust. Now we spend our days shooting. From early to late, we shoot, and shoot and run. Well Mom and Dad, I’m going to go to sleep now I’ve had a rough day.

  Take care of yourselves and have a nice Thanksgiving.

  Love,

  Your son,

  Jim

  Before starting boot camp, Jim had sent Tommy Picardo a cassette of his Facets album. Tommy had moved to New York City after graduating from Villanova a year before Jim, and he was establishing himself in the music business as a jingle singer and upstart producer.

  While Jim was in Fort Jackson, stranded from his music, Tommy was working at Command Records, a subsidiary of Paramount. Tommy’s letter encouraged Jim:

  At Ease:

  I’ve held off writing to you because I think I have good news. The ‘Clique’ (that’s what we call ourselves now) will have a record out within the next ten days. It will be on Laurie Records, and A side will be “Drifter’s Medley.” . . . Now here’s where you come in, I figured it would do your morale some good if “Sun Come Up” could be included, so we recorded it . . . Naturally you’ll receive writing credit. The song will be published by myself and Marty Foglia (Martrick Music). The best thing that could happen . . . Columbia heard our version and wants it for The Brothers Four. If it can be arranged, after our version comes out, maybe I’ll work out a deal to see they receive and record it. If they do, maybe you won’t have to work at all.

  Sweeter words could not have been written. “You won’t have to work at all.” Jim read them again and again. He trusted his friend to take care of business for him.

  . . . Enclosed are the contracts, which you should sign and send one [sic] back to me as soon as possible. I’ll have records done within two weeks . . . Work on new material. If the Drifter Medley clicks, we’ll be doing another session soon, and you know I’ll push to record your stuff

  Get hot, and take care,

  Tom

  As Jim endured his final weeks at boot camp, I spent much of my time with my father. My stepmom and I took turns caring for him. He was embarrassed to need our assistance in changing position to alleviate the pressure on his bedsores. Most humiliating, he had lost control of his bowels. I hated seeing my father so helpless; he had always been my strength.

  One evening, while I was gently cleaning him, to alleviate our mutual self-consciousness I talked about my art classes, the latest letter from Jim, and the house Jim and I would rent when he returned.

  As I talked, my father’s eyes filled with tears. Suddenly I too was flooded with emotion. My dad had always hidden his problems from me, but now the physical and emotional pain had exhausted him. I saw a vulnerable side of him I had never known before. When I’d finished helping him, I carefully leaned over the bed and held him.

  “You and Jim are my best friends,” I confided. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  He looked very tired. He whispered, “I’m so glad you and Jim have each other. I love you, Ingrid.”

  I had prayed that he would get well. But at that moment, and for the first time, I wasn’t sure he would. Although he had been weakening every day, I didn’t want to believe his illness was terminal. Before the cancer, he had never missed a day of work. This isn’t fair, I thought. We’ve only had three years since my mother died. We both deserve more than this. After all, Florence told me he would get better. I wanted to believe it was true. I told him I loved him too and, through my tears, thanked him for everything.

  _____

  As Jim’s release date from boot camp neared, I searched in earnest for a house to rent. After scanning ads and driving all over town, I went to a real estate agent in Media near my family’s home in Wallingford, forty miles west of Philadelphia.

  Both Jim and I had always enjoyed the historical town’s quiet atmosphere and heard it had reasonable rents. One street we liked in particular was West Front Street, with its tree-lined brick sidewalks and slim three-story town houses that were over 150 years old.

  I asked the agent about renting there.

  Sizing me up, he said, “I can’t believe you’re old enough to take out a lease. Anyway, there isn’t a house available in that area.”

  I took my marriage certificate and driver’s license out of my purse to prove my status and age. The agent pursed his lips and studied them. Serendipitously, a young man came into the office and dropped a set of keys on the desk. “For 12 West Front Street,” he said.

  “I’ll take it!” I cried out.

  The agent replied sarcastically, “You don’t even know how much it’s renting for or what it looks like.” But I was persuasive, and though he was reluctant, he escorted me to the historic house.

  It was located on the plaza next to law offices and across from the old courthouse. The rent was $100 a month. I wrote a check on the spot, signed the lease, and then rushed home.

  Florence met me at the door. “Your father has just been taken to the hospital in an ambulance,” she said. “He isn’t doing well.”

  Swallowing my excitement about the house, I went inside quietly, trying to take in what my stepmother had said. It didn’t sound good. Yet the doctors had been so reassuring all along, and my father had an iron will to live. I wanted to rush to the hospital but was told I would have to wait.

  The following day I tried to lift my stepmother’s spirits by taking her to 12 West Front Street before we went to see my dad in the hospital.

  “I can’t wait for Daddy to visit our home,” I said as I guided Florence up the steep steps to the second floor. She stopped on the landing.

  “Ing, he’ll never see this house.” Her voice broke.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s dying, Ingrid,” Florence said softly.

  I caught my breath.

  “But he went to New York for treatment!” I yelled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “The doctor told me not to tell anyone,” my stepmother admitted in a whisper. “He has only a few more days to live.”

  I picked up the phone and called Dan Mason, my father’s friend and physician, and he helped me to get Jim home immediately.

  _____

  On emergency leave, Jim arrived at my father’s bedside with me within twenty-four hours of my contacting him. In extreme pain and under heavy sedation, my dad struggled to sit up when he saw Jim and me come into the room. He held my hand and managed a weak smile as Jim related some anecdotes about the army.

  “I love you both,” he told us. The following day, my father passed away.

  Jim’s parents attended the funeral.

  “I’m glad I got the chance to know Sid before he died,” Jim’s father told his son after the funeral. “I went to visit with Sid a few times while you were away. What a good man he was. I will miss him,” he said with tears in his eyes. What Jim’s father didn’t say was that talking to my father had helped him understand his son and himself better. Although he still didn’t approve of Jim’s conversion to Judaism, his anger had diminished.
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br />   Later that day I told Jim, “I can’t believe he’s gone. It still feels like he’s here with me. My dad was the most important person in my life. He taught me to believe in myself. Thank God I have you.”

  Jim held my head to his chest and took a deep breath. For the first time he sensed his responsibility as the head of the household. He wanted to do the right thing, to care for me, and to be there for my stepmom and the children when they needed him.

  “I need to be closer to you, Ing. I’ve got to find a way to get a transfer,” he said. “I don’t want to leave you alone, not even a couple of months.”

  With the help of Dr. Mason, Jim received a transfer to Fort Dix, New Jersey, only an hour’s drive from our rented house in Media. There he worked on gaining a hardship discharge, which the army approved two months later. On March 3, 1967, Jim was released to the National Guard Reserves. He was still obligated to attend monthly Guard meetings but was free to go home.

  Reunited with me at last, Jim got back his old part-time job selling radio airtime to black merchants in Philadelphia’s inner city. His determination to be serious was exemplified by his new business style of dress. “I got me a new suit, a new tie, and I even went out and got myself a pair of those funky black shoes, those ones with the funny little holes punched out of them,” he joked.

  After a short time at the job, Jim was promoted to translating commercials into the language of soul.

  “I’d sell airtime to Bronco’s Poolroom, and then write the spot. Something along the lines of a James Brown refrain, ‘You wanna be cool, you wanna shoot pool (dig it),’” he told an interviewer years later.

  To supplement our income, since I was busy studying at Moore College of Art, he also worked as a substitute teacher at Palansky Junior High in a rough neighborhood in the small, industrial city of Chester, Pennsylvania. Most students he taught in special education had either learning disabilities, police records, or both. Jim used to joke that he “taught in the only grammar school anywhere where half the pupils had draft deferments.” At the same time, his old friend Sal was teaching special education at another school in South Philly. He and Jim often got together to try to top each other’s stories.