by Ingrid Croce
And the trucks keep rollin’ by,
And you just can’t get to sleep,
Even though there’s nothin’ on your mind?
Tell me, what do people say when there ain’t nothin’ to say?
When there’s nobody else around to help you pass the time of day?
Have you ever stared at the ceiling till you thought you’d lose your mind?
Looked for a wall that you could climb? Still you just can’t get to sleep
Even though there’s nothing on your mind?
Have you ever been stuck in a small town motel,
Lookin’ all around but there ain’t nothin’ to see;
In a never endin’ mind bendin’ troublin’ position
Sayin’ why did it happen to me?
Doodle-ooh-doo-doo
NEW YORK’S NOT MY HOME
IN DECEMBER, AFTER NEARLY 100,000 miles on the road, we headed back to New York City. Our hopes were boosted by the enthusiastic reception the college students had given us. Jim’s raps were more polished, and he and I were getting more comfortable writing songs together. The downside was we were broke and had no place to call home. Although Tommy had promised us an advance once the record deal was signed, we still hadn’t received it.
“I wonder what’s taking them so long to book the studio time?” Jim said, as we made our way northeast through Virginia.
“I don’t know. But at least we got invited back to every college we played. That’s a good sign.”
“Yeah, and they liked the new songs. That felt really good. The problem is that we still need to get the album made.”
“I know. Without a record we’re just another unknown act.” I paused, and decided this was as good a time as any to express my growing concerns about our finances.
“Jim, to be honest, I don’t understand why Tommy had us move up to New York in the first place. They don’t have any work for us. We could have stayed in Media and done what we’re doing now. We’re really down to our last few dollars, and I don’t know what we’re going to do when we get back to New York!”
“I’m sure Tommy will get us some studio work or something. The least we’ll get is the $200 a week for our songwriting. We’ll survive. Don’t worry.”
“Jim, that won’t pay the bills, and even if they keep paying us as songwriters, is that an advance we’ll need to pay back later? I just don’t understand how this works. All I know is that it seems to me that the longer we stay in New York without making money, the further in debt we’re going to get!”
“Tommy said we can stay with him at the apartment for a while.”
“That scares me even more. I don’t want to live off of Tommy or take another loan from him. If they’d just get us the work they promised, we could get along fine.”
He ran his hand through his hair.
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess their big talk is just bullshit.”
“Tommy pays us as if it’s a handout,” I said. “As if we haven’t earned it. What happened to the advance they promised us when we signed up? No one’s even mentioned it since then, and, by the way, we haven’t received our copy of the contracts either!”
“You’re really starting to hate the music business, aren’t you, Ing?”
“Well, I love the music, but I hate the business. This is the best time we’ve ever had doing music. I would honestly be happy just to stay out on the road, if that’s what it takes to make our careers work. But we need to make a living, and I just don’t see how we can do that unless we can earn more money.” I took a deep breath. “I just don’t know if Tommy and Dennis or Merv have enough experience to help us.”
“I’m sorry we don’t have a place of our own anymore, and I know it’s been hard for you to leave school. But I couldn’t do this without you.”
“Yeah, maybe I just need to learn more about the business, but something just doesn’t feel right.”
_____
Being together nearly twenty-four hours a day on the college tour was just the medicine we needed. Our music gave us a common enterprise, and in spite of the financial hardship, or perhaps because of it, our tenderness for each other grew.
Before we reached the office in Manhattan, Jim told me there was something else I ought to know:
“Tommy and Pat are getting a divorce.”
“Wow, that was quick. They haven’t even been married a year. But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Pat seemed miserable the last time we spoke.”
“And before we see Tommy, I’d better warn you that he has a new girlfriend. A flamenco dancer!”
“He’s living with another woman already!”
“Yeah, Barbara Dodge. Jack Blake’s sister-in-law. Tommy always had a thing for her. Remember Jack from the Coventry Lads?”
“Sure, I remember him. Well, I hope she’s nice because it’s going to feel really weird without Pat there.”
As we rolled up West Forty-Fifth Street looking for a place to park the Raisin, I felt a sense of dread and wished that we were still in some little college town in the middle of nowhere.
_____
Jim tagged along with Tommy to the studio each morning, hoping every day would be the day Capitol gave the green light to our album. I spent my days searching for a rent-controlled apartment. I walked from one end of Manhattan to the other, from the Village to the Upper West Side. Then back to Tommy’s apartment on East Fifty-First Street.
Finally, Terry Cashman told us about a place in the Bronx, where he lived, near Harlem. It was a depressing one-bedroom apartment on the eighth floor of an enormous World War I–era housing complex. The long dim hallways were lit by a single, bare bulb. Over the years, the landlord had purchased excess paint from a nearby hospital and painted every hallway a different pastel color. Bars covered the windows. “Those bars are there so the tenants don’t jump out,” Jim joked as we moved in our belongings.
One day after Jim had been at the office, he came home to our new apartment and told me, “You know New York is like a Fellini film, and the subways are like rolling restrooms. People tell you that nobody will talk to you on the streets in New York, but it isn’t true. On my way home today, a guy came right up to me and started talking. He said, ‘Let me hold your dime sucka’, or I’ll cut you four kinds of bad. I’ll cut you deep, long, wide, and often.’” Jim set down his guitar case and laughed to himself, then sighed. “I’ll tell you, Ing, living here is making me lose a lot of my pacifist attitudes.”
“Are you serious, Jim? Are you okay?”
“Oh yeah, I ran like hell. I’m fine.”
_____
The first Sunday in the new apartment in the Bronx, Jim was supposed to attend his first monthly National Guard meeting in Media. Just as we crossed the bridge into New Jersey on the way to the meeting, he begged me to stop at the next pay phone.
“Please call Sergeant Coyia for me and tell him that I broke my leg or something. Just . . . just tell him I can’t make it.”
“Jim, please, not again. I’ve been making excuses to the National Guard for you ever since we moved to New York. Besides, we already used that reason. Remember, first you broke your arm, then your leg; then there was a ‘death in the family.’ I’m afraid you’ve run out of bones and family members, and I’m not going to keep covering for you. I’m a terrible liar. Besides, Sergeant Coyia knows you’re bullshitting.”
“Oh, come on, sweet thing. You know I hate those meetings!”
“I’m sorry, Jim, but I’m not doing it. It was one thing when we were on tour, but now we’re back, and there’s no excuse not to go! You’re just going to have to bite the bullet and do it.”
About two hours later, we arrived at the armory, an unimpressive gray stone building in downtown Media. I dropped him off and left to hang out with my family.
Jim was early, and happy to see Ronnie Miller, a fellow National Guardsman, who was a tattooed good old boy and stock-car racing enthusiast.
Sergeant Coyia took Jim aside.
“Okay, what do I have to do?”
“See, I’m in charge of catering a party for this big-shot general. And, between you and me, I figure us paesans could make a great Italian feast. But I need you to bring your guitar and perform.”
“You got yourself a deal, man.”
Three weeks later, we drove back down to Media from New York for the general’s party and stayed at Jim’s parents’ house, as we always did on those rare occasions when Jim actually attended a Guard meeting.
“Let me do your wash,” Jim’s mother offered me, after we arrived late Friday afternoon. “I know going to the Laundromat in that neighborhood you live in must be awful.”
“No, it’s okay, Mom. I’ll do it,” I insisted. I appreciated Flora letting us use her washing machine but was intimidated by her perfectionism. Her laundry always came out whiter, brighter, and softer than I could ever get it.
I thought about it for a moment and then reconsidered.
“Well, okay, Mom—I’d like to learn how you get everything so clean!”
In the kitchen, Jim played his guitar softly, practicing for the general’s party that evening. His father walked in the back door and set down his briefcase on the counter.
“So, son,” he said, “you have nothing better to do than play the guitar?”
“That’s what I do, Dad. That’s my profession.”
“That’s the problem. What kind of a job is that?”
“It’s what I love.” His father leaned down toward him.
“Love and work are two different things. Why don’t you get out and get a real job?”
I entered the kitchen, and Jim turned to kiss me as I passed through with an armful of clothes.
Jim Senior continued: “Then maybe you could afford to get Ingrid a washing machine of her own.”
“Well, if Ing had a washing machine, what would Mom do when we came to visit?” Jim got up and followed me upstairs to put on his uniform for the party.
That night in the auditorium of the armory, the general and his wife thanked Jim for performing and told him how much they enjoyed his version of Fats Waller’s “Oyster in the Stew.” They asked him if he’d play again for them sometime.
Sergeant Coyia was commended for selecting the talent for the evening, and the dinner of veal parmesan and pasta was a smashing success, too. The sergeant wiped Jim’s slate clean.
“You’ve earned yourself a perfect attendance record with this one, Croce,” he said. “Just don’t let me get any more of those phone calls from your wife with those pussy-ass excuses. Capice?”
“Listen, Pooch,” Jim said, addressing Sergeant Coyia by his nickname. “How about for every concert I play for you from now on, I get a pass on a meeting?”
“We’ll see, Croce, but don’t push it.”
The following afternoon on Sunday, Jim and I joined his parents at the wedding of Jim’s longtime friend and fellow musician, Mike DiBenedetto. Mike had wanted Jim to be his best man, but in a traditional Italian Catholic ceremony, everyone in the wedding party had to belong to the Catholic Church. Because of Jim’s conversion to Judaism he wasn’t eligible to be Mike’s best man, so Jim’s brother, Rich, stood in. The wedding was held at the historic St. Mary Magdalen Church on Montrose Street in South Philadelphia, where Mario Lanza had performed and made the church’s perfect acoustics famous.
Just before the ceremony started, Jim and I stood with the wedding party on the church steps talking with friends. Black kids were jumping double Dutch on the sidewalk, while at nearby vegetable stands Italian vendors fried up pepper-and-egg sandwiches. The aroma swept over the steps, making me hungry. Six black limousines, carrying the bride and her family, circled the block for the sixth time. Jim leaned over to me and said, “Jo Anne’s family only lives about two blocks from the church. So either Jo Anne loves riding in limousines, or her father is making sure he gets his money’s worth!”
Jim Senior and Flora came up the steps, and we all entered the chapel together, filing into a pew near the front. Jim’s father went in first, and Jim sat between his mother and me. Flora knelt in prayer. Having never been in a church before, and unfamiliar with Catholic customs, I turned to Jim and asked in a hushed tone, “Is this where you’re supposed to jockulate?” Jim threw his head back and laughed out loud. His mother turned and shot him a violent frown. The organ music began.
Still laughing, he whispered, “Ing, the word is ‘genuflect.’”
Jim Croce Sr., with little Jimmy in South Philly, 1943
The entire Croce family. From left to right: The twins—Carmen and Patty, Paul, Evelyn, Philamina (Fanny), Santina (Sadie), Florence, Angelina (Ginger), James Sr., Carmella, and Pasquale.
Jim at his first communion
Jim and Rich, 1966
From left to right: Jim Croce, cousins Arlene Zungolo, Ronnie Zungolo, and Denise Catalano, and Rich Croce, 1962
Jim and Ingrid at The Riddle Paddock, 1967
Jim’s passport photo, 1964
Bill and Greg Reid at their farm in Sadesburyville, Pennsylvania
Jim and Ingrid at Moore College of Art, 1968. Photo courtesy of Rita Bernstein.
From left to right: Jim’s uncle from Rochester, New York, Massimo Babusci, Jim, and Pasquale Croce, 1963
Rich Croce and his “Pa,” Massimo Babusci
Jim in his kitchen with a couple members of The Spires and friends, 1963
Ingrid’s father, Dr. Sidney Jacobson
Jim Sr. and Flora Croce
Jim at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, 1966
Jim inside tub with Ronnie Miller
Jim at Ingrid’s home, 1963
Jim and Ingrid on their wedding day, August 28, 1966
Jim at the Riddle Paddock, 1965
Jim and Ingrid celebrating their first Christmas as a married couple in the Croce family home in Drexel Hill, Pennsylvania, 1966
Jim, Ingrid, Flora, and Jim Sr. at Croce family home in Drexel Hill, Pennsylvania
Jim and Ingrid at their home in Media, Pennsylvania, in the late 1960s. Photo courtesy of the Philadelphia Inquirer.
Maury Muehleisen and Joe Salviulo playing at Glassboro State College in New Jersey
Ingrid outside the house in Lyndell, Pennsylvania, 1971
Jim and Ingrid in Lyndell, Pennsylvania, 1971. Photo courtesy of Paul Wilson
Jim and Maury Muelheisen at Paul’s Mall in Boston, Massachusetts. Photo courtesy of Paul Wilson.
Jim in Indianapolis, Indiana, June 13, 1972. Al Parachini (photographer)
From left to right: Maurice Muehleisen Sr., Maury Muehleisen, and Judy Coffin at Meuhleisen home, 1971
Jim, George Spillane, Ingrid, and Adrian James in Lyndell, Pennsylvania, 1972
Jim and Adrian James in kitchen at their home in Coatsville, Pennsylvania, 1973
Ingrid, Adrian James, and Jim at Phil Petillo’s guitar workshop. Photo courtesy Lucille Petillo
Jim, Ingrid, and Adrian James at the Croce family home, 1973
Jim getting his first Gold single (with Burt Sugarman), 1972
Jim backstage at The Troubadour in Los Angeles, California, 1972
Jim shooting a gun in Lyndell, Pennsylvania, 1972
Jim and Maury Muelheisen in chartered plane, 1973
“Oh. I’m sorry.” He stifled another laugh as his mother nudged him and said, “Behave!”
At the altar, the beautiful blonde bride and black-haired groom were a study in contrasts. Mike was as thin as his bride was round, and the sight of the two of them together made Jim giggle.
“I think I can hear Jo Anne’s stomach growl,” he whispered. “They aren’t supposed to eat before they take communion. I think Jo Anne will need an extra helping of communion wafers.” I gave him a “be kind” look as the priest began the invocation.
The parishioners knelt in unison. I d
idn’t.
Caught between his Jewish wife and his Catholic mother, Jim wasn’t sure what to do. His mother grabbed his right arm, pulling him down. He had his right knee on the kneeling bench and his left buttock firmly planted on the pew. He started losing his balance just as the bride began to reel.
She let out a cry that sounded like a seal’s bark, echoing sharply through the church. As we watched wide-eyed, Jo Anne turned and threw up all over the groom, Rich, and the priest. She began to stagger forward, losing her headdress. A chorus welled up from the women in the congregation, “Oooh, the veil!”
“It’s an omen!” cried Flora. Jim burst into laughter, lost balance in his contorted posture, doubled into a ball, and rolled past me into the aisle. At the altar, Rich worked on scraping the vomit off of the lapels of his jacket. Mike and the priest tried to steady the swooning bride, who was in danger of banging her head on the pulpit.
After a few moments, Jo Anne announced that she was feeling better. The ceremony was mercifully completed. In the reception line, Jim slipped the bride a breath mint before kissing her. He gave the rest of the roll of mints to Mike. “Be sure you feed her plenty of these tonight,” he said. Mike frowned—then he and Jo Anne began to laugh.
