by Ingrid Croce
“I’m really excited about playing with him,” Jim told me one night on the phone. “I wonder if his phobias are for real.”
At the first concert when Jim was opening for Allen, before he went onstage, Jim found the comedian pacing in the dressing room and wringing his hands. He looked like a caricature of himself, perseverating nervously.
“Do, do, do you think this stuff is good enough?” he asked Jim. “I mean, do you think what I have to say is really funny?” He was so painfully self-absorbed with stage fright that Jim wondered why he was putting himself through this. “I mean, do you think what I say will make ’em laugh?” He turned his head with the look of a badly disturbed owl. Jim thought Woody was hysterical, even funnier offstage than on.
With Allen as the headliner, Jim and Maury played the Bitter End on Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village in October and at Valley Forge in November. The hometown press cheered them on. One local Philadelphia reporter wrote: “So, Woody, you were pretty fortunate to have Croce in front of you.”
One night, when Jim called me for our nightly conversation, I told him, “Honey, you made Rolling Stone again. They said you look like a happy guerrilla fighter just in from the hills.”
Jim laughed, thinking the description was ridiculous, but not too far off the mark. “Those writers will say anything!” he said.
I held up the article as if it could bring him closer to me. “You know, sweet thing, I think you’re becoming far more famous than you realize. Everywhere we go we see pictures of your wonderfully rugged face.” When he didn’t respond, I continued. “I just wish I could see it in person.”
“I don’t know, Ing,” he said quickly. “It’s not like this is really fun for me, either. It’s fucking hard work.”
“I know it is. It’s just that I miss you so much.”
“Me too,” he replied, but I wasn’t convinced. He was constantly invited out to parties, and I was saddened by the thought of what might really be going on. Groupies waited for him after every show, and I wasn’t completely blind to how tempting that would be.
Confronting Jim with my doubts would only make him angry, so I asked, “Have you heard from Sal?”
“Yeah, I actually spoke to Sal tonight, and I called my mom too. She said to say hello. I bought her some Godiva chocolates. I know how much she loves them.” There was a pause.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m doing good, Ing. I’ll be home soon.”
“Okay. sweetie. Love you.”
“Me too,” he said.
_____
In October, the tour made a one-night stop in Bemidji, Minnesota. Jonathan opened with his routine; then Jim and Maury performed.
During an intermission, an attractive, well-dressed young woman worked her way backstage and introduced herself.
“I just talked to your dad,” she said to Jim. “He told me he was really glad that you were doing so well.”
Jim just stared at her. “Uh huh,” he replied, caught between shock and disbelief.
“He was sitting right up there.” She pointed to an empty seat near the top row. At first Jim thought the woman was playing a joke, but her manner and expression seemed serious. So he asked what the man looked like. She described Jim’s father perfectly.
“He was tall; he wore glasses and had kind of salt and pepper hair. And he was wearing a plaid flannel shirt.”
Jim was spooked. He looked at Jonathan, who shrugged.
“Well,” the woman continued, “he said to tell you that he knew You Don’t Mess Around with Jim was going to make it. Then he said he had to leave and asked me to pass his message on to you.”
Jim shook his head as he watched her walk away. As soon as Jim got back to his room, he called me.
“Ing, you’re not gonna believe this. Remember when you told me you thought you’d seen your dad about six months after he died? Well, when I just finished my concert tonight, this woman came up to me and told me she had spoken to my dad tonight. He told her to tell me that he knew You Don’t Mess Around with Jim could make it. No one knew he said that but you and me.”
I’LL HAVE TO SAY I LOVE YOU IN A SONG
MAURY WAS ABLE TO REST while Jim did interviews, radio shows, meetings, and solo performances, but Jim was having more and more trouble getting to sleep and waking up on time. To maintain an impossible schedule, he was relying more and more on pharmaceuticals.
“I have no privacy. None! Whether I hang a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door or not, the maids just walk right in. I’m so fucking tired, and I keep getting sick,” he told me in a call from his hotel room in Chicago.
“Please just finish this tour and come home,” I told him.
“Don’t lay a guilt trip on me.”
“I’m not, Jim. I just want you to be okay,” I insisted.
“I am okay, and I’m hanging up now. I don’t want to deal with your shit.”
“Please don’t hang up angry. Let’s just change the subject.” He slammed down the receiver.
Five minutes later, he called back and said, “I’m sorry, Ing. I know I need time off, and I keep asking Tommy, but he’s not listening. I don’t know how or when I can get it. Are you and my little old man doing okay?”
“Yes, Jim,” I said defensively. “We’re fine.”
“I don’t mean to take this out on you, Ing, but it just happens. I just get pissed off.”
“Good night, Jim. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Good night, Ing.”
After he hung up the phone again, there was a knock at his door.
“Jim, we know you’re in there,” chorused two girls’ voices. He didn’t answer. They kept tapping and banging, then burst into laughter. Finally they left. Jim heard them knock on another door down the hall, and then the voices were gone.
Wired and weary, Jim picked up his guitar, turned on the tape recorder, and sang what he had so far of a new song, “One Less Set of Footsteps”:
We been running away from
Somethin’ we both know,
We’ve long run out of things to say
And I think I better go.
So don’t be gettin’ excited
When you hear that slammin’ door,
‘Cause there’ll be one less set of footsteps
On your floor in the morning.
And we’ve been hidin’ from somethin’
That should have never gone this far,
But after all it’s what we’ve done
That makes us what we are.
And you’ve been talkin’ in silence.
Well, if it’s silence you adore,
Oh there’ll be one less set of footsteps
On your floor in the mornin’.
Well there’ll be one less set of footsteps
On your floor,
One less man to walk in.
One less pair of jeans upon your door,
One less voice a-talkin’.
Before completing the third verse, he turned the recorder off, grabbed his note pad, and put down some words for another new song, “These Dreams.” He turned the recorder back on and sang:
Once we were lovers, but somehow things have changed;
Now we’re just lonely people,
Trying to forget each other’s names.
Now we’re just lonely people,
Trying to forget each other’s names.
Once we were lovers,
but that was long ago;
We lived together then
and now we do not even say hello.
We lived together then
and now we do not even say hello
What came between us,
Maybe we were just too young to know;
But now and then I feel the same.
And sometimes at night I think I hear you calling my name,
Mm mm mm, these dreams,
They keep me goin’ these days
When he finished recording “These Dreams,” he returned to “One Less
Set of Footsteps” and completed the last verse. He also finished another verse and the chorus for “These Dreams.” He fell asleep, satisfied that at least he had almost all the new songs ready for the second album.
The next morning, Maury looked at Jim shyly and said, “I don’t know how you do it, man. You can keep those damn groupies to yourself! I feel awful this morning. I can’t do this to Judy.”
_____
A week later, Jim came home unannounced.
“I want us to move away from Lyndell,” he told me, marching into the kitchen the morning after he arrived.
“Why? You’re never here.”
“Yeah, but did you see those fans down there by Frank’s Folly? They knew I was coming home before you did. I want to move where no one can find me.”
What he couldn’t tell me was that he was paranoid about his separate lives colliding. I didn’t like the idea of moving even further into isolation, but I gave in by rationalizing that if Jim felt more insulated at home, he’d try to be there more often.
We found a large farmhouse near Coatesville that rented for only $125 a month in a tiny rural community more than half an hour’s drive from Lyndell. I liked the house and the acres of rolling farmland that surrounded it, but I felt totally abandoned, and my concerns about Jim and our relationship grew steadily. No matter how hard I tried to say the right things, somehow our nightly conversations ended badly.
One night when Jim called from the road again, I apologized.
“Jim, I’m so sorry. I know you think I sound selfish when I ask when you’re coming home. But honestly, I’m not good at this. And I don’t know what I can do to make things right.”
“I know, Ing.” Then he was silent. “It’s not you.”
“Please can’t I meet you somewhere?”
“I don’t know if we can make that happen, Ing. It’s tough. This is no life for a baby. What would he do all day? I’ll be back home in a few weeks. I promise. We’ll have time then.”
He never had a good answer for why we couldn’t occasionally join him, and I was suspicious that there were groupies or other women on the road. But I wanted to believe him, so I tried to ignore the signs.
_____
In the beginning of November, between concerts, Jim and Maury took a couple of weeks off to record Jim’s second album for ABC/Dunhill, called Life and Times. Even before they got into the studio, “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” was selected as the first single off the new album. “Next Time, This Time,” “A Good Time Man Like Me Ain’t Got No Business (Singin’ the Blues),” “Careful Man,” “Alabama Rain,” “Dreamin’ Again,” “Roller Derby Queen,” “Speedball Tucker,” “These Dreams,” and “It Doesn’t Have To Be That Way” were also included. “One Less Set of Footsteps,” one of the final songs Jim had written before going into the studio, was a last-minute choice for the album. After producing the song, Tommy and Dennis felt it was such a strong cut they wanted to put it out as a single.
During Christmas break, a reporter from the Philadelphia Inquirer interviewed Jim at home in Coatesville. The starstruck reporter was pleasantly surprised that Jim allowed him to get so close. They sat down at the kitchen table to talk. I served them coffee and muffins. Jim had his message down pat.
“We’ve seen everything from Spanish moss to icebergs on this tour,” he said. “It’s been a steady grind of getting up at six in the morning to catch airplanes and piling into cars for hundred-mile drives to the next gig.” The interviewer sipped his coffee and watched Jim’s expressive gestures, smiling as he took notes. “We’ve been on everything,” Jim continued. “Crop dusters, everything. I didn’t even know biplanes still existed. Some places we played you had to drive to because the only other way would’ve been to parachute in.”
The reporter took it all down and, when the interview was over, said, “This was great fun, Jim. Thanks for your time. I won’t bother you any longer.”
“It’s not a bother,” Jim said.
While he was home for the holidays, I tried to focus our activities around Adrian James and steered Jim away from talking about his obligations. Fortunately, we had lots of friends who would visit when he came home. And although I would have preferred to be alone with him, I did my best to give him space.
_____
Shortly after Jim left on his next tour, he was flying in a small plane on his way to Dallas with Maury and Jonathan Moore when a heavy squall moved in from the Gulf of Mexico. Traveling with Jonathan made Jim feel safe because the comedian was also a first-rate pilot. Jonathan would often sit in the copilot’s seat and make flight path decisions. The storm struck with sudden fury. The plane began to dance from side to side. The pilot ignored it and went on telling stories about the action he’d seen in Vietnam as a fighter pilot.
“I’ve crashed several times,” he said over the sound of the pouring rain. “Once a general who was on board got killed!” He turned around to grin at Jim and Maury, and pulled up his trouser leg to reveal a plastic prosthesis. “Lost this in a crash, too,” he told them.
Maury turned white. A moment later the plane hit a downdraft and dropped suddenly. The pilot lunged for the controls as the craft sank at a faster and ever-steeper angle. They plunged more than 2,000 feet before the plane could be stabilized. Everybody, including the pilot, was terrified. Finally Jonathan said, “Turn the plane around. Let’s go back.”
_____
On December 23, Jim walked onstage at Madison Square Garden and received a standing ovation. “You Don’t Mess Around with Jim has reached over the million mark in sales,” the announcer said excitedly. “And now Jim has just completed his second album, Life and Times. Let’s hear it for Jim Croce!” The crowd’s roar was deafening. Jim had given in and finally invited me to join him for the New York concert. He arranged to meet me back at the hotel room after the show, which I suspected was a way to avoid any possible run-ins with groupies.
Judy and I had driven to New York together. I left Adrian James with my stepmom for the weekend. It was my first time away from the baby, and I knew he was in good hands. I was glad Jim wanted me to come to this concert and hoped if it went well, we could do this again.
The crowds were amazing. It had been months since I had attended one of Jim’s shows, and though I knew his set by heart, I was always happy that audiences had such a good time listening to Jim’s music and raps. After two encores, Jim escaped out the back door to leave and meet me in our room at the St. Moritz. He was intercepted by a demanding woman who wanted to go home with him. He hated to refuse anyone, but he talked his way out of it, explaining that his wife was expecting him back in the room.
I waited impatiently for him to arrive. It felt strange to be so nervous with my own husband, but I wanted our evening to go well. When he opened the door to the hotel room, I was primping in the bathroom.
“Hi sweetie,” I called to him. “I loved the show tonight. Maury was great, too.”
“Thanks,” he said quietly, as I came into the living room to hug him. He was still holding his guitar case.
“Sorry I’m late. I’m exhausted.” He sighed heavily. I hugged him tightly.
“Do you want to just sit and sing some songs together and unwind?” I asked.
“I just want to hold you, Ing. Just be here for me. Please don’t leave me.”
“Why would I leave you?”
Jim sat down and took his guitar out of the case. “I don’t know. Things just get so crazy on the road.”
“I know—it actually feels like we’re on a date. Like old times.”
He started playing “Four Strong Winds,” and I harmonized on the chorus. No matter how far apart we were, music brought us home. He played “Child of Midnight” and “And I Remember Her” and asked me to sing Joni Mitchell’s “Blue.”
“Ing, I want to sing with you again, and we could be on the road together.”
“Well, we can at least do this once in a while, until Adrian James is a little older.”
“Go
d, I’ve missed you, Ing,” he said. “I don’t mean to be such a bastard.”
“Let’s not talk about it now. I don’t get a chance to be with you very often. Could you just come over here and hold me?”
_____
The next morning, Jim suggested we stay in bed and order room service. I loved the opportunity to be alone with him, and with excitement I looked at the menu. I was stunned.
“I can’t believe this, Jim: $7.99 for eggs and toast and $3.00 more for bacon. Who can afford these prices?”
There was a knock at the door. I jumped out of bed and threw on my robe and went to see who it was. A messenger handed me an Associated Press article with a note from Tommy that read, “Good going, Jim.”
Jim was sitting at the desk with his guitar in hand. I began reading the review out loud.
Croce, 29, is bounding up the ladder of musical success after nearly a decade of passing the hat and hitting the road.
Then the reporter quoted Jim:
“I try to approach my songs so others can say they’ve had that kind of experience too. It’s like those old radio shows when you used to hear the door creak open in the background and everybody saw something different coming through it.”
I sat down on the bed and read further:
Somehow there’s no way anyone could seriously question whether Croce has paid his so-called dues. It’s all too obvious that he has. His songs let you know more than anything else, but so does his fist-like face.
“You’re really doing it,” I said and went over to hug him. “Everything you dreamed of is coming true! Come on, come to bed.”
But he seemed to have a lot on his mind, and his response was muted. “New York makes me nervous.”
