by Ingrid Croce
“Stop being so quiet,” Jim yelled to Jonathan over the roar of the engine. “You’re making me nervous.”
While Jonathan sat still, looking down at the white-capped waves on the southern tip of Lake Michigan, the pilot radioed the tower.
“What’s the wind pattern and velocity reading?” he asked. He started to gain cruising altitude, but the wind took hold of the plane and jerked them suddenly off their seats.
“Jesus!” Maury cried out. “This feels fucking dangerous.” He clutched the sides of his seat so hard, his knuckles literally turned white. Then he shut his eyes and began humming to calm himself. Jonathan was transfixed on the instrument panel, making sure that the pilot had everything under control, double-checking his decisions.
For more than two hours the roller-coaster ride continued. The pilot began his descent toward the airport, and everyone breathed a deep sigh of relief.
Maury, his eyes still tightly closed, called out, “Are we there yet?”
As the plane flew lower, the turbulence worsened. The wings and body swung back and forth, bucking violently.
The cockpit of the plane went dark.
“Christ!” the pilot yelled. His words were drowned by the huge roaring engines of an ascending DC-9 that was so close Jonathan could see the rivets on the nose of the plane. The jet’s wheels suddenly appeared fifteen feet in front of the windshield. Jim dove for the floor, but his seat belt jerked him back. Maury opened his eyes and mouth wide to scream, but no sound came out. The belly and the tail of the DC-9 rolled over the top of them with a deafening thunder that suddenly ceased.
“Bloody hell!” Jonathan cried. “The bastard barely missed us!”
The pilot’s face went ashen as he fought to bring the Beechcraft under control. The tiny plane slid through the backwash of the jet, shuddered, then straightened out, and descended at a steep angle. Jonathan forcefully grabbed the yoke in front of him and took over. The plane was almost on the runway when a violent gust of wind tossed it sideways, beyond the taxi lane and toward a thick grove of oak trees. Jonathan struggled to bring it back on line, but it was too late to gain altitude. He pulled hard to the right, away from the trees, as the left wing mowed through a thick hedge like a giant clipper. The plane screeched as the branches scraped along the aluminum wing, but it held together and came to a stop with the left wing plunged into the hedge.
For a moment, nobody spoke. Jonathan turned and stared at Jim. Maury had shut his eyes again. They got out, stunned and silent, and headed toward the terminal.
“Shit!” Jonathan said softly. “Something’s after us, Jim.” He took out a Saint Christopher medal from his jacket pocket and handed it to him. “Here, take this. It’s for good luck, man. In case next time I’m not there to save you.”
_____
By early June 1973, “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” had sold more than a half million copies, and You Don’t Mess Around with Jim had gone gold. Although Jim’s concert price had risen to $10,000 per night, and he was playing constantly to packed houses, he was told that the money he was earning was still being used to pay for his expenses. Jim lived with the promise that royalties would be coming soon. He had appeared on American Bandstand, Midnight Special, Rock Concert, The Helen Reddy Show, and various television specials. “Time in a Bottle” had been chosen as the theme song for She Lives, a television movie starring Desi Arnaz Jr., about a woman stricken by cancer. Soon after a second appearance on The Tonight Show, Elliott, Jim’s manager, called him on the road.
“Just wanted to let you know there’s a change in your schedule. We’ve booked you to host Midnight Special on June 8, when you’re back in LA next week, to be aired on ABC on June 15. And Cavett wants you in two weeks.”
“That’s great, Elliott. Keep booking me on TV as much as you can. I reach a lot more people with one television show than with a shitload of concerts. Besides, I can stay in California. I’m actually thinking about moving here.”
“Well,” Elliott continued, “as a matter of fact, in September I’ve got the twenty-fifth booked for the Midnight Special again and the twenty-sixth for Rock Concert.”
“Good. Maybe I could get my own show someday.”
“Well, at least you can cover for a week for Carson while he’s on vacation. Would that work for you?”
“Wow, cover for Johnny Carson. That’d be great.”
Jim interacted easily with Carson and had made an impression on the popular host. On his most recent Tonight Show appearance, when Johnny had asked him what he’d been doing lately, Jim had told him about his recent bouts with flying:
“The meaning of faith is giving your guitars to the airlines. They have this new thing now called ‘special handling.’ Usually you have to leave your guitar with them where you leave your suitcase, but now you can take it right to the door of the plane. So you get to actually watch them drop it.”
“I hear you’ve been flying all over lately. How do you like it here in Los Angeles?” Johnny asked.
Jim squinted his left eye and answered, “The health craze is big now in California. Everyone is into this guru-commune routine of bein’ real still and eating brown rice. You know, rice makes you nice. Well, shoot, rice never made me nice—it made me thin. And another thing: everyone is into bein’ pure, but I don’t buy it. I walked into a health food kitchen in Westwood yesterday, and they have the wheat germ and kelp flower. They have the soybean meal and ginseng root. And then way down at the end of the shelf, so no one can see it, is this carton of Camel cigarettes and a jar of instant coffee. I don’t think it’s all that it’s cracked up to be.”
After the commercial break, Jim sang “Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown” and then returned to his seat next to Johnny.
“Didn’t I hear that you had bad luck with cars?” Carson asked.
“Yeah, I just wanted one car I could depend on,” Jim smiled, holding up his index finger. “I was always stopping by used car lots and junkyards trying to find one that worked. Last year I owned thirteen cars. And that’s the truth—a little bit more than one a month. The truck I own now has fifteen-inch wheels on one side and sixteen-inch on the other. It always feels like I’m going around a corner.” He leaned into a pretend turn.
_____
In late June, Jim and Maury finally got a week off between road trips, and they both came back to Pennsylvania. It was the first time in a year and half that we were going to have a whole week together. On the second day of their break, Elliott called Jim at the farm.
“I hate to tell you this, man, but we’ve had to add some concerts to your upcoming tour. I’m sorry, but you guys have to cut your break short.”
“What the hell!” Jim started to yell at Elliott. “I knew this would happen. Can’t they reschedule them for after our break?”
“It’s just the way it worked out,” Elliott told Jim, nonchalantly.
“Well, it’s good-bye again,” he told me. “They’ve added more concerts to the tour.”
“Jim, this is crazy.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. “But we have to do the dates they’ve scheduled.” With the receiver still in his hand he grew pensive. “Elliott knows how much I need this break. Maybe he can figure something out to make this work.” Then he dialed a number.
“Maury,” he said. My heart dropped. I had been sure he was going to call Elliott back and have him rearrange his schedule. “We’ve got to head out tomorrow. Elliott just called, and they’ve booked more concerts.”
“I don’t think I can make it,” Maury groaned. He was lying on Judy’s bed. “I feel like I’m gonna die.”
“What’s the matter?” Jim asked.
“Allergies. I think it’s the cat.”
Jim exploded. “I’m not going alone!”
Then his voice became calm.
“Okay, Maury. I’ll take care of it,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Maury asked anxiously.
Jim slammed down
the phone.
Maury turned paler than usual and slowly replaced the receiver.
“What’d he say?” asked Judy.
“He said he’d take care of it—whatever that means.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Judy said.
“Yeah, he’s wound up really tight.”
After Jim hung up, I watched him go to the gun rack on the kitchen wall and take down the shotgun.
“What are you doing?” I asked nervously. He slapped his black-and-gold CAT cap on his head.
“Get Adrian’s jacket,” he ordered, walking toward the front door. “We’re going for a ride to see Maury and Judy.” The gun and his strange, dark mood scared me. But I was afraid to ask questions. I got the coats and carried Adrian to the pickup. Jim swung in behind the wheel without speaking. Impatiently he revved the engine, tucked some shells into the vest pocket of his denim jacket, and set the shotgun behind the seat. He turned up the country station on the radio. Thirty minutes later, after barely speaking, he turned the truck into Judy’s driveway. He stopped in front of the house, left the engine running, grabbed the shotgun, and got out of the truck.
One of the neighbor’s cats crouched at the end of the driveway. Adrian and I watched horrified from the pickup as he raised the shotgun. He took aim and squeezed the trigger. The gun bucked and let out a huge roar. He picked up the dead cat by the tail and strode sharply onto the porch. Maury and Judy stared at each other inside, mouths gaping. Jim rapped on the front window with the barrel of his shotgun. Judy jumped halfway across the room.
“I took care of it!” Jim yelled. “See you in the morning!” On his way back down the driveway, he tossed the cat into the brush and got in the truck. Adrian was crying. I sat in stunned silence.
_____
Later that afternoon, when Jim went out to visit Bill Reid, and while Adrian was taking his nap, I called Judy and Maury. Maury answered.
“Maury, I’m scared to death about what happened today.”
“He’s crazy, Ingrid,” Maury told me. “He’s a madman. He can’t go on like this much longer. And I can’t be a part of this anymore.”
“I know,” I whispered. “But what can I do? I don’t know him anymore. Please, Maury, don’t abandon him. Please help us.”
That evening, after Adrian was in his bed, I sat Jim down in the living room.
“I’ve made a decision today. I’m going to leave you if you don’t get some help. I know there are other women. I know about all the crap that’s going on, and I don’t want to discuss it. I just want you to get some help.”
Jim just sat there cornered, staring at me.
“You know about what other women?” he asked.
I ignored him and continued. “What you did today is the last straw, Jim. Either you get help, or Adrian and I are gone.” I stormed out of the room and then stopped in the hallway when I heard him on the phone.
“How ya doin’?” he said. I listened to him pace back and forth as far as the phone cord would let him.
“I need a break badly. Can’t you move these concerts to a later date?” He stopped pacing and stood still and listened for a moment. “No way! I can’t stop taking them,” he said. “I need them. I’d like to see you stay up on the natch for three days straight. If you care so damn much about me, get us off the fucking road!”
After he hung up, I walked back into the room and said, “You’re still going aren’t you?”
He nodded and headed upstairs to bed.
_____
I called Elliott while Jim was on tour. I knew Jim would disapprove, but I didn’t care. Things had gotten so bad I was desperately worried about his health and life.
“Please get him off the road, Elliott,” I begged. “He’s so messed up, I never know what he’s going to do next.”
“I know he’s under a lot of pressure,” Elliott admitted. “We’ll get him off the road soon.”
“Well if you don’t, you’ll have one less artist to promote.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t,” I insisted. “He’s doing crazy things. Did he tell you about what he did at Maury and Judy’s? He needs a break right now, not next week. Right now!”
“Okay, okay. He just has to finish this one final tour, and we’ll give him time off. I promise.”
“I hope you really mean it, Elliott.” My voice was calmer. “Do you have any idea how serious this is?”
_____
That summer, Jim played most of his gigs in Southern California. His agent had double-scheduled him on the West Coast so that in addition to concerts he could be readily available for television. In Los Angeles, Jim had been working with Corb Donahue, an artist relations representative for ABC/Dunhill who was also representing Jimmy Buffett. For over a year, Jim and Corb had developed a close friendship. Jim liked and trusted Corb. They could talk in depth about music and the music industry. Their conversations encompassed everything from world politics to Corb’s passion, surfing. Corb thought Jim was brilliant and found his humor refreshing. “You know,” Corb said one afternoon in Jim’s hotel room, “when I first met you, I expected some big six-foot-six burly truck driver to walk through the door.”
“Like Merle Haggard or Johnny Cash, right?” Jim laughed.
“Yeah, I thought you’d be a real bad-ass kind of guy. But shit, you’re a pussycat. Of all the artists I’ve worked with, you’re the only one who never says no. You make yourself available for anything the company asks, and you never complain.”
“Yeah, and look where that’s gotten me.” Jim smiled and sat down at the desk to finish writing a note he had started.
“Writing thank-you notes?”
“Well, that’s the least I can do for the people who buy my records.” He folded down the top of the white note card. On the front was a pen and ink caricature of Jim’s face with a huge cigar and puffs of smoke. A printed message inside read, “Thanks for Messin’ Around with Jim.”
“Who do you send them to, anyway?”
“People who write me, disc jockeys, concert promoters, record distributors. Just nice folks. I even sent one to your boss.”
“No wonder everyone loves you,” he smiled.
“You know,” he said, “I spend time with everyone except my own family. Shit, I haven’t been home—I mean really home—for months. Don’t get me wrong. I mean, I really love being on the road performing and meeting people. But it’s hard with a family. And when I do get home, I’m so spun out I’m hardly there.”
“You really do look tired, Jim,” Corb said empathetically. “You’re burnin’ the candle at both ends.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been going nonstop for almost two years now,” he added. “Ever wish you could just disappear?”
“Sure, and I do,” said Corb. “You know, last month I took some vacation time and went down to Costa Rica. Maybe you and Ingrid could join my wife, Lee, and me in Central America when you get some time off. We’ll take the babies and caravan down to Quepos. There are a couple of houses for sale there. Costa Rica would be a great place to hide away for a while. And I’ve been thinking land down there would be a great investment someday.”
“Time off . . . that’d be nice,” Jim muttered, putting away the note cards. “I just put a down payment on our first new truck, a Travelall. Maybe we could drive down with you sometime. Thanks for the invitation.”
_____
One June night, Jim called me.
“I want us to move to California,” he said excitedly.
“Really?” I asked, surprised.
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking. San Diego is a great town. It would be easier on all of us to live on the West Coast. Just think, Ing . . . no winter.”
“Sounds perfect to me.” Jim still hadn’t gone to get help, and I hadn’t left him. I desperately wanted to keep our family together, and once Jim was off the road, I hoped he would see a doctor and stop taking drugs.
The idea of moving appealed to me. Coatesville
was a lonely place, and I wanted Adrian to get to know his dad. So in late June we flew to California for the first time and met Jim in San Diego. We checked into the Hilton Hotel on Mission Bay and began looking for houses to buy. I found a really nice real estate agent who showed us around San Diego with the understanding that we only had a couple of days to find a house. On the first day, we found a two-bedroom ranch-style home in the wooded section of Point Loma that listed for $48,000. We made an offer of $45,000, and the house was ours.
Jim called Tommy.
“Ing and I have decided to move to San Diego and buy our first home, but I need to borrow some money for a down payment. I figure it shouldn’t be a problem to get an advance.”
“Well, I don’t know Jim. This is kind of sudden,” Tommy told him.
“Come on, Picardo. I still haven’t received any royalties.”
There was a long silence. To his surprise Tommy finally said, “Okay, Jim. I’ll have the down payment wired tomorrow.”
“I did it, Ing. We’re actually buying our first home. If you can go to the bank tomorrow, you can deposit the check Tommy’s sending.”
“Don’t you want to open the account with me, Jim?” I asked.
“I’ve gotta meet with some people in LA tomorrow, and besides, you’re better at takin’ care of business than I am.”
The following day Jim returned to the hotel, having cut his trip short. I was writing letters. Adrian James, almost two, was sitting on the floor unscrewing the knobs from the dresser. Jim paced around the crowded hotel room, reading lyrics out loud for a new song. Not paying attention, he stepped on one of the dismantled knobs and twisted his ankle.
“Adrian,” he yelled, “you can’t play in the middle of the room!” He scooped him up and put him on the bed.
“Jesus Christ, I almost fell on my ass! Now don’t move, little man.” He pointed at his son.
