by Ingrid Croce
“That’s great; I’m really happy for him. He certainly deserves it.”
“Yeah,” Jim continued, “he’s ready for a change. He and Judy saved some money, and they’re buying a baby grand and some nice recording equipment. He’s as eager to get off the road as I am.”
_____
Jim still had to do the makeup tour to play the concerts that had been canceled when he’d had problems with his voice. He called me from the recording studio in New York.
“Ing, sweet thing,” he said enthusiastically, “get a babysitter for Friday night. I want to take you on a date. We need to talk.” I knew Jim really would have preferred to have home cooking, but he knew that this would be a real treat for me. I rarely hired a sitter. Since Adrian was born, I had taken care of him on my own, except on a couple of occasions, when my stepmom or mother-in-law watched him.
I asked a new neighbor across the street with four young children of her own if she would mind babysitting Adrian for Friday night. Linda told me it would be her pleasure, and I thought that playing with the other children would be good for him.
Excited about our date, I looked in my closet and realized I had nothing to wear and, besides, Jim had told me my clothes looked too “back East.” I drove down to an Ocean Beach thrift store to find something “California-looking.” I wanted it to be a perfect night.
Adrian and I met Jim at the airport on Friday morning, September 14, and we spent the whole day together, bumming around San Diego like tourists. After a walk on the Ocean Beach Pier and a visit with a disc jockey friend, Larry Himmel, Jim took me to the Black, a local head shop, to get some incense. Then we went to another thrift store nearby, as Jim had told me he needed to replace his denim jacket, which had been stolen by a fan in Chicago. I also noticed he wasn’t wearing his gold necklace with the Italian charm his parents had given him, but I said nothing. It kind of hit me that he might have given it away to the woman he’d bought that gold chain for, the S I’d found in his suitcase.
He tried on a jacket and a clerk with long black hair and a mustache came from behind him and stared.
“Far out, man—you look just like Jim Croce! I bet you could make a fortune imitating him.”
“Do you think so?” Jim asked.
“I’m serious, man! You should do it.”
“Are you going to get the jacket?” the clerk asked.
“No, not right now, but thanks,” Jim said, eyeing the price tag. Jim and I left laughing about the hippy’s comments.
“I wonder what he’d think if he knew you were really Jim Croce and too broke to buy a used jacket.”
“I’m glad he didn’t recognize me. I’d probably still be back there signing autographs, when I’d rather be with you.” He kissed me on my cheek, and we all got into the Travelall and headed downtown.
Jim parked near Tiger Jimmy’s tattoo parlor, and we walked up Broadway. We looked into the window of the tattoo studio. Jim now had several more tattoos, his most recent two butterflies, one on each shoulder, still healing, besides the rose on his chest, the spider on his arm, and the snake up his leg. I had softened to his appetite for body art. I had even thought about possibly getting a tattoo myself, or at least teasing him about it.
I told him, “I’m going to have ‘Jim’ tattooed right here on my hip, with a big X through it, crossing you out,” my tone abrupt. He looked hurt, so I softened it. “Then I’m going to have another ‘Jim’ put right above it, because I could never cross you out, not for long anyway, though I probably should!” He laughed. I could always make him laugh, especially when I didn’t intend to.
He put his arms around me, drawing me close, and kissed me deeply. Then he whispered in my ear: “I promise Ing, these crazy times are behind us. Forget tattoos. Let’s go to the house so you can get ready for our date.” He watched Adrian while I got ready. I knew he would rather have eaten at home, after all the restaurants on the road, but he knew going out to dinner was good for us. I could tell he was really trying hard to make things work.
When we were ready, we dropped Adrian with Linda and her four children. We drove back downtown to San Diego’s Gaslamp Quarter. Walking around the desolate city, its streets full of beggars and ladies of the night, we found no restaurants or live music. When we finally stopped on the corner of Fifth and F, Jim joked that we should open a local restaurant and bar in the old Keating Building and call it Croce’s.
“We could bring our friends in to play, Ing. It sure looks like San Diego could use some good food and music.”
We got back into the car, drove up Fifth Avenue and finally found a Japanese restaurant offering sushi.
I’d never had sushi before, and when the food arrived, I asked Jim about the raw fish.
“You know what it is, Ing. I’ve taken you for sushi before. Remember, in LA?”
“That wasn’t me, Jim,” I replied, looking straight into his eyes. “I’ve never had sushi.”
“Shit, yes, you have!” he insisted. Then he bit his lip to control his anger. After some silence, he apologized. “Listen,” he said, “I need to talk to you. I’ve done some terrible things. I don’t have any excuses. But the important thing is I want to be honest with you from now on. I just want to go back to the way we used to be, Ing.”
I took his hand. “Look who’s being serious now.” I laughed.
“I am serious, Ing,” Jim said.
“But I don’t want to know about it, Jim,” I told him. “I’m at a place right now where it doesn’t even matter.”
He was leaving for just one more week, and I wanted our last night together to be a good one.
_____
The next morning I woke up in Jim’s arms, and he was kissing me good morning.
“You feel so warm, Jim,” I said, reaching up to kiss him gently. Embracing with the familiarity of years past, we began to make love, and he moved above me. I placed my hands on his back, just over his shoulders, and he winced.
“Don’t touch me there. Remember, sweet thing. Those tattoos I got last week are still healing.”
“Oh, I forgot.” I leaned up on my elbows to see them in the light.
“Your butterflies are like the wings of an angel,” I sighed, lying back on the pillow.
“Not exactly, Ing, I’ve been anything but an angel. We really do need to talk.”
“I know all about it, Jim. We don’t need to talk now.” Jim had always been the silent one, but now he insisted on talking.
“I’ve got to do something about my life. I just don’t know what to do.” His voice filled with emotion. “I feel so lost. . . . I can’t go on like this anymore. You have no idea how crazy it’s gotten.”
“You know, Jim, the truth is, I’m kinda numb.”
“But I’ve manipulated you. I’ve failed you in every way.”
His eyes filled with tears, and he hugged me to him. “No more, Ing. I promise you. No more. I want to cancel this trip, Ing.”
He got up and left the room. Putting on my kimono, I followed him out to the kitchen. On the wall above the phone hung my favorite photo of Jim, taken by Paul Wilson at his last photo shoot. He stared at it. “My God, I’ve gotten so old. Look at me! I’m only thirty.” He traced the dark lines beneath his eyes with his index finger.
“You look fine, Jim. You just need some rest,” I added, trying to reassure myself as much as him.
“Yeah, I guess if it’s only for one more week . . . But, if I do one more . . . then it’ll be another . . . and then another. I just really want out!”
That last night together in the darkness, holding me closely, he told me, “Listen, Ing, if something happens to me . . . I mean if you don’t hear from me or something, or I just disappear, don’t worry. You’ll hear from me in six months or so, I promise. I’ve been talking to Corb Donahue. He has a place in Costa Rica.”
I held him closely for the last time.
I GOT A NAME
September 20, 1973
THE AUDIENCE HAD BEEN applau
ding nonstop for another encore. A few students were filing quietly toward the exits when Jim strode abruptly back into the bright spotlights at center stage. A cheer rolled through the crowd. Quickly, the fans scrambled back to their seats.
Jim greeted them with a broad smile.
“Natchitoches, where were you going?” he joked. He strummed his guitar slowly, giving everyone a moment to get back to their seats and quiet down.
“We’d like to finish tonight with a song called ‘I Got a Name.’ It was written by Norman Gimble and Charlie Fox, and it’s going to be the theme song for a new movie called The Last American Hero starring Jeff Bridges. It’s the title song from my new album too. You should be able to find it in the stores in about two weeks. It sounds something like this.”
With a smile he nodded to Maury and took a deep breath. The weight of this concert was almost behind him. In unison, he and Maury played the introduction, and then, in the hushed blue light, Jim sang:
Like the pine trees lining the winding road,
I’ve got a name; I’ve got a name.
Like the singing bird and the croaking toad,
I’ve got a name; I’ve got a name.
And I carry it with me like my daddy did,
But I’m living the dream that he kept hid.
Movin’ me down the highway,
Rollin’ me down the highway,
Movin’ ahead so life won’t pass me by.
Like the north wind whistlin’ down the sky,
I’ve got a song; I’ve got a song.
Like the whippoorwill and the baby’s cry,
I’ve got a song, I’ve got a song.
And I carry it with me and I sing it loud;
If it gets me nowhere, I’ll go there proud.
Movin’ me down the highway,
Rollin’ me down the highway,
Movin’ ahead so life won’t pass me by.
And I’m gonna go there free . . .
Like the fool I am and I’ll always be,
I’ve got a dream, I’ve got a dream.
They can change their minds, but they can’t change me,
I’ve got a dream, I’ve got a dream.
Oh, I know I could share it if you’d want me to;
If you’re going my way, I’ll go with you.
Movin’ me down the highway,
Rollin’ me down the highway,
Movin’ ahead so life won’t pass me by.
Movin’ me down the highway,
Rollin’ me down the highway
Movin’ ahead so life won’t pass me by.
The crowd once again erupted in applause. Jim took off his guitar and bowed. He thanked them and quickly left the stage to call home.
I was in the kitchen guiding the deliveryman from AAA Furniture toward the den when the phone rang.
“Oh Jim, I’m so glad you called! No, you didn’t wake me. It’s still light here. I was just talking about you!”
“Really?”
“Yeah. The deliveryman is here with the rolltop desk. I told him that was my husband singing “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” on the radio, and he said he loves that song. Anyway, where are you?”
“I’m backstage in Louisiana. I just finished the show.”
“Are you okay? I’m worried about you, Jim.”
“I’m exhausted, Ing. But just three more shows to go, and I’m home. I miss you and Adrian James so much.”
“I miss you, too, Jim. How’s Maury?”
“I’ll tell you later. We’ve decided to leave tonight instead of tomorrow. We’re flying out in about an hour.”
“Oh! By the way, Jim, that birthday gift you got Adrian James must have been something you dreamed up to drive me crazy. That puppy is peeing on everything. But Adrian James loves him to death.”
“How’s my little old man?”
“He misses you, Jim. He points to your picture all the time.”
“God, I can’t wait to see him again! Hey, let’s have a big birthday party for him in our new house.” He paused. “Listen, Ing . . . I just called to tell you . . .”
Adrian James ran stark naked out the screen door and into the yard in hot pursuit of Spooner, the new puppy.
“Adrian!” I yelled, as the screen door slammed.
“Jim, Adrian’s running across the yard after the puppy. I’ve got to hang up and run after him! He’s not safe out there.”
“Ingrid, please! Wait!”
“What is it, Jim? I’ve got to get Adrian! The gate is open.”
Pausing, he said, “I love you, Ing.”
I hesitated. It had been a long time since Jim had called just to say those words. “I love you too, Jim. Please, please call me later tonight, sweet thing. I’ve got to go right now. Good-bye.”
Jim kept the phone to his ear for a few seconds longer. He placed the receiver back in its cradle. Morgan approached with Jim’s guitar in its case. “I packed it up for you, man. Ready to go?”
“Thanks. Yeah, sure, Morgan.”
He took the guitar from Morgan and walked toward the exit.
As his small entourage stepped through the rear door of the coliseum, a few dozen fans surrounded them. Jim graciously stopped and signed autographs.
“If anybody wants to tag along, you can follow us out to the airport,” he said. The sudden exodus was comical as the fans hurried to their cars. “It looks like the start of the Grand Prix,” he joked with his driver.
“Yeah, everyone’s running, all right,” Doug, the driver, drawled, “but damn, we’ve got to put this top up first. I should have done it earlier.”
“Leave it down, Doug,” Jim said. “It’s a beautiful night.”
“Yeah, but the seats are all damp now.”
“Puttin’ up the top won’t change that. Leave it down.”
The long procession of cars headed out toward the airport. Jim and Maury rode in the lead with Doug at the wheel. Morgan followed in a rental car accompanied by George Stevens and Ken Cortese. A parade of students trailed them.
“Doug, I want to apologize for not drawing a bigger crowd tonight,” Jim said. “I’m really sorry. I know these makeup concerts are kinda tough sometimes.”
“I should be apologizing to you,” he answered. “Wasn’t anybody’s fault. I’m just blaming it on that tennis tournament, on ol’ Bobby Riggs. He’s an easy target!”
As the train of cars snaked its way through the dark streets, Maury turned to Jim and asked, “How was Ing? Is everything going good in California?”
“She’s fine. The new puppy ran out the door with Adrian James in tow, and we had to cut the conversation short. Man, I can’t wait to see my little man. Hey Maury, Ing and I are making plans for Adrian’s second birthday. Can you and Judy come out to San Diego and help us celebrate? We certainly want his godmother there.”
“Yeah, that sounds great!” Maury agreed.
Doug made a right turn, and in the reflection of the headlights Jim saw a small sign that read, “Airport.” Below it, an arrow pointed the way.
“Sure aren’t many lights around here,” he said, as they drew closer to the airfield.
“Yeah, it’s an uncontrolled field, you know, without a tower,” Doug responded. “When the airport operator closes down at 6 PM, everyone goes home. Unless you know exactly where it is, this place can be tough to find.” He maneuvered the convertible toward the waiting Beechcraft. Morgan parked the rental car next to the plane so he could easily load the luggage. Car doors slammed in the dark, as students got out of their cars and grabbed a last chance to talk with Jim Croce before takeoff.
Doug walked over in his friendly way to supervise the small crowd.
“Give him some room now,” he directed. “Don’t crowd him.”
“Jim, where do you suppose the pilot is?” Morgan asked.
“I don’t know.” Jim looked around from the midst of fans encircling him. “He said he’d catch a cab.”
“Well, that’s the problem,” Doug told him. “We don’t
have any cabs in our town, Jim. He’d have to walk or get a ride.”
“I told him to be here by 10 o’clock, gassed up and ready to go,” Morgan said, checking his watch. “Damn, it’s almost 10:20 now! I might as well get the luggage on board.”
The old Beechcraft twin-engine D-18 was in the tie-down area, alone and unattended. Morgan and Ken climbed onto the right wing and opened the door. Checking the instrument panel Morgan said aloud to himself, “I wonder if Bob has gassed her up yet.”
Jim and Maury said their final good-byes to the students and then strolled around to the other side of the airplane to pass a joint in the warm night air.
As if out of nowhere, a car suddenly pulled up, and a man shouted out the window, “Hey! What are you boys doing over there?”
Jim’s and Maury’s eyes landed on the official insignia on the side of the car.
Morgan, while standing on the wing of the plane, replied, “We’re waiting for our pilot!”
The man in the official-looking car immediately sped off.
“Oh shit,” Jim said. They had a suitcase full of medicine, and the last thing they needed was some small-town cop snooping around. “Let’s get the hell out of here as soon as Bob shows up.”
The man of authority in the car, the coroner’s photographer, was just back from an official assignment and had landed his own plane about ten minutes earlier. While driving by the main hangar, he had noticed a group of college students standing around some cars in the parking area and some unfamiliar men standing on and around the Beechcraft. In a small town all strangers arouse suspicion, especially late at night.
The photographer drove straight home and placed a call to the sheriff’s deputy, Robert Self.
“The deputy is unavailable,” the dispatcher said, “but I’ll see that he receives the message as soon as he calls in.”
Bob Elliott had taken a nap in his room at the Revere Inn Motel and woken up about 9:50 PM, just ten minutes before he was supposed to be at the airport. He rushed down to the lobby and tried to catch a cab but learned too late that there were no taxis in Natchitoches. At 10:00 PM he hurried south on foot down Washington Street in the general direction of the airport. Two weeks shy of fifty-eight, Bob had suffered a heart attack five months earlier. At 10:05 PM he made his way up the steps into the police station to make sure he was headed in the right direction. He was met at the door by Lieutenant Winbarg, who was on his way to meet Chief of Police Harry Hyams at a narcotics stakeout.
