I Got a Name: The Jim Croce Story

by Ingrid Croce

  “Can we set up a blind date for them?” Phyllis asked. “It would be fun if all of us could go out together.”

  Janice, my younger sister, and Ken, the youngest and only boy in the Jacobson household, each took one of Jim’s hands and pulled him downstairs to the rec room. They had just gotten new pets and wanted Jim to see their gerbils.

  As Jim stepped off the bottom step, he heard a squeal under his shoe and saw that he had stepped on a gerbil’s head. The rodent began to run around and around in circles to the right. Jim picked it up carefully to make sure it was okay, and told Janice and Kenny, “I think he’s gonna make it,” but joked, “If he keeps circling to the right, let me know. We might need to step on the other side of his head to straighten him out.” Jim spent some time with the kids to make sure their new pet was okay while I went to my room to start my homework.

  It seemed as if he were taking forever with the kids. When he finally joined me, I gave him a quick hug and said, “Jim, I have so much homework tonight—would you please help me? I just wish I could remember facts like you do, but unless I can sing things, I can’t remember anything. Besides, the sooner I get my homework done, the sooner we can practice.”

  “Or do something else,” Jim suggested.

  “Jim, I’m serious. I really do have a lot of work to do, and I want to make sure I do well so I can get into a good college.”

  “I know you do, sweet thing, but Ing, it’s only 6, and we have plenty of time. Besides, it’s Friday night, and we have all weekend to get your homework done.” He wrapped his arms around me, and I relaxed. “Let’s take a ride to the Dairy Queen, or maybe we can go to the drive-in,” he said. “Peter Sellers’s new movie, A Shot in the Dark, is opening tonight.”

  “That sounds like fun, sweetie, but actually I don’t have all weekend to study. Tomorrow I’m going with my dad to the University of Pennsylvania Hospital to see about a possible job. You know how much I love doing my art and spending time with my dad. He found out there’s an opening this summer for an assistant art therapist. If I get the job, it would give me the opportunity to do both, and I could learn so much.”

  “Okay, Ing. What’s the capitol of Budapest, and what countries border France?”

  “Oh Jim, I’m not joking.”

  “I know, Ing, but I’ve waited all week to be with you, and I need to hold you and feel you next to me.”

  “I wanna be with you, too, but I need to study.”

  As always, we compromised. Jim quizzed me on geography and history for about an hour, just in time for us to make it to the drive-in.

  Most of our time together was like this. We played music whenever we could and made out every night we were together. By April, we were inseparable.

  Jim had begun sharing his private thoughts and stories of his childhood with me, and one afternoon, at the end of our rehearsal, he began to open up about his relationship with his father.

  “When I was young, he used to take me down to South Philly every Saturday morning for accordion lessons.”

  “Oh Jim, you must have been so cute. I can just imagine you at five with your little knobby knees, trying to hold up a big accordion. Did your dad encourage you to play then?”

  “Yeah, he really got me going on my music. He used to play Fats Waller and Bessie Smith records—jazz was his favorite. And mine too. When I was little, he always supported me. When I was about seven or eight, I’d go down with him to his office on Race Street in Chinatown. I’d wander around with him while he picked up the mail and did a few errands. Rich and I would look into the hock shops, tattoo parlors, and alleys and watch out for each other. I was blown away by the characters I saw down there. I’ve been fascinated with people ever since.”

  He picked up his six-string and said, “Listen to this song by Bessie Smith. A songwriter named Jimmy Cox wrote it for her during the Depression.” He began to play, “Nobody Loves You When You’re Down and Out.”

  At the end of the song, he repeated the last lines of the chorus twice and said, “You know when I sing this song I just picture what it must have been like back then. Can you imagine that Bessie Smith and Louis Armstrong couldn’t find a gig?”

  “I’m glad things are changing. I don’t think that there’s ever been a better time to make music.”

  Jim put down his guitar and kissed me. This usually meant rehearsal was over.

  Excited and aroused, we left the house and climbed into Jim’s car.

  “What should we do tonight, Ing?” he asked with his big grin. “Would you like to get a bite to eat, or take a walk, or catch a movie?”

  I quickly interjected, “What do you think?”

  Jim drove to our favorite parking spot: at the Presbyterian Church on the corner near my house. Once there, he pulled out a tattered map.

  “It’s time for your world geography lesson,” he joked. “Come over here and sit on my lap.” I sat on his lap and faced him. While his finger traced the outline of the boot of Italy on my thigh, I slowly unbuttoned his shirt and ran my hands across his chest. I felt him stir beneath me, and pressed against him.

  I heard the map drop to the floor.

  After the windows were covered with steam and we had gone as far as we could without going all the way, Jim dropped his seat back, and I lay in his arms.

  During those chilly spring nights in 1964, the Volkswagen became our sanctuary. We spent hours in it, making plans and making out. We shared our dreams and fears freely, becoming two halves of a whole, neither complete without the other.

  “I hate my nose,” he said. “Even when I was little, it was too big. When I first started school, they made me the lead in the Christmas play. You know what part I played? Rudolph!”

  “I’m so sorry, Jim,” I held back my laughter. “I hate mine, too.”

  “And I wish I had more muscles.” His scrawny appearance embarrassed him. I thought he was adorable.

  “I think you look just like my hero, Maynard G. Krebs, from The Dobie Gillis Show.”

  “Gee, Ing, thanks a lot.”

  “I think he’s cool and funny like you. I’m sorry you feel bad about the way you look, but I’m not as pretty as a lot of the girls at school, and I don’t let that stop me. I went out and competed in cheerleading against these adorable blonde, blue-eyed Anglo Protestant girls, and I won. I don’t even know if I like cheerleading, but I wanted to be the first Jewish cheerleader they’ve ever had!”

  “You’re amazing, Ing! You stand up for the things you believe in, and I’m so proud of you. Besides, I think you’re pretty, and I bet none of those girls have an ass like yours!”

  _____

  Our choice not to go all the way that night was a mutual decision, but it was getting harder and harder to hold back. He worried that I was too young, and he didn’t want to get me pregnant. I was also concerned about pregnancy, but even more, I feared losing Jim’s respect. In the early 1960s, virginity was an important virtue. Until now, I’d been the forbidden fruit, and I wondered if my allure would wear off if I gave in to Jim’s and my desires.

  When I was young, my mother had shown me that being seductive, secretive, and sexy was powerful, even magical. Although she never talked to me about sex, I understood that Marilyn Monroe’s and Ingrid Bergman’s allure and permissiveness were something to be admired. In my mother’s apartment, I rarely wore clothes. I loved the wonderful, sensual feeling of being naked. On the other hand, my voluptuous sister was modest and never undressed even in front of me.

  In my father’s home, I was always dressed, of course, except in the privacy of my bedroom, but love, sex, birth control, and other intimate matters were openly discussed.

  Since the age of eight, I had known the details of sex. My father had once matter-of-factly shown me a medical book in his office about sexual reproduction. I studied the book’s fascinating transparencies and drawings of the sexual organs. He calmly explained intercourse.

  “You mean it just fits inside like that?” I marveled. �
��That’s neat!”

  Over the next few months, Jim’s and my resolve melted under the constant sexual heat we generated.

  On April 27, 1964, I celebrated my seventeenth birthday, and Jim spent every penny he had to buy me presents—S’s, he called them, for “surprises.” On this occasion, he gave me a jade ring and a pair of handmade sandals. Most importantly, he told me that he loved me and one day he wanted to marry me. The ring symbolized his commitment.

  “This is the best birthday I’ve ever had,” I told him that night, as we sat in the VW. The talk quickly turned to the subject of making love. This time, we could no longer find a reason why we shouldn’t. I was now seventeen; we were deeply in love and would undoubtedly be together forever. Of equal importance was the timing of the event. My parents were leaving for a week’s vacation, and I was in charge of the house.

  The night they left on their trip, Jim arrived for our rendezvous. It was very late, and my brother and sisters were already sound asleep. I waited for him at the door, wearing only a robe. Holding hands, we slowly climbed the stairs to the big bed in my parents’ room. Nervously, I closed and locked the door, then seductively slipped out of my robe and let it slide to the floor. He leaned back against the pillows and gazed at me.

  “Isn’t this great?” I whispered. “I’ve never been naked in front of you before.”

  He grinned and silently motioned for me to come to him. Together, we unbuttoned his shirt and pants and slid them off. Then Jim lifted me onto the bed and kissed me deeply. We began to make love, slowly, gently. He took his time, searching my body with his strong, delicate fingers.

  After exploring each other’s bodies and turning each other on for as long as I could stand it, I drew him toward me. “I want you so much, Jim,” I breathed. As he entered me, I gasped. Our bodies moved together with heat and instinct.

  The telephone rang, shattering the delicate balance of our passion like crystal. I reached over to the nightstand and automatically clutched the receiver before the first ring was complete. “Hello!” said my stepmother, Florence, her voice sounding urgent. “Ingrid?” she asked. “Is that you?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Are you alright? You sound funny.”

  “I’m fine, Mom. Everything’s good.” I could feel Jim slipping away from me.

  “Well, I just wanted to call, honey, and tell you we made it to Beach Haven.

  “That’s good. I’m glad you’re there safe and sound.”

  “Why don’t you go back to bed and get some rest?”

  “Okay, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I love you. Say hi to Daddy for me.”

  I hung up the phone. Jim was pulling up his pants and looking as guilty as if he’d been physically caught in the act. We stared at each other for a moment and then began to laugh.

  _____

  In June 1964, Sal encouraged Jim to compete in a folk singing contest sponsored by the National Student Association. The NSA, representing four hundred college and university student governments, was headquartered in Philadelphia. Through a nationwide search, four student musicians would be chosen to represent the United States at an international student cultural festival in Istanbul, Turkey. They would also tour throughout the Middle East and North Africa, playing for heads of state, business organizations, student assemblies, and public festivals.

  Contest applicants had to not only possess musical talent but be politically astute and speak at least three languages. The letter Jim received stated that applicants had to be “intelligent people with a fairly good basic knowledge of American politics and life.” Those students chosen needed to have “compelling stage presence.” The NSA wanted good instrumentalists, willing to undertake a vigorous schedule and learn new material and being capable of performing music that could be communicated across language barriers.

  On Sunday, July 28, Jim auditioned at the Main Point, a popular coffee house on the Main Line in Philadelphia’s suburbs. He held out little hope for winning, even though he qualified. He’d studied political science and German at Villanova, and he spoke Italian with his grandfather.

  Three weeks later in July, Jim received word that he had been selected. The tour was to leave the United States in one week. Initially he was thrilled, but his joy quickly turned to grave apprehension.

  At first, he wouldn’t say what exactly was worrying him about the trip. Finally I coaxed him into telling me.

  “I’m afraid of catching some exotic disease, especially malaria,” he said, embarrassed. He admitted that his concerns about his health were obsessive. “I get that from my mother,” he explained. “When I told her about the trip last night, all she could say was ‘God forbid the diseases you could catch over there!’ She’s got me paranoid.”

  “But the vaccinations you’ll get will protect you from diseases,” I reassured him.

  “Oh God, the shots are just as bad!”

  With more coaxing, I finally convinced him to get the vaccinations. Although I tried to be supportive of his trip, I was nervous about how the separation might affect our relationship. Jim’s parents had been pressuring him to stop seeing me. He had finally confessed to me that his parents still hoped he would find a nice Italian, Catholic girl. To Jim’s mother, relationships weren’t about the sort of romance and passion her son and I felt.

  “Love is sex and sex is love,” Flora would say, “and it all wears off.”

  Distracted with trip preparations, Jim didn’t notice my anxiety about his leaving. The six weeks he would be gone seemed an eternity to me.

  Once the vaccinations were out of the way, Jim became excited about the tour.

  “I can’t wait to walk the old city streets of Istanbul and take in all those exotic sights,” he said. “I’ll finally get to see the places where history I’ve read about actually happened!”

  Jim was an avid reader, and Lawrence Durrell was one of his favorite authors. Jim had first read Justine and then became absorbed in the entire Alexandria Quartet. He fantasized about the romantic societies of the Mediterranean, and the forthcoming trip inspired him to read some of Durrell’s most erotic passages to me.

  A week before the tour got underway, the quartet met at the Main Point to practice for the first time. They named themselves the Philadelphia Choir. Jim first met Bob Knott, a twenty-two-year-old tenor from Stanford who played the banjo, mandolin, and guitar. When Bob walked into the club, Jim was playing, “Charlie Green: Won’t You Play That Slide Trombone,” an obscure song by Bessie Smith not usually played by guitarists. When he finished, Bob extended his hand and said, “Hi, I’m Bob Knott, and you just played one of my favorite songs.”

  “Well, unpack your banjo,” Jim replied. “Do you know ‘Any Old Time’ by Jimmie Rodgers?”

  “Of course,” Bob said.

  Next, a twenty-two-year-old, sandy-haired Gene Uphoff, unpacked his homemade rosewood guitar and joined them. A staunch liberal from Minnesota and a champion of equal rights, Gene had been selected for his passion for politics and his quiet charm. Though guitar was his first instrument, he was told he’d be playing the banjo in this group. With only a week to practice he was glad to see Bob could fill in wherever needed.

  Last to join the group was Suzie Levin, a round, bouncy, blue-eyed, twenty-two-year-old from Champaign, Illinois. She walked over, pulled out her washboard and kazoo from her knapsack, and joined in on the chorus. Her strong voice harmonized wonderfully with theirs. She introduced herself and gave Jim and Bob a big hug. Her braless, cheeky, hippie style and bold laugh were intoxicating. She was an artist, a cartoonist, and the only woman in the band. Jim liked her enthusiasm immediately.

  Susie put down her knapsack, kazoo, and washboard and began to chant a cappella. In her rich contralto voice, she sang the spiritual “Let Me Fly to Mount Zion.” The four began to harmonize. They had only a week to blend their styles and master their repertoire before leaving for the tour.

  _____

  By the time the Philadelphia Choir left New York
on August 4, 1964, Jim had read several books on exotic diseases. Bob was becoming an expert on malaria just from listening to Jim ramble on.

  “Malaria is caused by the protozoa of the genus Plasmodium,” Jim told him during the flight to Europe. “It’s transmitted only by the female anopheles mosquito, recognizable by her long legs trailing low behind her in flight.”

  When Jim stepped carefully off the plane in Rome, watching intently for a low-flying, long-legged female mosquito, Bob burst out laughing. He began to wonder if his new friend was a hypochondriac.

  Jim’s first glimpse of Italy did not impress him, even though it was the country of his heritage. In his diary he wrote:

  Rome airport very flat; country very hot, looks like south Jersey with less trees.

  But it was Istanbul that provided his first real culture shock. On the way to the youth hostel, the cab driver, Najib, continually beamed a toothy smile at the students, while ignoring the road. A luckless goat wandered into the roadway, and despite Jim’s frantic hand signals to Najib, who spoke little English, the cab flattened the poor animal. Najib never slowed down, but simply shrugged and said, “God’s will.”

  The youth hostel itself was another surprise. Sixty beds, infested with lice, were crammed into one room. The bathrooms were little more than closets with holes in the marble floors. When they arrived, Jim entered one of the bathrooms. He came out laughing and then dragged Bob in for a look. “Shit, someone stole the toilets!” he laughed.

  That first afternoon in Istanbul, the four Americans tried to take naps, but the bed bugs bit with a vengeance, covering their bodies with tiny red welts. Unable to sleep, Jim wrote the first of his daily letters to his family:

  Dear Mother, Dad, Rich and Pa,

  This has really been some experience. (Pardon my writing. I’m in a 60-bed room in Istanbul and being attacked by bed bugs.) Wow! What a city. Very nice people from all over the world, many from Germany. Dad, those German lessons are finally coming in handy.