I Got a Name: The Jim Croce Story

by Ingrid Croce

  I have rested up and feel good. We have seen quite a bit of the city in the past few days. The city is divided in two halves. The old half is really different, with mosques, temples and castles all around. The bed is not like home but I suppose it’ll have to do. The toilets are, well, let’s just say interesting.

  Yesterday we went to the funeral of the head of the festival, who was killed in a car crash. They carried the body through the narrow streets of the city for several miles to the mosque. The Swedish group led the procession with their band. It was very sad.

  Mom, my clothes are going far. There are plenty of sinks for washing them and they dry in several hours . . . dungarees in three hours, underwear in about two.

  Dad, I will not be able to send many cards because they cost about 60 cents to mail. It’s just too much. Well, it’s time to eat so I’ll leave. Beautiful breeze blowing thru the city and the courtyard of this big palace sized building we’re quartered in.

  Say hello to everyone.

  Love,

  Jim

  Searching for a place to eat, the young folksingers wandered through the narrow medieval streets until they found a restaurant with local music, shish kebab, and Lebanese dancers. Over dinner, Jim gave another dissertation on malaria and convinced the group they needed to find some quinine.

  The following morning, the foursome searched for a drugstore. As they walked through Istanbul’s bustling streets, Jim noticed people staring at him.

  “What’s the matter with them, Bob?” he whispered. “Haven’t they ever seen cutoffs before?”

  Bob choked back his laughter. He couldn’t believe Jim’s naïveté. Besides the knee-length cutoffs, Jim wore a polka-dot shirt, mirrored sunglasses, knee-high black nylon dress socks, and shiny, pointed Italian shoes. He stood out like a neon sign next to Bob’s khaki pants and tan shirt.

  “It may not only be the shorts, Jim,” he said, but Jim just shrugged.

  Later that morning they found a druggist, but the man spoke no English. Suzie knew the Turkish word for “prevention,” and the druggist grinned and seemed to understand. Reaching behind the counter, he pulled out a box of condoms. Jim laughed and bought them. Suzie tried again. Finally, the druggist understood “malaria” and sold them the medicine. He also gave them instructions that they took to mean “Take the quinine once a day.”

  He charged them $25. As they left the drugstore, Jim popped one of the pills in his mouth immediately. His constant talk about disease had begun to worry the group, and the pills boosted their spirits.

  By the next day, they felt fully rested, rehearsed, and protected. The quartet of students performed their first show at a castle once belonging to a sultan of the Ottoman Empire. Guarded by the straits of the Bosporus Sea, the castle and the stage itself hung off a cliff riddled with ancient caves overlooking the water.

  The exotic adventure of Istanbul and the enthusiastic reception from the audiences excited Jim. Although few listeners spoke English, he was thrilled by the way he could communicate through his songs. He saw firsthand that music was indeed a common language.

  Although Jim soon got into the swing of traveling, he began to suffer from both constipation and diarrhea, which he dubbed, “the Turkish trots.” During one stretch, he wrote an entry in his diary about this dilemma:

  I must be approaching a world record,

  six days and no shit!

  They traveled on to Belgrade, Yugoslavia, where they performed for Russian and Czechoslovakian exchange students.

  By the time they’d arrived in Beirut, Lebanon, everyone’s stomach problems worsened. They assumed they had contracted a virus. Jim blamed it on the Middle Eastern drinking water, which smelled like sewage. Bob was bedridden, and Gene had to be taken to the hospital.

  “This is pretty bad, but thank God we haven’t contracted malaria,” Jim reassured the group. “Just make sure you take your quinine every day.”

  As Jim waited for Gene and Bob to recover, he wrote his first letter to me. Most of it centered on his excitement over a Persian carpet he had just purchased “for our first apartment.” As he typically did when a subject interested him, he had read half a dozen books on Persian rugs before he went to a factory in Beirut to pick one out. He boasted in his letter that he had bargained with the merchants until he had been able to purchase an $800 rug for only $200. His letter was short, and it was the first of only two he sent me during the entire trip, even though he continued to write his family daily. From Beirut he sent home a note written on toilet paper.

  Dear Family,

  Excuse the writing paper. Rich, can you believe this is toilet paper? I guess it means we’ve arrived in Beirut. Actually, it’s one of the prettiest places I’ve ever seen. Yesterday our two student guides took us to a cave in the mountains. Tiny mountain roads with drop offs of about 800–900 feet. It was beautiful. Our lunch consisted of about 15 different types of food. It was amazing! Last night we had dinner at Casino Nasr on the Mediterranean. Our group consisted of 8 people. First they brought out 55, Yes 55 plates of Lebanese hors d’oeuvres, everything you could imagine. Then a huge fish dinner!

  I’ll write again soon.

  Love,

  Jim

  In Beirut, a guide took Jim to the Purgatory Dance Hall, a dimly lit club full of overweight and unattractive dancers and prostitutes. The guide pointed to the women with pride and boasted in a Lebanese expression of good luck, “I think we have just hit a cat!” Jim laughed so hard he had to hold his stomach.

  Later he wrote in his journal:

  I met a girl named Fatima at the Purgatory Dance Hall. I’m lucky I met her before Ripley did. She had split level chins!

  When Bob and Gene had recovered from their mysterious illness enough to move on, the tour continued to Cairo and Tunisia. On the plane Jim and Bob met a young airline steward named Hussein Hussein. He had noticed their instruments and eagerly told the musicians he played the harmonica. He gave Bob brandy to soothe his stomach and invited Jim and Suzy into the cockpit. Hussein proudly showed off his skills by playing “Sweet Georgia Brown” on his harmonica, while Jim, Suzie, and the pilot sang along.

  During their travels, Jim and Gene talked at length about Marxism and Gene’s desire for social change and the redistribution of wealth in America. Jim listened intently, absorbing much of what Gene had to say. Gene had been hopeful about the voter registration drive in the South, but the recent race riots flaring up across the nation discouraged him. Now the news that Congress had overwhelmingly passed the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution, giving President Johnson carte blanche to officially enter the war in Vietnam, further depressed him. He related his concerns to Jim, who empathized with Gene’s sense of humanity. At home, Jim buffered himself against the passions of politics by poking fun at them, much as he did with organized religion. Here, away from home, he openly engaged in political and philosophical discourse.

  At the same time, Jim developed a close friendship with Suzie, who, in addition to being an accomplished musician, was an excellent artist and cartoonist. One of the traveling group’s responsibilities was to report to the NSA about their experiences and people they had met during the trip. The obligation to provide detailed reports fueled a rumor that the CIA was behind the tour.

  Suzie’s reporting style was to draw cartoons on the hard, brown toilet paper they found in Istanbul and send them back to the NSA, which, according to some students they had met, turned them over to the CIA.

  Susie was bold, with a strong belief in the values of her American generation: women’s rights, peace, and free love. She recognized that the Tunisian culture frowned on her behavior, so she tempered herself to an extent, but it didn’t stop her. Once Suzie went for a camel ride, shocking the Tunisians, who had never seen a woman straddling a camel before. When she finished the ride, Jim and a number of fierce-looking Tunisian soldiers came to help her down. Laughing, Jim told Suzie to “take it easy.”

  Suddenly one of the soldiers drew his knife against Jim
’s throat and began to scream at him in Arabic. Their guide rushed over and convinced the soldier to put away the dagger. The host explained to Jim, who was pale with fear, that “teasy” meant “ass” in Arabic. The soldier thought Jim was insulting Suzie. Later, Suzie captured the event on the brown toilet paper and gave the cartoon to Jim.

  The tour continued back through Italy, with the group giving daily concerts.

  Jim clipped a report written by the American Consulate General of Istanbul inside his travel diary:

  The four folk-singing American students brought down the house at the Ninth International Youth Cultural Festival. The three serious young men and vivacious girl delighted the local citizenry who applauded them for playing in the streets of the exotic 2,600 year-old city.

  The foursome is the only folk singing group besides a chorus from London. The United States N.S.A. gave each musician complete transportation costs and a $14.00 per diem for their talents in singing and playing Negro spirituals, Hillbilly tunes, Blue Grass and Grand Ole Opry melodies, Ragtime, the Blues, old and contemporary folk songs.

  The consulate’s report went on to explain how Russia, Yugoslavia, Israel, and Lebanon had sent colorfully costumed folk dance ensembles to the friendship festival. Student theater groups from England, Belgium, France, Germany, Switzerland, Italy, and Norway performed pieces by classic and contemporary masters, including Shakespeare, Becket, and Sartre.

  The Americans gave their concert in the afternoon, when the Turkish air force was making flying raids over Cyprus. They couldn’t read the Turkish papers, but there was excitement in the streets about the raids. The Philadelphia Choir thought the commotion was about them and didn’t realize there was a war scare.

  At the end of that week, the tour reached its final stop near Lagos, Nigeria. There Jim met Razak Salijah, an energetic Nigerian student representative from a nearby university, who wore a perpetual smile. Jim liked him immediately and hoped to spend time with him learning about the local culture.

  However, the humid African climate was stifling, and Jim began feeling even sicker than usual. The mosquitoes were thick, and he was covered with bites—a sure sign, he thought, that he was coming down with the dreaded disease.

  Within days, the entire group complained again of stomach problems. Concerned, Razak took them to an American doctor at the university. The doctor examined them but was unable to diagnose the problem.

  “Are you sure we don’t have malaria?” Jim asked nervously.

  “Have you been taking quinine?”

  “Once a day,” Jim reported.

  “Once a day? No wonder you’re constipated! You’re only supposed to take it once a week!”

  Chagrined, Jim and the others in his group put away the quinine pills, and on the advice of the doctor, Jim shed his anxiety over malaria.

  The group recovered from quinine poisoning, and Jim spent afternoons with Razak, who told him about local folklore and religions, which included stories about superstitions, witches, and human sacrifices. Jim was intrigued. He loved folk stories, especially when they could be put to music.

  Razak was a political activist and shared with Jim his fears about the future of Nigeria. Fighting had broken out among rebel factions, and the friction seemed about to escalate into civil war.

  One evening, Razak took Jim to an open-air nightclub where musicians wailed on electric guitars plugged into a gas-powered generator. Jim joined the Nigerians, drinking the local banana beer and trying to imitate their dances.

  The American singers gave daily performances around Lagos and were invited to perform in a ceremonial arena before a local king.

  At the performance, Razak told Jim, “This arena has been used for centuries by the tribes to sacrifice dogs to Ogun, the god of iron.”

  “I hope they like the show,” Jim joked.

  _____

  On September 13, 1965, the students spent their last day in Nigeria. Jim and Razak went for a long walk and expressed their feelings of friendship for one another. Jim hugged his new friend and wished him the best of luck. He worried for Razak’s life and found it difficult to say good-bye.

  In Philadelphia, I awaited Jim’s return with growing trepidation. The two letters he’d written me lacked any expression of his love for me. I was afraid that my going all the way with him had been a mistake. I didn’t know what else it could be.

  He returned on September 14 but didn’t call.

  “I can’t believe I haven’t heard from Jim,” I told my father. “I hope he’s okay. Maybe he’s still recovering from the trip.” Days went by, and still no call came. I thought of every reason I could for his neglect.

  “He doesn’t know we moved while he was away—that’s it!” I told my dad, trying to convince myself. “He must have not gotten the message I left with his mother that we moved. Maybe I should call him.”

  While Jim was out of the country, my father had purchased a home in Wallingford, about forty miles west of Philadelphia, from Dick Clark, the local disc jockey and host of American Bandstand. A little over a week after Jim returned, I finally called him myself.

  “Hello.” It was him.

  “Jim,” I asked anxiously, “is that you?”

  “Oh, hi, Ingrid,” he said as if I were a casual acquaintance. “How have you been?”

  “Did you have a good time?” I asked back, more anxious than ever. “I wish I would have heard from you more.”

  “I had a great time,” Jim said coolly, expressing no remorse or concern that he hadn’t called since he’d returned. He was polite but didn’t ask to see me before he hung up.

  The conversation left me devastated.

  “He acted as if we had never been in love,” I cried to my dad. Although I felt confused and hurt, I told myself that sooner or later, Jim and I would be together again. Maybe he just wasn’t ready to get so serious yet. I tried to convince myself that it would work out better this way.

  Out of loneliness, I began dating John Grant, a military cadet I’d met at a performance at the Pennsylvania Military College when I’d sung with the Rum Runners. My friendship with John, however, was platonic. Though the cadet had strong feelings for me, I was still in love with Jim.

  In January 1965, John got orders to head out for South Vietnam. In February, a year to the day after Jim and I had had our first real date, I learned that Jim was dating my closest friend, Peggy. Humiliated and depressed, I shut myself off in the attic and worked in solitude on my art. For months after Jim’s return from the tour, I felt the pain of his rejection.

  In the spring of 1965, I decided that even though I loved Jim deeply, I had to put him out of my mind.

  I started by immersing myself fully in ceramics and painting and by performing as a solo artist at folk contests. Two ceramic pieces I constructed were selected for the Craftsman 65 exhibit in New York City, and with more confidence in my art, I applied to both the Rhode Island School of Design and University of Pennsylvania. I decided if I was good enough to get into RISD, I’d go there. If not, I’d study psychology and work with my dad as a lay analyst.

  On a Friday night just after my eighteenth birthday, I performed as the opening act for Len Chandler at the Main Point. Jim had seen an ad in the Philadelphia Inquirer announcing the performance.

  That night he sat in the audience, smiling sheepishly. When I first noticed him, I was filled with raw emotion. I looked away, purposefully not setting eyes on him throughout my set. When I finished, Jim came to the stage.

  “Uh, hi, Ing,” he said. “How have you been?”

  I could hardly contain myself. My heart ached so badly. I still loved him, but my feelings were intense and confused; my throat tightened, and I could barely speak.

  “Okay” was all I could muster.

  “Your voice sounds wonderful,” he said with a forced smile. “But your guitar is a little sharp. Can I tune it for you?” He put out his hand to reach for it. I quietly passed it to him. He braced one foot on the stage and placed th
e guitar across his knee. Cocking one ear, he tuned it.

  “Can you sit down and talk for a few minutes?” he asked. I wanted to talk to him but felt torn and needed to pull myself together.

  “Can you stay for my second set?” I asked, trying to buy time.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve got to go. I’m driving up to visit a friend in Maine tonight.”

  I felt sick all over again.

  He tried to smile, and then walked away.

  Suspicion overcame me. Was he going to visit another woman?

  That night I stifled my cries in my pillow. The following morning, my father handed his red-eyed daughter a large envelope from the Rhode Island School of Design. I had been accepted for my freshman year of college.

  “Daddy, I can’t believe it!”

  “I’m thrilled for you, honey,” he said, hugging me.

  “By the way, Daddy, I’m going out tonight. A classmate asked me out to the movies, and I said yes. It’ll be my first date since John left.”

  Less than an hour later, my dad called me to the phone.

  “It’s Jim,” he said.

  “Hi, Ing.” He sounded urgent. “I’m calling from a phone booth near Maine, but I just had to let you know that I thought about you the entire time I was driving up the coast. If I drive back right now, can I see you tonight?”

  I paused, trying to know what to say.

  “I’m sorry, Jim. I have a date tonight.” My heart sank, but I knew I couldn’t put my life on hold for him anymore.

  “Well,” he asked, panic in his voice, “can I see you after your date brings you home?”

  “No, but you can see me tomorrow.”

  “Oh, okay, sure. How about 9 AM?”

  “That’s fine, Jim. We can have breakfast at our house.”

  The next morning I heard the familiar whine of his approaching Volkswagen. I waited anxiously inside until he rang the bell. Reluctantly, I opened the door. He grinned, shrugged his shoulders, and lifted both eyebrows.