I Got a Name: The Jim Croce Story

by Ingrid Croce

  Jim paid his father back, leaving us a $1,750 dowry.

  “You did a good job, Jim,” his father said. “But this is small time. It’s not the same in the big league. The people in the entertainment world are thieves and worse. Don’t get mixed up with them, Jimmy. That life is no good for you.”

  _____

  When I came home for spring break, we announced our wedding date of August 28, 1966, at our engagement party. I had been accepted to Moore College of Art in Philadelphia for the fall semester, and Jim and I planned to live in nearby Media.

  During the months before the wedding, Jim took classes from Rabbi Louis Kaplan in preparation for his conversion. At the rabbi’s encouragement, Jim candidly asked questions about Judaism. When I returned to my family’s home in Wallingford after I completed my first year at RISD, Jim came over to tell me he discovered he had to go through a ceremonial circumcision that included a slight cut on his foreskin. He was in a panic. He walked around in a stupor for days prior to the ceremony, scared of the procedure.

  The ritual took place at a ceremonial bath with other Jewish men as witnesses. Much to Jim’s relief, the small cut healed overnight, and the next day he made love to me as a Jew.

  Of all Jim’s friends, only Sal openly discussed the conversion. Jim and Sal shared a bizarre sense of humor that often centered on each other’s illness, misfortune, or embarrassment. This was Sal’s turn.

  “How was the moil?” Sal asked Jim after the ritual.

  “I’ll tell you, but let’s never discuss it again,” Jim said definitively. “It had to be one of the most embarrassing moments in my life, not to mention the scariest. First, I went to the baths and waited around for a group of male witnesses to check out my penis.”

  “That sounds like fun,” Sal joked.

  “I felt like I was going down to the River Ganges for phallic worship and, God forbid, the water. You know I’ve come close to drowning in every body of water I’ve ever been in. I was sure I would drown by submersion. But all they did was dip and cleanse me and say some Hebrew prayers. Then I had to go to the ‘moil department’ and reenact my circumcision. I was expecting this big knife to come down on my dick. But out of the moil’s pocket came this dinky little knife. He pricked my penis, and it was all over. I was officially stamped kosher.”

  “Why did you do it, Jim?” Sal asked seriously. “You must love Ingrid a lot to take a chance with your dick.”

  “Ing had nothing to do with it,” he protested. “I never was very good at being a Catholic with all the questions I have. And besides, the rabbi had a great record collection.”

  _____

  The weeks prior to the wedding, my father’s health took a turn for the worse. In constant pain and bedridden much of the time, he could no longer hide the seriousness of his illness. Florence finally admitted to the family that he had cancer but, on the advice of his doctors, didn’t divulge that it was terminal. The family was told that a new procedure performed at Mt. Sinai Hospital in New York City could cure him. In reality, the procedure would only help alleviate some of the pain. Unfortunately, the operation didn’t work as well as they had hoped. Although his pain was temporarily lessened, it left him partially paralyzed.

  Jim and I spent as much time with him as we could. When his condition worsened, he asked to see Jim alone.

  “Jim,” he said slowly, “you know how important education is to me. Will you do your best to help Ingrid stay in school?”

  “Of course, Dad,” Jim said. “I know that her art is as important to her as my music is to me. I promise I’ll make sure she graduates.”

  _____

  In mid-August, just two weeks before the wedding, Jim’s orders from the Army National Guard finally arrived. After a year and three months of waiting, he was now required to report to boot camp in Fort Jackson, South Carolina, just one week after we were to be wed. By this time, the United States had nearly 400,000 troops in Vietnam. And there were rumors that the National Guard might be called up soon.

  We had planned to hold the wedding ceremony at my family’s house in Wallingford, so my dad, who continued to weaken, could attend the ceremony. Jim wasn’t sure whether his own parents would be there. After he’d revealed he was converting to Judaism, they had stopped speaking to him. He avoided their intense silent treatment by staying away from home as much as possible. After a couple of weeks of alienation, their relationship was terribly strained.

  On the morning of the wedding, I had no one to help me dress. Upstairs in my room, alone and naked except for a pillbox hat, I was totally excited about marrying Jim but depressed about the brocade dress I had picked out with my stepmom at Loehman’s Discount Department Store. I hadn’t wanted a traditional wedding dress, but now, looking in the mirror, I frowned—until Jim’s grinning face suddenly appeared in the reflection.

  Startled, I turned. “Jim! What are you doing here? Don’t you hate this dress? Isn’t it just awful?”

  “Here let me help you,” he said, laughing as he pulled it away and dropped it on the floor. “Now, that’s better. Just leave your hat on.”

  He frantically pulled off his wedding suit, and we fell on the bed laughing.

  Minutes later, Rabbi Kaplan knocked on the door. “Ingrid, it’s time to go over the ceremony.”

  I popped up, and Jim stifled his laughter in the pillow. “I’ll be right down, Rabbi,” I managed to say. I dressed hurriedly and ran down to meet Rabbi Kaplan, while Jim crept out of my room.

  Jim and I stood in the gazebo in my parents’ backyard as the music began. Suddenly Jim’s parents appeared at the gate. My stepmother, Florence, whom I considered my second mother, welcomed them in. They stood uncomfortably on the side as the traditional Jewish wedding proceeded.

  At the short reception that followed, my father thanked Jim’s father and mother for coming. Rich had come too. My dad told them it meant a lot that they came. The strain on both families was still intense, and coupled with my dad’s illness, the party was subdued and ended quickly.

  Jim and I changed into jeans and threw one small suitcase and a guitar into the VW. We drove off eagerly to our honeymoon in Saint Augustine, Florida.

  I didn’t care where we were going as long as we were together. But Jim, the historian, was always interested in the olden times. On the drive down, he explained to me that on our wedding day in 1565, six hundred soldiers and settlers had come ashore at the site of the Timucuan Indian village of Seloy. It was founded forty-two years before the English colony at Jamestown, Virginia, and fifty-five years before the pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock in Massachusetts. Banners were flying and trumpets were sounding when they went ashore and named their conquest Saint Augustine.

  “It’s the oldest settlement on the North American continent. Isn’t that cool, Ing?”

  “It’s very cool,” I told him. “I like when you tell me stories. Tell me some more—it’s a long way to Florida.”

  For much of the way I drove, so Jim could play his guitar, and we could sing together. We were happy but felt the dark cloud looming: Jim had to leave for boot camp in less than a week.

  He wanted to spend as much time in bed with me as he could. His sexual appetite was insatiable, and we managed two days of nonstop lovemaking until I finally protested.

  “The only thing I’m going to remember from our honeymoon is the ceiling and the floor and the flashing neon pizza sign across the street. I can’t do this anymore, Jim.” I began to cry. “We can’t make up for six months of your being away in only seven days!”

  “I’m so sorry, Sweet Baby. I never want to hurt you. I love you so much, and here I am being an animal,” he apologized. “Let me take you out for a nice dinner. How ’bout pizza?” he joked.

  That night after dinner at a small romantic café, we took a long walk. Jim bought me my first pair of bell-bottoms, a pretty white blouse, and a discounted, heavy, navy-blue pea coat for winter.

  The next night, when we were ready to dine, Jim said to me
, “Please wear the new clothes I bought you, sweet thing. I like getting you S’s, and you look so pretty in them.”

  “I love the outfit you bought me, sweetie, but the pants are way too long.”

  “I’ll hem them for you,” he said.

  “Are you sure you know how?”

  “Absolutely,” he insisted. “Take a shower and get ready, and they’ll be done when you are.”

  While I showered, Jim took a needle with dark blue thread and awkwardly began to sew my new blue-and-white striped bell-bottoms. The result of Jim’s loving efforts was comical. My new pants were transformed into stovepipes. The basting of the thread was so tight I could barely get my foot through the pant leg. But Jim was so proud of his work he didn’t notice. And eager to please my new husband, I just wore them anyway.

  Three days later, we reluctantly returned to my parents’ home in Wallingford. The following day the entire Croce clan of aunts, uncles, and cousins came over to the Croces’ home to see Jimmy off to boot camp. He was even more distraught than I.

  Rich drove us to the station.

  “I’ve never seen you look so sad,” I told Jim on the train platform.

  “I’m going to make a terrible soldier,” he lamented. “And how am I going to live without you, Ingrid?”

  He stood silently holding my hand. When it was time for him to board, we hugged and kissed; then Jim shook his brother’s hand and hugged him strongly. Jim slowly took a seat next to the window and waved forlornly as the train pulled away.

  OPERATOR

  JIM WAS MISERABLE IN BOOT CAMP. September in Fort Jackson was hot and humid. His stomach ached, his head pounded, and his body was covered with hives. Having to take orders irritated him. Worst of all, he yearned for home.

  He could call me only once a week, but from the start he wrote every day, sometimes twice. The letters varied in length from a few quick lines to six-page sagas. Though the majority of correspondence to his family dwelled on his hateful experiences in boot camp, his letters to me were saturated with desire.

  September 7, 1966

  Dear Ing,

  Here I sit in a deserted barracks, in love, lonely, yet certain of something deep within me that makes me feel better than anyone else. Here I lie in my saggy, broken bed, certain that your body waits for my touch to electrify it. Here I sit thinking. My mind dwells on each and every pleasure we’ve given each other—remember the night I gave you the jade ring? The night we danced in Sal’s room while it snowed? The church parking lot? Each of these carries memories of a thousand pleasures all entwined in you.

  Tonight it is getting cold and windy, but the memory of you is the fire within that keeps me warm. I love you very much.

  Your husband,

  Jim

  When officers did allow “grunts” like Jim to call home, recruits lined up at the pay phone bolted to the side of the PX. He usually had to wait more than an hour in the long line, sometimes in the pouring rain, to make his call. He could hear other men ahead of him speak longingly with their loved ones back home. There were also the sad conversations, when some unfortunate soldiers learned that the “Dear John” letters they had received were true.

  When it was Jim’s turn one rainy September night, he pulled his raincoat over his head, cloaking his conversation.

  “Yes, operator, I’d like to call collect to Ingrid. Would you put me through, please?”

  “Sorry, the number is busy.”

  “Ah, geez, I only have a few minutes.” He stalled for time, unwilling to give up the phone. “Hey, where are you from, operator? That accent sounds familiar.”

  “Philadelphia, sir.”

  “Me too,” Jim explained. “It’s a nice city. Sure beats Fort Jackson, South Carolina. I miss it. Wish I was there right now. Listen, would you mind trying one more time? I need to talk to my wife, and I’ve been waiting in line an hour to use this phone. We just got married, and I haven’t seen her in a month!”

  “Sure, sir . . .” In the background he heard faint clicks on the line.

  “This is the operator with a collect call for Ingrid.”

  “This is Ingrid.”

  “Go ahead, please,” said the operator.

  “Ing, how are you? I miss you so much.”

  “I’m fine, sweetie. How’s my sweet thing doing down there?”

  “I hate it here, Ing! How the hell can we be separated and be expected to live? Today, thank God, I got a break. My truck driving paid off. The sergeant had me drive a truck all over Fort Jackson; it was easy, and I sure needed the break. I’m sore as hell from those exercises. Everybody is. Shit, this is worse than living at my parents’ house.”

  “Oh, Jim, I’m so sorry you have to go through this. It sounds awful. But I want you to know I’m working really hard at school. I can’t wait to show you my new work.”

  “I can’t wait to see it, sweet thing. I wish we had more than three lousy minutes to talk.” He looked at the second hand ticking by on his watch. “I just want you so much I can’t stand it. Just know how much I love you and miss you.”

  I lowered my voice. “I love you, too, Jim. Don’t worry, my love. We’ll be together soon.”

  Someone rapped on the wall next to the phone, and Jim heard grumbling.

  “Well, the guys behind me are getting restless. I’d better go. Remember to keep writing me. Good night.”

  Jim kept his word, and his letters kept coming every day. Although the letters were filled with longing and loneliness, his stories about life in the barracks reassured me that he hadn’t lost his sense of humor:

  October 3, 1966

  Dear Ing,

  Last night we snuck into a beer hall. We got back early, but some of the country boys stayed and ended up in a big brawl (massacre) with a bunch of Puerto Ricans. We could hear it two blocks away. One of the boys in our barracks, a tobacco farmer with a wise look and one squint eye, lost four teeth. He sat on the porch saying, ‘Gawd dayum, that old boy sure hit me, I reckon.’

  I laughed myself to sleep. You wouldn’t believe the people down here. I met one guy that doesn’t have heat in his house. He just got emergency leave due to a death in his family. He’s from Kentucky and his wife has 23 brothers and two sisters. REALLY, the army checked—his father-in-law was 82 years old—married four times to four sisters. This guy’s wife’s brothers were her cousins! It’s unbelievable!

  Write me soon.

  Love,

  Jim

  When Jim arrived at boot camp he weighed 140 pounds, but within a few weeks he put on 20 pounds of muscle. His new body was one of the only positive aspects he could admit to in the entire experience. He hated the discipline that went along with it.

  “The exercises are a ball-buster for me,” he wrote, “especially since my whole platoon is composed of farmers who look at this as just a place to come to get out of shape.”

  “No kidding, Ing,” he wrote in another letter, “this one guy is so strong he could stick his finger up his ass and hold himself up.”

  He lamented the strenuous regimen further to his brother:

  October 8, 1966

  Dear Rich,

  Last night my sergeant got drunk and came over to me and said, “Croce, as strong as you are, why cain’t you do those exercises?” (My sore shoulder kept me out for a while.) And I told him, “At least I’m not fat.” He got pissed, I laughed, and man am I in the shithouse now. Then the other day we had to get our shots (for diseases). In moving down the line I was wincing (like everybody else), but I made the mistake of saying, “Goddam.” Well, this S.O.B. with the smallpox needle said, “Do y’all cuss in Latin, boy?” then jabbed my arm for about 30 seconds straight, laughing with that goddamned redneck grin sayin’, “That’ll teach you to cuss in line.”

  Rich, never, never go into the Army, it’s a needless pain in the ass.

  Jim

  Jim didn’t take directions easily, not at home and not from his sergeant, a caustic loudmouth he described in a letter to me
as looking like an “egg with teeth” and having the “mentality of a goat.”

  One afternoon, Jim tacked a sign on the bulletin board outside the mess hall:

  “Half the Army reads comic books,” it stated; “the other half just looks at the pictures.” The sergeant rounded a corner and caught him.

  “So you think you’re a comedian, huh, Croce?” he asked, his voice rising in anger. “Well, not in my platoon. I guess I’ll just have to let you suffer the consequences.” He jabbed Jim in the chest with a forefinger and moved closer. He pressed his nose in Jim’s face and shouted, “Kid, you’ve got an attitude problem! And guess what? You just flunked basic training!”

  The sergeant reassigned him to Company D—the Dumbbell Platoon—where he had to start boot camp all over again.

  Jim wrote to me about it on October 12:

  I’m beside myself! I’m in the dumbbell platoon! It’s like being sane and being put in an institution. That goddam Sgt. sent me here just to get a laugh! I went to the captain and said I passed all my tests and asked why I was being sent to Company “D.” He just said that was one decision that all Sgts. can make unquestioned. I can’t get out of here no matter what I do. I’m in a slow learner platoon. IT’S UNBEARABLE!”

  Almost everyone in Company “D” is a college graduate. They’re just messing with our minds. Some of these Sgts. are really unbalanced and the officers stick up for them. Our Sgt. kicked a boy in the head (with a helmet on) at the rifle range the other day. The boy’s head rang for an hour. But the worst part is that this screws up our plans for you to come visit in a few weeks. My visit might be revoked. I miss you terribly.