Home is Mutual Respect - An Evening with Crocodile John
“Are both your parents still alive?” After a handshake and an exchange of names, this is his opener. Crocodile John is an older man wearing head-to-toe black leather and a crocodile cowboy hat. He is bald underneath the hat and has his ears pierced and two sleeves of tattoos exposed from his leather vest. He walks with a certain charisma—moves through the crowd with ease, mingling with a little bit of bounce in his step and a lot to say. This man is a metric for authenticity. He’s a musician, and this is the songwriter social at Adair’s Saloon in Dallas. It is a Tuesday night—9:30. Soon to be past my bedtime, and a treat to be out with my sister.
“Well actually,” Madison replies, “our mom died.”
“No shit,” says Crocodile John. “How long ago?”
“Eight years.”
“Well damn, I’m sorry. My mama died 35 years ago.”
Thus begins an evolving conversation that lasts at least an hour. Crocodile John can’t sit for long periods, so he talks with us, then walks over to someone else, then comes back. We end up talking about food. I tell him I’m a vegetarian, and I inherited a soy allergy from my mom.
“Soy? Who eats soy? That’s like having an allergy to cardboard.” I tell him I like it, and it’s a shame. “I don’t know what to tell you,” he replies, removing his hat and placing it on the table. I tell him it’s okay, I have a history of enjoying things like exotic meat. I tell him about Peru and about eating cuy. Apparently, that is right up his alley. This man, certainly the main character of his own life, has “been there done that” with more things than I think I could ever know.
“I’ve eaten cat and dog,” he says, “and it’s damn good. And trust me, I have three cats—I’m a cat lover, don’t get me wrong.”
Crocodile John had exited the club in Mexico back in the seventies and found a street taco stand. “I was hungry,” he says, “and it smelled good. It tasted good. I told my friend, these are some good street tacos.” He ate them all before he saw the cat carcasses in the alley. “I knew immediately,” he tells us, and he didn’t give a damn. If it’s good, it’s good, was his sentiment. If the culture is to eat cat, then you can sure as hell know that Crocodile John would eat cat. I echo the sentiment. “Whatever the culture dictates, I’m there,” I say, though I am not sure I would be pleased to find out I ate a household pet.
But that just scratches the surface of Crocodile John. He strikes up a conversation with a guy about my age at a neighboring table—a fellow musician. His name is Michael—nice looking guy; works construction. “Cigarettes when you are drunk or at a construction site don’t count,” he would later tell me, “so I haven’t smoked a day in my life.” When Michael gets up to play—he’s good—John sits down with my sister and I. “Isn’t he good looking?” And so Crocodile John begins to play matchmaker. He’s good at it, although my sister and I aren’t interested. He divulges about his own personal life as Madison asks him questions. She’s good at interviewing.
“I was a whore in my early years,” he says. “Wherever the wind blew…” he trails off. “I’ve been married twice—the first divorce was my fault.” He continues to try and matchmake Madison with Michael.
I try to imagine Crocodile John in his early years. He moved around a lot—his parents owned motels in southern California. He never lived in a real house. This must be why he is so good at mingling. He says some friends of his had a band—he didn’t get into music until much later, but he sold tickets, t-shirts, stickers, everything, for this band. It was before the internet, and this band had a crowd of 200 fans who followed them everywhere they played. These days, 200 followers on social media mean nothing. Those 200 people clicked a button to “follow”, but they might never even see or “like” your post. 200 flesh-and-blood people physically present at all your shows? That’s incredible. “But they quit,” Crocodile John says. “They got discouraged. Said they didn’t ‘make it.’”
“Seriously?” They absolutely made it.
Part of “making it” is realizing when you’ve “made it”. Sometimes, we don’t see the success that we already have. Crocodile John isn’t going to die on the hill of success. He’s at the open mics every week playing the blues. He has the effortless attitude of, “Who gives a shit.” Music is a passion. Sometimes, a livelihood. But most importantly, a way to tell your story. I confess to him that music isn’t my calling anymore, but my sister’s. He can’t believe it. “It’s good to see you here,” he says, repeating the phrase. I often wonder what I am doing these days, trying to “make it”. Music has had this ebb and flow throughout my life— the wonderful musicians I have known over the past decade drag me back in, and I oblige— but writing is my true passion. I try to convey that to Crocodile John. I am trying to “make it”. Make writing my primary occupation. Move abroad. All good goals— attainable ones. But in some ways, I have already made it. Such an arbitrary term. I have a stable job I don’t love, but it pays the bills just fine. I constantly meet interesting people to interview— fueling my creative stream and my writing passion. I have a functional and quite fun blog here. I travel often and get drunk— crucial parts of a vibrant life. I’ve gotten to the point where Spanish flows freely out of my mouth when I least expect it. I may not be “fluent”, but I do life with this language. I manage my bipolar disorder well. Well, Crocodile John, there’s still life to live, but I think I can own the fact that I’m here. This is what it’s meant to be. Imagine 200 followers though. Crazy, right?
Crocodile John has the word “respect” tattooed on his arm in four different languages. I noticed the Russian first. In Russian, they have different words for the different types of respect, whereas in English, we only have one. Crocodile John has the word for giving respect tattooed. “It’s not receiving respect, or demanding respect—it’s giving.” We talk about respecting the neighborhood. Home, he tells me in his own words, is where there is mutual respect. He lives in Old East Dallas; me in Deep Ellum. Out-of-towners don’t show respect for the local culture, bringing in crime. Gentrification is a concern for both of us, but crime most of all. Our neighbors and fellow musicians, bartenders, etc., know to be kind to the people you brush elbows with, and we contribute to the local economy. It means a lot to me to meet someone like him who shares that idea of respect. Crocodile John values diversity—of race, occupation, economic status; opinion. Music transcends all of that. “There is no ‘north of IH-30 blues’ or ‘south of IH-30 blues’,” he tells me, referring to the racial divide, “there’s just blues. And that’s what I play.”
Madison and I leave the songwriter social a bit early and head to the Twilite Lounge for a final cocktail. Crocodile John had disappeared somewhere, perhaps to smoke a bit of weed or a cigarette. We’ll likely catch him another time. I don’t often find many people as authentic as him, but when I do, it’s somewhere like Adair’s. Writing all over the walls, stickers all over the walls, corny beer signs, and $4 drinks. The burgers are greasy, and the music is good. There are people from all walks of life, and sometimes, wearing crocodile hats. Another night in a place I love to call home, and another way to define this idea I search for.