John Albert Boshear: April 25th, 1941
Father: Albert Allen Boshear
Mother: Sarah Estelle (Dailey) Boshear
Ode to JayBee
JayBee with coffee in 1972
Once upon a time in a land far far away I had a big brother that worked at the same place I did. Every morning we would get up and drive to work together. I always drove my wife’s 240Z (you can see it by clicking here) and Jay always rode shotgun.
The car was made in 1972 and it had a buzzer that wouldn’t shut off unless you wore your seatbelt which wasn’t a problem ‘cause we always wore our seatbelts. Although it was a little uncomfortable because that was in the days before they figured out how to make them stay loose until you hit the brakes so you really couldn’t move around too much.
But hey, it was a sports car (made for speed not comfort). I loved to drive that car. If anybody got in my way or pissed me off I would just wave at them and smile and then punch it and watch their puzzled look get smaller and smaller in my rear view mirror.
One day, we decided to stop for coffee and donuts. We didn’t have time to sit and relax so we ordered to go. When we got back on the road Jay had his hands full. He had his donuts and my donuts and our coffee. I couldn’t really help him because I had my hands full driving but I figured it would help if he could set something down so I told him if he opened the glove compartment the door was designed to set cups on (that car was so cool). He opened the door and sat the coffee down. That worked pretty good while he fiddled with the donuts.
I wasn’t really paying attention to him because it was my job to drive and like I said I loved to drive that car. One of my favorite things to do was make that right turn onto the freeway onramp. That car cornered really great. I would always take it a little faster than I should and then punch it get up the onramp. And since Jay was there I wanted to showoff a little. I forgot about the coffee.
Now this was in the days before the McDonalds lawsuit so people figured you wanted your coffee as hot as they could make it. Our donut shop was no exception. When I went around the corner that coffee went right into Jay’s lap and as I punched it I heard a blood curdling scream as the coffee went down between his legs and filled up the bucket seat. His first reaction was to jump up and get out of the seat but of course there were those darn seatbelts that didn’t have any slack so he just screamed again at the top of his lungs (he screamed something that Ain’t Bea would never forgive him for). I pulled over and stopped as quickly as I could but it wasn’t quick enough for Jay.
It probably shouldn’t have but the whole thing struck me as funny so I just started laughing my ass off and that didn’t help his demeanor any. It wasn’t too long after that he moved back to Reno. I don’t know why.
That was the early 1970’s here is what Jay is up to now…
In early 1956, Ricky Durlin and I ran away from home. (Ricky is the one who taught me that it was okay to cuss. And showed me how to do it; properly and well.) We were both 14 years old. We ran south; for no reason other than that’s the way that Interstate 5 went.
We ended up in Tijuana. We went directly to the Blue Fox Cafe. (We had heard that they had “CHICKS” there and they were easy and would do anything that a guy asked them to do.) We went in, ordered drinks (just like grownups), and proceeded to get felt up by beautiful Mexican Chicks. (When you’re 14 and get felt up, it’s almost over before it starts…LOL!!) “My” girls kept telling me: “You look like Chicano. Are you Chicano?” Of course, I said: “Sure!” Then I said the worst thing I could say: “No dinero.” The Chicks disappeared and were replaced by a coupla’ giant Mexican bruisers who, not so gently, threw us – bodily – out the back door into the alley.
Ricky said: “We need money, Man…” I said: “No shit, Sherlock!!” We walked down the street, pondering our dilemna, and Ricky said he knew how we could get some dinero. He suggested that we lift some hubcaps (they were not wheel covers then), sell them and we would have plenty of money to “get Chicks”. I told him that, first of all, stealing was wrong (I WAS poor, but honest; honest!!) and, secondly, we would prolly get caught and get in trouble. Little did I know…
Ricky started working on the hubcaps of a brand new ’55 Ford. I told him I was not gonna’ participate and started walking down the street away from him and his illicit activity.
Next thing I know, a big, fat Tijuana cop accosted Ricky and (the son-of-a-bitch!) pointed me out and said I was his “lookout”. The cop arrested both of us. He was holding a great, big .45 caliber revolver on us. In fact, he actually said (You’ll have to imagine the thick Mexican accent): “Go ahea’ an ron away. I’n going to choot jou, anyway.” And laughed like crazy.
Anyway, he delivered us to the infamous Tijuana Jail.
We were thrown into a big drunk-tank kind of a cell with about 20 or 25 other guys. All but 4 of them were Mexican. The other 4 were American sailors who had come down from San Diego and gotten into some kind of trouble. We stayed in that cell overnight. (That night was the first – and, fortunately – the only time I ever saw a man having sex with another man.) Well, it was kind of one-sided. One guy was laying on the floor sleeping – in a drunken stupor – and another guy just turned him over on his tummy, withdrew his tool and proceeded to “have his way” with the guy’s butthole. Scared the poop outta’ me!!
I didn’t sleep very soundly that night.
Next morning, Ricky and I were brought before some kind of official guy. He asked me my name. Being a smart-ass 14-year-old, I told him my name was Mickey Mouse. He actually said: “How do you e’spell dat Meeky Mawse?” I told him. When asked, Ricky said he was Donald Duck. The guy wrote it all down, so that’s who we were.
The same guy told us that, later, we would be taken upstairs so we could confess to our crime. I told him that I had not done anything and would not “confess” to any crime. He said that when they finished with us, we would confess to ANYTHING. That’s when I began to realize that we weren’t in Kansas anymore and started to get scared. (The “confession” thing never actually happened.)
Anyway, we spent three weeks in that place. Due process? HA!! Human rights? DOUBLE-HA!! No such thing in Mexico. They can, and often did, just put people in jail and simply leave them there. In fact, I talked to an American (who was a Trusty, and brought our food; if you could call it that). He said he had been arrested on a charge of manslaughter and had been in that jail for 16 years!! (Later, after I was back in the States for a while, I saw an article in a magazine about the jail – and my friend, the Trusty, was featured in it.)
The food, by the way, was awful!! A cup of some kind of soupy looking stuff and bread. I remember that there were cockroaches everywhere. The first “food” I was given had a dead roach in it. And there were splinters of wood in the bread. I said: “I’m not gonna’ eat this crap!!” By the second or third day, I just threw away the roaches and the wood and scarfed it down.
As it turns out, we got REALLY lucky. After we had been there for three weeks, a Drug Agent of some kind or another came into the cell block looking for a notorious drug dealer. I just happened to talk to him. He found out that we were only 14 and from Los Angeles. He did some kind of magic and got us released into his custody. He took us to San Diego and put us in a Juvenile Detentions Center. (It was, relatively, Heavenly.) We were separated then. I spent 30 days in that lockup. Then I was transferred to a facility in Los Angeles. (I later found out that, when he was told that I was in jail in San Diego, Dad said: “He got himself in; he can just get himself out!” LOL!! Way to go, Pop!)
I appeared in some kind of court on my 15th birthday (April 25, 1956). I can remember the Judge asking me: “Son…am I ever going to see you in my court again?” I said: “NO, Sir!!”
Never been in one since. Except in 1957, in Weatherford, Texas. Not arrested; but still quite an adventure for a 15-year-old. But, that’s another story, entirely.
If you like, I’ll tell you THAT story tomorrow…
LoveJay
In 1957, Mom decided to leave Dad.
She took Betty, Limpy, Karo an’ Jerry with her to Shreveport, LA. I don’t remember why, but she left me in Los Angeles with Dad.
Mostly, he drank and made me play poker with him when he wasn’t working. (Needless to say, in those days he was volatile, violent and unpredictable. He was a mean drunk!!)
It didn’t take me long to decide that I’d had enough (again!). Gary and Russell Norman (the Dynamic Duo) had decided that they had had enough, at home, as well. Their dad, Russell Mark Norman, Sr. was Dad’s current “best buddy” at the time. (Drinking buddies, that is.) Dad used to call him Russell Mark Normanclature. Their friendship ended when Dad got mad about something and called his wife, Leona, a whore. (I can still clearly remember Russell and Gary’s little sister, Donna, running around the yard yelling: “MOMMY!! Why did Uncle Albert call you a horse?? Why, Mommy??” LOL!!)
Anyway, the three of us decided that we were gonna’ run away from home, get jobs, make a lot of money and live happily ever after.
Among the three of us, we had a total of 12 bucks; cash. We decided that we would go to Shreveport, visit Mom and the kids and then go get jobs in logging or driving big-rig trucks or something. (When you’re 16 and running away from home, you don’t have to be too specific…just gotta’ have “BIG PLANS”!!)
We left L.A. with those plans AND 12 bucks. LOL!!
We hitch-hiked from there to somewhere. The next thing that is clear in my memory is being in Tucumcari, New Mexico. We slept in a broom corn field. (This was in November and I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Didn’t even have a jacket…or enough sense to try to get one before we left.) Therefore; it was COLD!! I can remember trying to sleep and, when I occasionally drifted off, I woke myself up with my shivering and my teeth chattering.
Next day we caught a ride with a pair of guys in a brand new 1957 Dodge. I still wonder about those two. The guy driving looked like his face caught on fire and someone put it out with a two-by-four. The other guy was in the back seat and the driver kept calling him “Boss”. I think they were “bag men” for the Mafia; or something. Gary and Russell sat in the front with Broken Face and I sat in the back with Boss. Boss had a suitcase on his lap. He opened it and showed me the contents. It was chock-full of cash. All packed and banded just like they have it in the bank. I know that there was a fortune in that suitcase. He didn’t talk about it; he just opened it and showed it to me.
They offered to take us all the way to Omaha with them. I often wonder what would have happened had we gone with them. However; we got out somewhere in Texas when they were heading north.
We got another ride to a place just outside of Weatherford, Texas. Night had fallen and it was getting cold again. We walked into town and looked for a place to stay. After all, we went to the jail to see if someone would let us stay the night.
It was closed and locked up tight. There was a pickup truck parked in front so we figured there might be someone inside. I pounded on the door for a while and “Lurch” came to the door. One of the funniest sights I have ever seen….LOL!! This guy was the Sheriff. I did not measure him, but he had to be at least 7 feet tall and must have weighed 350 pounds. I was about 6 feet tall at the time and he made me feel positively petite.
He had a big old handle-bar mustache. He was wearing a white flannel nightgown down to his knees, cowboy boots, a big old white Stetson hat. He had his Star pinned on his chest and his gun-belt strapped on outside his nightgown with a monster-sized revolver. I think it was a .44…looked like a cannon to me.
Suddenly, I was meek and mild. I stammered: “We’re tired…it’s cold outside…we’re hungry…could we stay here for tonight?” He said: “Shore! Foller me!” We followed him back to the cell. He let us go inside, locked the door and THEN went and turned the heat up as far as it would go. We sweated all night long.
In the morning, he put us in his Squad Car and drove us to the edge of town. He said: “Boys, this here’s th’ City Limits of our town. I don’t wanna’ see you boys in mah town no more. You heah?!!” I heard. I would’ta gone back there no matter what. He skeered me!
I don’t remember where it was, but we were walking through some small town. We decided that we could afford to have a coke and a bite to eat. We went in to a little roadside diner. Gary said he wanted a coke and a donut. Which he promtly received. Russell said HE want a coke and a donut. He got his, too. I asked for a coke and a donut. The counter man went back in another room and brought me a coconut donut. No coke. I said: “I didn’t ask for a coconut donut. I asked for a coke an’ a donut.” He said: “Son, you ast for a coconut donut. That’s what I brung you an’ that’s what you’re gittin’!!” LOL!! What a jerk!!
Somehow, some way, we made it to Texas. We went to Ain’t Nancy’s house. Uncle Jasper asked us if we wanted to work, or not. We said “Sure!” He had us up a the crack of dawn every morning for six days. We chopped pulp wood from the time we could see until the time we couldn’t see no more. I’m thinkin’ it was about 70 to 80 hours of hard work. At the end of the week, he bought us a carton of cigarettes. Not one each; just one. However; during that week we had really good food three times a day and a comfortable place to stay. All in all, it was a good time.
I don’t remember whether it was Shreveport or Henderson that we went to school, but the Princpal was really something else. All the kids called him “Slick”. I remember one thing that he said to us: “I know all about you Los AnGelees boys…(hard ‘G’) an’ I’m fixin’ to tell ya’ rat now…you boys can do anythang thachew wanna’ do but you ain’t a-gonna’ do nuthin’!! (????)
I can remember one afternoon that we were in Henderson. We were just goofin’ around, as teenagers will do. We went into a grocery store and were walking around. The owner (whose name I recall was Robby LeGrone) walked up to me and accused me of trying to steal stuff out of his store. (We all know how them there Los AnGelees boys are…) I told him that I did no such thing. Next thing I know he reaches into a pocket, somewhere, and pulls out a .45 automatic and sticks it into my face. He said some really terrible things about my anscestry and I started to smart-off some more. He hit me SO HARD I can still feel it!! It was hard enough to make me smash into a glass case and broke all the glass. Of course, we ran like the dickens.
After a while, we decided that we had a good case to sue him for assault and battery, take his stupid market and everything else he might own. There was only one lawyer in town. We went to his office and told him the whole story. (He looked and talked exactly like Pat Buttram from Green Acres.) After I had spilled my guts, he looked me right in the eye, spit something awful into a tin can and said: “Waaaallll, I cain’t be a-suin’ Robby…he’s mah good fri-i-e-n’.” (He made the last word about three syllables.)
After that, not much exciting happened. Betty and I got in trouble for “dirty dancing” at a school hop. And EVERYWHERE I went in East Texas, people would say: “Why, yore Al Boshay’s boy ain’tcha’? Y’all DO favor…” LOL!!
LoveJay