He had been one of the most recognizable child actors of the 1950s. By 1980, he was lying on a Los Angeles sidewalk with bullets in his bulletproof vest, bleeding from at least one wound that had gotten through. The name on the Los Angeles Police Department's roster was Officer Ken Osmond. The name on his old television contracts was Eddie Haskell, the slick two-faced kid from Leave It to Beaver who had become cultural shorthand in America for fake politeness. He had been a cop for ten years. Most of his old industry had no idea where he had gone.
Ken Osmond had played Eddie Haskell on Leave It to Beaver from 1957 to 1963. The character had been the slick, two-faced neighbor kid, the one who was sickly polite to Mrs. Cleaver in the kitchen and cruel to the other kids the moment the adults left the room. Eddie Haskell became so culturally specific that the name itself turned into American shorthand. Calling someone an Eddie Haskell, in 1965 or 1985 or last week, meant they were performing for authority and probably lying about something. Ken Osmond had been the face of that performance for six seasons.
The show ended in 1963. Osmond was about twenty years old. He had been working as an actor since he was nine, and famous since he was fourteen. By any reasonable measure, he should have been ready to keep working in Hollywood for the rest of his life. There were a lot of doors potentially open to him.
Almost all of them were the same door.
Casting directors could not see past Eddie Haskell. He auditioned. He got small parts. Each one was, in some way, a variation on the same character he had aged out of. The kid he had been on television had become a brand he could not put down. He could have spent the next forty years playing different versions of Eddie Haskell. Plenty of former child actors did exactly that. Some of them made a comfortable living from it.
Ken Osmond decided he was not going to do that.
In 1970, he joined the Los Angeles Police Department. There was no press release. There were no former-child-star-becomes-cop magazine spreads. There was no carefully orchestrated rebrand. He went through the academy, like every other recruit. He came out the other side and started working patrol, like every other rookie. His fellow officers knew who he was. Some of them had grown up watching Leave It to Beaver. On the job, he was just Osmond.
He worked patrol in Los Angeles during the 1970s and 1980s, in a city that was, at the time, in the middle of one of the most violent periods in its history. Gangs. Drugs. Rising crime. A police force that buried its own officers far too often. Osmond was on the street. He responded to domestic disturbances and traffic accidents and burglaries and assaults. He did the work patrol officers do. He did not give interviews about it.
On September 20, 1980, he was working a foot pursuit when the suspect turned and fired. Osmond went down. He was wearing body armor, and the vest stopped at least two of the rounds. Another bullet hit his belt buckle and deflected. One round got through and lodged in his body. He survived because the armor worked, because the buckle worked, and because the bullet that got through missed anything immediately fatal. He was rushed to the hospital. He recovered. He went back to work.
Asked later about the experience, in the few moments anyone got him to comment on it at all, he gave the kind of answer cops give to journalists who do not understand the job. I knew I'd been hit, he said. I just didn't know how bad.
That was the full Ken Osmond statement on getting shot in the line of duty. No book. No movie rights. No press tour. No carefully crafted memoir. He had been within inches of dying on a Los Angeles street, and he had nothing in particular to say about it.
He kept working for the LAPD until 1988. Eighteen years of service in total. He retired on a disability that had been accumulating for years. He went home, mostly quietly, and lived the rest of his life out of the spotlight.
He did a handful of Leave It to Beaver reunion projects in the decades after, because the show was important to people and he was a generous man about that. He made occasional appearances at fan events. He sometimes signed autographs. He almost never led with the LAPD story when he sat down with interviewers, even though by that point a fair number of his fans already knew about it. He had not done the police work in order to have a story to tell about it.
Ken Osmond died on May 18, 2020, at the age of seventy-six. The obituaries led, naturally, with Eddie Haskell. They were not wrong to do so. He had been Eddie Haskell. But almost all of them, somewhere in the middle, added a paragraph about the eighteen years he had spent as a Los Angeles patrol officer, and the day in 1980 when he had been shot, and the body armor that had kept him alive.
A paragraph. That was the recognition.
It was probably exactly the amount of recognition he had wanted.
Eddie Haskell was the most famous fake politeness in twentieth century American television. The man who had played him had spent the second half of his life doing the opposite. He had walked into a uniform without making a press event of it. He had bled on a sidewalk without selling the story. He had retired quietly. He had refused, for fifty years, to make a thing of the fact that he was a thing.
He had played a phony. He turned out to be the real version of the character's exact opposite. The most honest piece of casting against type in the history of his profession.
@HillbillyDNA I haven’t seen a Bucky hoe down kick off ur shoes kinda video in a while. Atta boy one of those nights when mama goes to bed and says yall do you
My son and his friends are here sitting by the fire. They have beer. IC Light Mango. Busch Light Apple. Who drinks that shit. The pussyofaction with these knuckleheads.
Charles Barkley just said what a lot of sports fans think but won’t say.
America is not afraid of gay people.
People are tired of LGBTQ and Pride messaging being pushed into sports, jobs, TV, movies, and schools.
Bubba agrees with him.
Is he right?
My 1969 Glide, my best friend’s name is Dan, we call him Danno. It used to be his, now it is again. That was the deal. He had first refusal. It needed clutch maintenance and a new clutch cable.
The 1978 Shovel hard with the Ape hangers is his son’s, the 89 FLH is a replacement he bought because he missed the 69.
A Seattle judge wouldn’t let the media show you the face of the homeless man accused of dragging a teen girl into the woods to rape her. That’s ok, because his ex-girlfriend sent us some pictures. This is Joshua Kowalczewski.
For years, hundreds of children experiencing severe behavioral or mental health crises languished in hospitals without a medical reason to be there.
Once they were stable enough to leave, their parents or caregivers still could not safely care for them at home due to a lack of adequate resources, leaving them stuck in facilities.
As we recognize Mental Health Awareness Month, I'm proud to announce that our Rapid Care Team has prevented hundreds of these children and their families from falling through the cracks of a complex system. Children with some of the most complex needs are now finding safety and stability in half the time.
We are making significant progress to serve this particularly vulnerable population of Washingtonians, but our work is not done. My team is cutting through red tape and improving access to critical services for children in crisis and their families.
In 1981, Fernando Valenzuela won Rookie of the Year, the Cy Young Award, a Silver Slugger, and the World Series. And if you remember it, you know it was even more glorious than it sounds.
UPDATE: Authorities have captured an inmate whose escape went unnoticed for nearly five hours from the Monroe Correctional Complex on Thursday night.
bit.ly/4nzC2Ll
@TruckerDanUSA Yup, miss my ride in the worst way. Totalled when some idiot pulled out in front of me and almost took my life. Never got on another one.