The Curious Case of John Floyd
- Richard Friend
- Apr 18
- 15 min read
He spoke with a British accent despite having never been to England, and may have been the last of Laurel’s memorable eccentric characters. But who was John Floyd, really?
Laurel has had its share of memorable characters over the years. In fact, practically every neighborhood in every generation has had at least one. Kids who grew up in the 1970s still talk of “Bowling Alley Bill,” an odd fellow who—as the nickname suggests—seemed to live at the Fair Lanes bowling alley, watching countless games to pass the time. But when I think of eccentric characters these days, I immediately think of John Floyd, a friend who passed away in 2020. John was a prolific photographer and a fountain of information on the history of Laurel. But he was certainly a character, what with his unusual British accent and propensity for always being behind the eight ball when it came to finances and responsibilities.
I first met John in 2011 through eBay, of all places. Shortly before starting my Lost Laurel project, I’d been researching the history of Steward Manor Apartments, where I grew up. I came across a set of original 1970s photos being offered on eBay—photos primarily of fire and rescue apparatus from Laurel—but which included one that clearly showed Steward Manor in a shot of the Rescue Squad’s heavy truck turning onto Lafayette Avenue in 1974. I bought the photos, then contacted the seller to inquire about whether or not he had any others that I might be interested in. Boy, did he ever.
Thus began a frequent email correspondence that, more often than not, included lengthy, detailed narratives from John—emails (through his ancient AOL account, which he steadfastly refused to upgrade from) that were more like photo essays, comprised of images from his massive collection that showcased any number of people, places, and things from Laurel. He thoroughly enjoyed composing these messages, in which he could share with readers a visual journey through any number of topics. Many of these would include “then and now” photos showing various locations around town. John would have made a terrific blogger, in hindsight.
In April 2012, the Laurel Art Center, one of my all-time favorite Laurel businesses, was closing its doors. I made the pilgrimage to soak in the ambiance one final time, and to photograph the store for posterity.
While photographing each aisle, a vaguely familiar looking fellow approached—also holding a camera. “Looks like we had the same idea today,” he said with a friendly British accent. And within seconds, I realized that this had to be John Floyd. “John?” I asked. “Rich?” He replied. Despite corresponding via email for the past year, we’d never actually met in person until that afternoon—the final day that the Laurel Art Center was open.
The inspiration for Lost Laurel began, in part, through those earliest interactions with John. As I became more curious about various places from Laurel’s past, he proved to be an invaluable resource. Not only that, but he had saved countless photos and artifacts going back decades: newspapers, postcards, carryout menus, telephone directories, receipts, shopping bags, business cards, advertisements, and more—including unopened products from long-closed department stores like Zayre and Jamesway.
For the next couple of years, John combed through his house at 805 Fifth Street—the home built by his stepfather, Harry Fyffe (owner of the legendary Fyffe’s Service Center) where he’d lived since childhood. Every few weeks, John would excitedly notify me that he’d put together a box of Lost Laurel goodies for me. I would pay him more than a fair price for the stuff, knowing that he would benefit from the “extra dosh,” as he liked to call it, speaking in his Cockney dialect.
I soon began to suspect, however, that his accent (which wasn’t limited to speech, as his emails were also written in the Queen’s English) may not be authentic. It first occurred to me while I was giving him a ride one day. When the subject of England came up, I asked him, “When was the last time you were over there, John?” Without missing a beat, he replied, “I’ve never actually been there, mate.”
Debunking a British Myth
The story of John’s lineage was always conspicuously vague, and the few things he mentioned about it never quite added up. He once explained to me that his mother, Phyllis Murray, was from Great Britain—and that he had actually been born at sea during her 1957 transatlantic journey to the U.S. According to John, this meant that he was neither a British nor a U.S. citizen, because he’d never actually been naturalized. And for that reason, John proudly explained, “I’ve never paid taxes in me life!”
He said that he and his mother settled briefly in Camden, NJ before relocating to North Laurel in 1964. At that time, they were living in the old Laurel Park Hotel (a boarding house now long gone) near the race track. Phyllis had separated from John’s biological father, and eventually met Harry, of whom John would always speak with the utmost admiration.
When John passed away suddenly in August 2020, I wrote an obituary of sorts for him that included his English origin story and published it in the inaugural issue of Voices of Laurel. Not long thereafter, I heard from some of his fellow Laurel High Class of 1975 schoolmates who recalled how John never actually spoke with a British accent growing up. More telling, two of his cousins reported that John’s mother, Phyllis, had actually been born and raised in nearby Savage—a fact that I was able to confirm by Census records and yearbooks. In fact, not only was Phyllis born in Maryland, both of her parents were, as well.
Giving him a ride around Laurel one afternoon, John pointed out a house on Ninth Street where his “bastard of a father” had once lived. This surprised me, because it clearly drew into question the notion of John having been “born at sea.” According to the 1950 U.S. Census, Phyllis was already divorced and working as a waitress at Allen’s Townhouse—a building that still stands in North Laurel today and was popular in the 1980s as the Chaucer House. John was born in 1957, and seems to have been only connected to his birth father by name despite living nearby for many years. The elder John Floyd eventually moved to Chester, MD, where he died in 2003 at the age of 91.
“He Always Had So Much Potential”
While John wasn’t a particularly good student, (his Laurel High School report cards consistently show poor grades, and admonishments from frustrated teachers who couldn’t get him to focus on his studies) he was clearly intelligent. One former classmate recalled him picking up languages like German and French with ease, and he became a very skilled photographer. But he was more apt to doze off in class, when he wasn’t drawing pictures of his favorite things: trains and fire trucks. Classmates remembered him fondly, but many shared a common lament when it came to John’s lack of success later in life. “He always had so much potential,” they said.
Shortly after graduation, he joined the Laurel Volunteer Fire Department. While he loved being a part of the action, he admittedly did not enjoy the more mundane responsibilities. As they’ve always done, firefighters are occasionally required to solicit donations from the public. John was unceremoniously relieved of his duties, however, when he continually refused to participate. Or, more specifically, after he informed Chief Billy Stanton that he “came here to fight fires, not sell bingo tickets.”
John soon parlayed his lifelong love of firefighting and trainspotting into his other hobby—photography—and launched something called “Royal Blue Ventures.” Royal Blue was the name of a classic B&O train between Washington and New York, and John’s all-time favorite. He had business cards made that advertised his unique brand of “emergency photography,” which boasted “specializing in fires, accidents, train wrecks, and other misfortunes.” In the spirit of photojournalists like Arthur “Weegee” Fellig before him, John monitored a radio scanner and often beat authorities to the scene of local fires. Many of his photos wound up being published in the Laurel Leader.
John also excelled at music. His high school band experience evolved into a lifetime love of vintage big band music, and playing gigs with the Windsor Kessler Orchestra and other bands before forming his very own Royal Blue Orchestra. Music was essentially the only steady work he ever had.
John’s musical career was flourishing by the mid-1980s, when he worked as a bandsman for Maryland’s famous Phillips Seafood Restaurants between 1980 and 2001. The job required him to travel between the Baltimore and Ocean City locations, as well as the Phillips Flagship restaurant along the DC waterfront.
John's musical career began at Laurel High School, where he graduated in 1975. Playing the sousaphone, he regularly performed engagements with the Windsor Kessler Orchestra and his own Royal Blue Orchestra throughout the 1980s and 90s. John continued to perform in Laurel's 4th of July parades as part of the West Laurel Rag-Tag Band.
But the death of his beloved mother in 1987 took a heavy toll on him. Burdened with medical bills from her cancer treatment (and a series of poor financial decisions he’d make over the ensuing years), John nearly lost everything. He then found himself living alone in the house on Fifth Street (Harry had died back in 1981), likely with no clue that things would continue that way for the next three decades, and for the remainder of his life.
A Slow Spiral
One could say that the high point of John’s life was in 1985, after he’d purchased a brand new Crown Victoria station wagon from Academy Ford for $15,000 in cash. John was independent, able to drive both to his restaurant band gigs as well as to vendor shows and conventions along the East coast, where he could sell his fire and train photos in the days long before eBay. But in June of 2002, “The NastyLiner,” as he’d christened it, finally gave up the ghost at 274,000 miles. The loss of the car brought traveling for work (or anything else) to a halt. Unable to afford the costly repairs, John also let the registration lapse; and in September 2002, the car was confiscated by City of Laurel Code Enforcement and towed to a salvage yard. It was the last car John would ever own.
Limited by his lack of transportation, John embraced eBay as his primary source of income by 2004. He had established a decent niche of return customers for his fire and train photos, and had also begun selling items for others on consignment. While it was enough for him to get by on, his meager earnings were further depleted by nearly constant veterinary bills. Over the years, John had taken in a number of cats. At one point, he had upwards of 16 coming and going on his property, which he deemed “Catford Manor House of Nasty Acres.” John’s heart was in the right place, but taking on the responsibility of caring for so many pets in his circumstances was yet another in a series of poor decisions.
There was a kind of humorous irony in seeing this gentle giant of a man surrounded by felines with names such as “Sweet Pea,” “Baby Number 3,” “Little Grey,” and “Miss Kitten.” But there was nothing funny about his habit of putting their wellbeing above his own. Frequent and costly veterinary emergencies only hastened the decline of John’s house—and his own health—both of which suffered from decades of neglect.
By the summer of 2012, John shared with me that he was having some serious financial difficulties. That was an understatement. Despite his house having long been paid for, John wasn’t able to cover the annual property tax. Apparently, this wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last. The home that he’d lived in for half a century was always within a whiff of being taken from him by Prince George’s County over a matter of a couple thousand dollars.
For all of his otherwise brilliance—his musical abilities and his vast knowledge of history—John seemed completely inept at the day-to-day responsibilities of adulthood. Worse, he’d effectively boxed himself into a corner. Without a car, his job options (which were already limited) became practically nonexistent. And at over 300 lbs. after years of physical inactivity, he had difficulty walking any significant distance.
John would also fall behind in his utility payments, often using money set aside for one bill to pay another—and this would result in lengthy shut offs of his telephone, internet, electric, or all of the above. On a number of occasions, he was forced to use money he’d received from his eBay consignment sales—money that was supposed to go to the people who’d given him the items to sell—to cover these financial crises.
I organized a fundraiser for John in June 2012 to help pay his overdue property tax bill. He reluctantly agreed to let me tell his story on Lost Laurel, citing embarrassment and shame at having to accept charity. I explained that it was a better alternative to homelessness, and he agreed. Dozens of people sent money via PayPal and checks to his home, including many folks who’d never met him. Dozens more supported him by purchasing his eBay items. And just in the nick of time, John was able to settle the debt.
But the following years brought little in the way of relief, and I began to notice more of a pattern in how John accepted the charity of others. On the rare occasions when he had a little extra money (an eBay sale of anything over $50 was a windfall to him), it would quickly disappear. Rather than budget his funds and purchase essentials, John would splurge at the nearby 7-Eleven on junk food.
Friends and neighbors would also frequently drop by with donations of groceries, toiletries, cat food, and kitty litter, which John would express his gratitude for. But, surprisingly, there were also times when he could be far less gracious. He once commented that a particular brand of soap someone had donated “wasn’t me brand of choice.” Moments like those understandably caused some friends to reconsider their generosity.
When The Laurel History Boys were in our earliest days, Kevin Leonard, Pete Lewnes, and I would frequently meet at the Tastee Diner, and I would often bring John along and treat him to lunch. Granted, the diner isn’t an expensive restaurant, but John would ask to modify their largest hamburger by using three beef patties, and would always be the first to inquire about dessert. On one occasion, the late Windy Floyd (a waitress who was no relation to John) flat out refused to let him have the enormous burger. She explained, “No, we’re not doing that. For one thing, we’d have to charge you for three burgers—and I know you’re not the one paying for this. You don’t need to be eating more than one hamburger, either.” We loved Windy.
John joined Facebook in August of 2012 after months of reluctance. In many ways, it opened some doors for him; but in other ways, it was perhaps the final hindrance to any real hope of progress.
He began to use Facebook as a networking tool through which he could sell photo CDs of his extensive collection of historical fire and rescue photos. And he did well for a while, but it wasn’t exactly a sustainable endeavor. Once folks had purchased the entire collection, they weren’t likely to be repeat buyers.
Facebook can be a distraction for many of us, and it was clearly a major distraction for John. I can only begin to guess at the number of hours he spent on Facebook, day and night. John was rarely content to simply “like” a friend’s post—he couldn’t resist commenting on it, often posting lengthy editorials. And his comments would often include photos that he felt were relevant, which undoubtedly took time for him to locate. His comments—lengthy tomes on subjects as diverse as circus history and obscure train routes—would appear at ungodly hours of the night, too—evidence that he was still sitting at the computer at 3 am rather than sleeping. I don’t think John ever encountered a rabbit hole that he could resist going down.
When he inevitably found himself in another financial pickle, he would post about it on Facebook. Those posts almost always began with, “Well, what a revoltin’ situation THIS is ...” and would go on to describe the latest predicament, and end with a “Thank you ever so kindly” to those who pledged to help—which many did.
By 2014, John somehow seemed to be worse off than he was when I’d met him. Despite increasing dependence on the generosity of others, he was once again facing eviction over nonpayment of property tax. He still refused to seek actual work in earnest, with the exception of putting in a long shot application next door at the Laurel Police Department for a dream position as a dispatcher. When he didn’t get that job, I suspect he never gave any serious consideration to finding another. He’d once noticed a young lady dressed in a Statue of Liberty costume, waving at drivers passing by what was then Liberty Insurance on Gorman Avenue. He made the comment to me that he’d “never lower meself to taking a job doing something like that.” I told him that he might want to rethink that attitude, as she was earning an income that he wasn’t.
Much like the old NastyLiner that he drove until the proverbial wheels fell off, John’s computer began to fail by 2016, too. Knowing that it was his literal lifeline, some friends and I pitched in and bought him a new PC. But the line between helping John and enabling him had become less clear, and so I made the tough decision to put a bit more distance between us. I knew that he still had friends who would help, but I hoped that John would make more of an effort to become self-sufficient.
A Fiancée?
By late 2016, John started posting extensive, detailed missives on Facebook about a fiancée he’d had named Naomi Hall—“a Welsh lass” he’d worked with at Phillips Flagship. According to John, he’d begun a whirwind romance with the cocktail waitress in March of 1987 that ended with her tragic death just 11 weeks later at the hands of a drunk driver. Had this been a blocked, painful memory that was only emerging with the approaching 30th anniversary? Was Naomi the source of John’s adopted British accent?
I still feel a twinge of guilt at the thought of this, but I’ve often wondered if John had simply conjured Naomi in an effort to combat what I’m sure was chronic loneliness. I don’t think anyone ever questioned him about it outright, but a few friends had that impression, too. Most telling was the fact that John, who shot countless photographs over his lifetime, claimed to have never taken a single photo of her. He explained that the only camera he had at the time happened to be in the repair shop for the entire 11 weeks that he and Naomi were together.
After her death, John said that Naomi’s parents made the journey from Wales to claim her remains and to meet him—he described a touching visit, but regretted that he’d forgotten to ask for their address in order to keep in touch, and never heard from them again.
To my knowledge, none of John’s friends had ever actually seen Naomi, and the coworkers who would have been able to confirm their relationship have either died or lost touch with John many years ago. I also couldn’t find any notice of her accident or death. Did she really exist, or was she a figment of John’s imagination? Or perhaps an invented backstory like his British accent—an element of intrigue that John felt would make him more interesting? While we may never know for sure, I hope John realized that he never really needed any kind of embellishment to be accepted and loved. Despite his faults, he was a wonderfully interesting fellow who managed to touch a lot of lives, and he won’t be forgotten.
A Mysterious End, and a Tall Tale Proves True
A friend of John’s dropped a bag of groceries at his doorstep on the morning of August 22, 2020. When he drove past John’s house on his way home from work that evening, he noticed that the bag was still there, untouched. When John failed to respond, Laurel Police officers performing a wellness check found John deceased in the hallway just outside his bedroom. He was 63.
John had been feeling unwell off and on since that January, and from the symptoms he described, he believed that he had contracted Covid-19 possibly before it reached pandemic stage that March. One of his friends bravely drove him for testing, which came back negative—but sadly, we’ll never know for certain how he died.
The volunteer group Laurel Cats were notified and rescued six of John’s indoor felines, which I’m sure would have been his primary concern. Before his house was sold, The Laurel History Boys were given permission to retrieve his immense photo collection and any Laurel-related mementos he had. Found deep in a desk drawer, separate from other Super 8 film reels from the early 1970s, was a home movie he’d filmed capturing the moment when George Wallace was shot at Laurel Shopping Center while campaigning for president. It was one of the things John had spoken of before, but had never been able to produce—which had led me to think it might’ve been another of his embellished stories. When I realized what I’d found, I could almost hear his voice saying, “I told ya so, mate!”
John’s house sat empty before a buyer purchased it almost four years to the day after his death. The completely renovated home looks brand new today, and I’m sure in some way John is proud that it’s finally been restored.
When I think of John Floyd and his legacy, I think of a truly unforgettable character who inspired many of us to look more closely at and appreciate the mundane around us; to always have a camera at the ready to preserve the memories of places—and people—we’re grateful for.
Richard Friend is a founding member of The Laurel History Boys, and creator of LostLaurel.com.
this was excellent!