They Let Him Die Like This?! The Disturbing End of Don Bexley! | HO

LOS ANGELES, CA — To millions of Americans, Don Bexley was “Bubba,” the lovable, slow-talking comic foil on Sanford and Son—a sitcom that broke barriers and brought Black family life into mainstream television. But behind the laughter, Bexley’s real story is one of struggle, loyalty, and a final chapter that Hollywood would rather you forget.

For decades, Bexley was a fixture on stage and screen, a man whose life traced the arc of Black entertainment from the Chitlin’ Circuit to prime-time TV. Yet, when the cameras stopped rolling, the industry that once cheered him on left him to fade away, his final years marked by illness, obscurity, and a disturbing lack of recognition for his contributions.

The Early Years: Born for the Stage

Donald Thomas Bexley’s beginnings are shrouded in the kind of uncertainty that often follows Black entertainers of his era. Even his birthplace is disputed—official records list either Jamestown, Virginia or Detroit, Michigan. Born on March 10, 1910, Bexley grew up in a family that straddled the sacred and the stage: his father, Thomas, was a Bible scholar and teacher; his mother, a classical vocalist. That blend of discipline and performance would shape Bexley’s entire life.

By his teens, Bexley was already known as a clown, a natural performer. He hustled through upstate New York’s club scene in the 1940s, sharing stages with legends like Milton Berle, and later grinding it out on the Chitlin’ Circuit—a network of venues where Black entertainers could perform during segregation. He worked solo, in comedy teams, and even recorded party albums with partner Dave Turner.

But it was on that circuit that Bexley met a young John Elroy Sanford—better known as Redd Foxx. The two men became fast friends, their bond forged in the fires of racism, long nights, and the relentless grind for respect and survival.

The Sanford and Son Revolution

Fast-forward to the early 1970s. Norman Lear, already known for All in the Family, wanted to bring Black family life to American television. Redd Foxx was cast as Fred Sanford, the cranky junk dealer. But Foxx, by then a star, insisted on bringing along his old Chitlin’ Circuit friends—among them, Don Bexley.

Bexley’s “Bubba” was more than a comic sidekick. He was the embodiment of Black male friendship and loyalty, a character who brought dignity and warmth to a show that could easily have descended into stereotype. But as the show rocketed to the top of the ratings, the real drama was unfolding off-camera.

Behind the Laughter: Salary Wars and Walkouts

The third season of Sanford and Son saw a seismic shakeup. Redd Foxx, feeling underpaid and underappreciated, walked off set in a now-legendary salary dispute. Officially, he cited health reasons, but the truth was clear: Foxx wanted his money, and he wanted it now.

For Bexley, the situation was agonizing. His friend and benefactor was at war with the network, and the entire show hung in the balance. “Imagine being Don Bexley during this time,” says TV historian Mark Reynolds. “Your friend, the star, walks out, and suddenly everyone’s looking at you. Do you stay loyal to Foxx, or protect your own job?”

Bexley chose discretion. He never publicly sided with Foxx or the producers, instead keeping his head down and his relationships intact. “That’s political savvy,” says Reynolds. “He was the bridge between factions—a role that kept him working, but took a toll.”

The Toll of Hollywood’s Double Standard

What most viewers didn’t know was that Bexley was already in his sixties when Sanford and Son began. The stress of on-set politics, coupled with the grind of being the “steady one,” weighed heavily. And while Foxx eventually returned and the show continued, the camaraderie was never the same. “After the show ended, everyone went their separate ways,” said Demond Wilson, who played Lamont. “I only saw Foxx once in the five years after.”

Bexley’s career after Sanford and Son was steady, but never spectacular. He reprised Bubba in Sanford Arms, appeared in What’s Up, Doc? and T.J. Hooker, but never landed another role of similar stature. Hollywood, it seemed, was happy to typecast him as the comic sidekick, but unwilling to offer him leading roles or serious dramatic work.

Private Struggles, Public Silence

Bexley’s personal life was as complicated as his professional one. He married three times—first to Patricia Burgaron, then to Jillian, and finally to Sally, with whom he had two daughters. “A man goes through three marriages while climbing the entertainment ladder, you know there’s drama,” says Reynolds. But by all accounts, his final marriage was a source of stability.

Despite his fame, Bexley never became wealthy by modern standards. Syndication and residuals were not the golden parachutes for Black actors in the 1970s that they are today. When he died, his net worth was modest—a working actor’s savings, not a superstar’s fortune.

The Final Years: Illness and Obscurity

After Redd Foxx’s sudden death in 1991, Bexley’s world grew smaller. He outlived his most famous co-star by six years, but Hollywood had moved on. The man who made millions laugh was now battling kidney and heart failure in relative obscurity. Unlike some celebrities who publicize their illnesses, Bexley kept his struggles private, maintaining his dignity even as his health declined.

He died on April 15, 1997, in Hampton, Virginia. There were no headlines, no star-studded tributes. For a man who helped define an era of comedy, his passing was disturbingly quiet.

The Scandal of Forgotten Legacy

How could this happen? How could a man whose artistry helped shape American television die with so little fanfare or support? Some blame the industry’s short memory and structural racism; others point to the changing tastes of audiences and the rise of new comedic voices. But those who knew Bexley say the real scandal is how his loyalty, professionalism, and humanity went largely unrecognized.

“Don was the real MVP of Sanford and Son,” says TV critic Angela Morgan. “While everyone focused on Foxx’s antics, Bexley was the glue. He navigated salary wars, personality conflicts, and industry politics without losing his integrity. That’s rare in this business.”

The Unpaid Debt

Bexley’s influence lingers in the DNA of Black comedy. The loyal friend, the comic foil with depth and humanity, is now a staple of the genre. Yet, as reruns of Sanford and Son introduce Bubba to new generations, few know the real story of the man behind the laughter.

His death, largely unremarked by the industry he helped build, is a sobering reminder of Hollywood’s fleeting loyalty. “They let him die like this,” says Morgan, “because they never really saw him in the first place. To them, he was always just the sidekick.”

Epilogue: A Call for Recognition

Today, Don Bexley’s legacy survives in the laughter of audiences who never knew his name. But for those who remember, his story is a cautionary tale—a reminder that the cost of breaking barriers can be invisibility, and that true pioneers are often left behind when the spotlight moves on.

As we celebrate the achievements of Black entertainers in Hollywood, let’s not forget the men like Don Bexley, whose quiet strength and dignity made so much possible. He deserved better. And so does every artist who gives everything to an industry that too often gives nothing back.