"Are you on drugs?" the probation officer asked Mr. B.
Yes, it's the Treachery time of year again, and we start out with our hero already under law enforcement supervision.
"That P.O. has full-sleeve tats and a nose ring," Mr. B said on the phone afterward. "She's asking about anger classes."
"They are just trying to figure you out," I said. "See what slot you fit in, because you don't fit in one."
"A full sleeve! How much did all that cost?"
He didn't think someone with ink shop tattoos had the right to even ask about the three blurred and pen-scratched-in-the-1960's blue tattoos he sported.
And so the summer started early and badly for Mr B., still living in the junkyard in summer, wintering with a friend for 3 years now. Recently, the land owner David found him roommate situation, but that went nowhere.
"The guy had the spare bedroom full of junk!" said B. "He expected me to sleep on the sofa, while paying him full rent!"
"Maybe you should have taken it. Offer the guy to help clean up that spare room, work on the situation," I said.
Even too many evictions and a long court record of petty disorderlies, B. thinks the low-rent grass is greener elsewhere. He thinks he has choices.
What choices do any of us have?
And why is my cup cloudy? This tea wasn't cloudy last year.
No, it is only dried minerals in the cup from tap water. I forgot to rinse everything clean.
Bought B. a wood stove so he might stay in his trailer over the winter. But it needed a longer flue. I offered to pick up the parts on Amazon, only then I hit a treachery of my own.
"I'm not going to have my car driven out there to help that man," my-formerly-of-Guangzhou ex said, when I chatted about the stove back at home. "Mr. B. sent me a card saying guns don't kill people, people kill people."
"On the back it said 'get your tickets for Wynonna.'"
"He was threatening to kill me."
Yeah...so the treachery is my ex is now living in my house, and claims back the car I have been driving for the nearly 10 years he was in China.
Mr Guangzhou also ran off David the junkyard owner stopping by to talk about Mr. B.
"I told that guy David to get lost and never come back."
"You don't know anything," I said. "These are my friends!"
By now my cataracts meant it wasn't worth me buying another car. But, David hasn't trusted me since.
The ex walked all that back about not letting me drive the car, after seeing how upset I was. But knowing his views, I tried to save driving out to the junkyard, going only for when I had some actual business, like something to bring, or maybe if Mr. B. needed a ride to the courthouse. In fact, earlier in the spring Mr B said "nah don't come out, I'm just reading books until the weather warms up." Similarly he discouraged Ron from Mpls from visiting.
Bottom line, I haven't seen Mr. B since October 2025.
On that October day, we were going to finish up his rent rebate paperwork from two years ago. I drove out with some Taco Bell and cherry-flavored Leinies, and we sat in the car eating everything, facing the golden sun in the windshield. We had one big thing in common. When you drive for a living and you like it, then you always feel better sitting in the car just talking, than sitting anywhere else. We always felt better going for a drive, with a $2 bean burrito, and just watching people go by from the windshield. In the world, but not of it. If you don't already know, it's also what black sheep do, when your family doesn't love you. Outside the car, rejection is right around the corner.
Speaking of that, rejection is how he took it when Ron said a friend from Cali would visit in April, and Mr. B's visit must end. Mr. B. therefore left in a huff in March.
"He took my new sweater!" Ron said. Mr. B hadn't, he wasn't a clothes fiend. But the accusation hurt.
"Ron needs to clean out his closet, it's probably off a hanger on the floor," said B. Rejections rejected.
But in April, Mr. B. started complaining of sneezing and trouble breathing. Seemed like allergies.
"It's a hantavirus," Mr. B. said. "I'm pretty sure there are mouse nests in the fans in the Toyota. I breathed that in driving to Ron's in December."
"Well, go to the doctor."
"I can't, my Medicare card dissolved in my wallet. It's made of paper! It should be made of plastic!"
"You are on Medicaid, they can look you up at the clinic."
The monthly visits with tattoo lady at the county got more stressful.
"She's threatening to do a home inspection," said Mr. B.
Readers here have seen the photos over the years of what that might look like.
The problem with treachery isn't the Big Rejection everyone is afraid of, that mostly doesn't happen more than once or twice to most people. No, it's the small treacheries that add up. The car you can't borrow, the friend who asks you to leave early, the flat tire, the Medicare card made of paper, the stove that doesn't work, the illness that never stops summer heat, winter cold, lots of alcohol and parasitic veggies.
Mr. B called me up July 29, elated.
"I think I passed the psych eval the tattoo lady ordered."
Thinking he probably hadn't, I wondered what program they might try and slap him in next.
"What did you say to them?" I asked.
"Guy asked me about my childhood. Like did I skip school, etc." he said. "They knew I'd been in juvie, how did he know that? So, I said, I'm 75 years old! This was in the 1960s, what does all that matter now?"
"The burden is definitely on them to show it matters."
"Exactly. I haven't been in the system for 20 years."
"Hey, you showed up for yourself. At a psych eval. Hell yeah."...that's a little win in a big LOSE. But still, a life-level-up win...clutch.
Although we did prompt him to lay off the beer ahead of time since he was revving up more every day.
"Tattoo lady says if I pass then she will ask the judge if I can drink beer. They didn't bust me for drinking."
"Sounds like you been presuming..." yeah he was back on the beer.
Phone beeped on Aug 9.
"Hey, it's David. Mr B's passed away. He's at the funeral home in town. So you want to give me a call, all right bye."
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