Mr. Monk is Cleaned Out

by Lee Goldberg

  “That is life,” he said. “One horror after another, followed by despair.”

  We walked side by side to my car. He rubbed his chest where I’d poked him a few times.

  “I think you broke my sternum.”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Monk.” We reached the car and I unlocked the doors.

  “We’ll know for sure when my lungs collapse.”

  “If the dehydration doesn’t kill you first.”

  I turned my back on him before he could see my smile and walked around the car to the driver’s side.

  We were good again.

  I stopped my car at the curb outside of his apartment. He opened the door and looked over at me before he got out.

  “Will I see you tomorrow?”

  It was a good question. I wasn’t working for him and we didn’t have another job lined up yet. There was really no reason for me to be at his door first thing in the morning. In fact, there was no reason for me to see him at all.

  Except that he needed me.

  But I needed some space, some time to clear my head and figure out what I was going to do.

  “Let’s see how it goes,” I said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Let’s see what happens.”

  He cocked his head. “I still don’t understand.”

  “We may or may not see each other tomorrow. It depends on how events play out.”

  “What events?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why we will have to wait to see how it goes and what happens.”

  “How do you know that there will be any events or happenings? And what events or happenings could there be that will determine whether I will see you or not?”

  “That’s what we’ll find out.”

  “You’re delirious,” he said.

  “I’ll give you a call, Mr. Monk.”

  “When?”

  “At some point,” I said.

  “I can’t deal with all of this uncertainty.”

  “Neither can I. That’s why I need some time to myself, to sort it all out and come up with some kind of plan.”

  “I have a plan,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “You come to my apartment tomorrow and we do business as usual.”

  “But we are out of business.”

  He shook his head. “I’m in business. All I am is business. I have lots of business I need to do. I have lists of business. I mean business.”

  “Then you will have plenty to keep you busy,” I said. “Good night, Mr. Monk.”

  I reached over, closed his door, and drove off. I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw him standing at the curb, looking forlornly after me.

  I had to resist the powerful, self-destructive urge to make a U-turn, pull up beside him, and promise to be at his door first thing in the morning.

  I am proud to say that I marshaled all of my willpower and managed to resist the urge. I went straight home, sat down at the kitchen table with Julie, took a half gallon of ice cream out of the freezer, and we picked at it with spoons while I told her about my night.

  We might have finished off the entire carton if there wasn’t a knock at the front door.

  I went to the door, peered into the peephole, and saw Monk standing on the porch, a taxi driving off behind him.

  I groaned and leaned my head against the door.

  “It’s Mr. Monk, isn’t it?” Julie said.

  “How did you know?”

  “You did the Monk groan,” she said.

  “I have a Monk groan?”

  “Everybody who knows him does,” she said.

  I sighed and opened the door. “What are you doing here, Mr. Monk?”

  “I need to stay with you,” Monk said and walked past me into the house without waiting for an invitation.

  “You really can’t deal with uncertainty, can you?”

  Monk went into the kitchen and stood beside Julie. “So I see you’re eating ice cream directly out of the container with a spoon.”

  “It’s how we like to eat it,” she said.

  “Both of you at once?”

  “That way we only have to rinse two spoons instead of washing two bowls.”

  He stared at her.

  “You can’t stay, Mr. Monk,” I said.

  “Why bother with spoons? You could just use your fingers and not have to wash anything at all. You could lick your fingers clean. Then again, why even do that?”

  “You’re not listening to me, Mr. Monk.”

  “Why bother with clothes? Or a house? Why not go all the way and live in a tree and eat bananas? No wonder you see nothing wrong with pizza.”

  “What’s wrong with pizza?” Julie asked.

  “You poor girl,” Monk said. “It’s like you’ve been raised in the wild.”

  “Mr. Monk,” I said, “I’m taking you home.”

  “I don’t have one anymore,” Monk said. “But maybe that’s my new mission in life, to move in here and save you both from yourselves before it’s too late.”

  “Oh, God, no,” Julie said.

  I hushed her with a look and turned to Monk. “You can’t live with us just because you’re out of work and you don’t know for certain exactly when you’re going to see me again.”

  “That’s not why I’m here,” he said.

  “Then what is the reason?”

  “I don’t have a home.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he’s lonely and he misses you,” Julie said. “He just can’t say it.”

  “It’s only been thirty minutes,” I said.

  “The landlord changed all of the locks on my apartment and taped an eviction order to my door.” Monk reached into his jacket and handed me an envelope. “See for yourself.”

  I opened the envelope and scanned the letter. It was from his landlord’s lawyer and written in all kinds of legalese. Basically, it said that Monk’s rent hadn’t been paid in ninety days, violating his rental agreement, and that he wouldn’t be allowed back into his home until his overdue rent was paid.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Bob Sebes paid your rent. Or at least he was supposed to.”

  Monk nodded. “Sebes obviously ignored the warning notices from my landlord.”

  “Why didn’t your landlord come to you directly?” Julie asked.

  “I’ve kind of barred him from talking to me or setting foot in my apartment.”

  “Kind of?” Julie said.

  “He’s missing a tooth. I can’t stand to look at him. As soon as he replaces it, we can talk.”

  “Couldn’t he have called you?” Julie asked.

  Monk shook his head. “He’s barred from that, too.”

  “Why?” Julie asked.

  “Because the tooth is still missing. I would see it in my mind and hear the air moving through the monstrous gap in his face.”

  “Okay, why couldn’t he write you a personal note?” Julie asked.

  “I couldn’t read a note from somebody who is missing a tooth,” Monk said. “There’s bound to be words missing important letters.”

  “So he hates you now,” I said. “And this was his opportunity to finally get rid of you.”

  “It would be easier just to get a tooth,” Monk said. “Now I have to move in with you. But it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make to civilize you both. It may not be too late.”

  Julie shot me a desperate look. But she didn’t have to. I didn’t want Monk moving in, either.

  “I know you’re in trouble, and you can’t afford a hotel, but you can’t stay here.”

  “Why not? I have before.”

  That was exactly why not. He’d stayed with us briefly a few years back, when his apartment was being fumigated, and it was a living hell. I was under enough pressure as it was without having Monk under my roof, too.

  “Because Julie and I drink milk out of the carton and eat food with our hands,” I said.

  “Only more reason why you need me her
e,” Monk said.

  “I’m having my period,” Julie said.

  “Me, too,” I said.

  “So is my hamster,” Julie added for good measure. Her hamster had died years ago, but Monk didn’t know that.

  He winced and took a step back from both of us, as if menstruation was contagious.

  “What am I going to do?” he said. “Where am I going to go?”

  “What about staying with your brother, Ambrose?” I said.

  “No way,” he said. “The last thing I need right now is to live under the same roof with a crazy person.”

  I knew how Monk felt. We were in an awful mess and running out of options. And then I thought about why we were in this lousy situation and then I knew where Monk could stay.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Monk,” I said, picking up my purse and car keys. “I have a solution.”

  It was too late to buy Monk a change of clothes from his favorite men’s shop, but not too late to pick up a toothbrush, some toiletries, Lysol, Windex, bleach, disinfectant wipes, Wonder Bread, and other survival essentials from my local grocery store.

  We bought some bottled water, because even Monk knew he had to drink something (and tap water was absolutely out of the question). But he intended to take extensive measures to purify the water first and to drink as little as possible to cut down on his chances of getting sick.

  We arrived outside of the bland, charmless, four-story condo complex just before midnight. It was a late 1990s stucco box in a gentrified corner of the Mission District, more or less midway between the Civic Center and police headquarters.

  I parked in a red zone and we got out, each of us carrying a grocery bag, and went to the lobby door. I leaned on the buzzer and announced myself without mentioning that I had a guest. I figured otherwise we might never get inside the building. All I said was that it was an urgent matter.

  We were buzzed through and we took the two flights of stairs to the second floor.

  When we got to the apartment, Captain Stottlemeyer was standing in his open doorway, wearing sweatpants, a T-shirt, and a terry-cloth robe tied loosely at the waist. He’d obviously been in bed when I rang.

  “You didn’t tell me Monk was with you,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “Oops,” I said. “Is that a problem?”

  Stottlemeyer glanced at Monk, then back at me. “Of course not, I was just making an observation. What’s the emergency?”

  “I’m a homeless transient bum,” Monk said.

  “Come on in,” Stottlemeyer said, stepping aside and ushering us into his apartment.

  I’d never shown up at his place unannounced before. In fact, it was only the third time I’d been to his place since he’d bought it a few years ago, shortly after his divorce. He’d selected the condo primarily because his then girlfriend was a Realtor and she’d liked it. All he really cared about was that it was close to work, was within his price range, and had an extra room for his boys to stay in on weekends and holidays.

  The condo was barely decorated and all the furnishings were very masculine. The front door opened onto the small living room, which was dominated by a faux-leather couch, a faux-leather recliner, and a massive TV with a Wii, a PlayStation, and a DVD player.

  The kitchen was separated from the living room by a counter, where we placed our grocery bags.

  “You brought refreshments?” he said.

  “Provisions,” Monk said and began to unpack the bags.

  “For what?” Stottlemeyer asked.

  “The duration,” Monk said.

  “Of what?”

  “His stay,” I said.

  “How long are you expecting this conversation to take?”

  “Only a few minutes,” I said. “But then I’m going home and he’s moving in with you.”

  “The hell he is,” Stottlemeyer said.

  We both watched Monk as he took a pot from one of Stottlemeyer’s kitchen cabinets, set it on the stove, and began pouring bottled water into it, turning his face away as if it was raw sewage.

  “He’s been evicted because Bob Sebes didn’t pay his rent,” I said. “He needs a place to stay while he works things out.”

  “Why can’t he stay with you?”

  “Because they are hemorrhaging,” Monk said.

  “Excuse me?” Stottlemeyer said.

  “The women and the hamster,” Monk said. “It’s not safe.”

  Monk took the bottle of bleach, opened it, and squeezed a couple of drops into the pot of water.

  “What about your brother? He’s got a big house with plenty of room.”

  “A house he hasn’t left in nearly thirty years,” Monk said. “You know why?”

  “He’s agoraphobic,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “Which is a fancy way of saying that he is cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. How would you like to be cooped up with a nut?”

  Stottlemeyer gave me a look. “I wouldn’t like it at all.”

  “You said you’d be here for Mr. Monk if he needed you, Captain. Now he needs you.”

  Monk turned up the flame under the pot of water.

  “What are you doing?” Stottlemeyer asked him.

  “It was too late to buy water purification tablets, so I am cleaning the water myself. It should be reasonably safe to rinse with it, and perhaps drink a few sips, after I bring it to a boil for five minutes, let it cool down, and then strain it through a coffee filter.”

  Stottlemeyer glanced at me. “Monk is cleaning bottled water.”

  “I can see that,” I said.

  “He’s only been here two minutes and that is what he’s doing.”

  “Which proves that I’m not going to be any trouble at all,” Monk said. “I can take care of myself.”

  Stottlemeyer rubbed his forehead and sighed. “Okay, here’s the deal. You can stay with me for a couple of days until you get your life sorted out.”

  “Thank you, Leland.”

  “But—and this is a big but—I am not going to make any changes to my home or to my lifestyle to accommodate you. Do you understand?”

  “No,” Monk said.

  “My home, my rules,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “May I see a copy?”

  “A copy of what?”

  “Your rules,” Monk said.

  “I don’t have them written down.”

  “Then how do you expect people to follow them?”

  “There really is only one rule. It’s my way or the highway. Don’t try to change anything about me or my home. I am who I am and I don’t want my place Monked.”

  “What does that mean?” Monk looked at me, baffled.

  I shrugged like I was baffled, too, but I wasn’t. I knew exactly what Stottlemeyer was talking about. That’s why I didn’t want Monk staying with me ever again.

  “What I’m saying is that I don’t want you to make yourself comfortable,” Stottlemeyer explained.

  “You want me to be uncomfortable.”

  “That’s right, because if you are, then I’ll know for sure that you haven’t Monked anything.” Stottlemeyer led us down the short hall to the guest room, where there were two single beds and a bureau. “This is where my boys stay when they’re here. You can have whichever bed you want.”

  “Do you have fresh sheets?”

  “Those are fresh.”

  “They’ve never been slept on?”

  “Not since they’ve been washed.”

  Monk nodded. “Do you have any fresh sheets?”

  “If you’re asking me if I have any brand-new, unopened, vacuum-sealed bedding in its original packaging, then the answer is no, I do not.”

  Monk nodded again. “So where am I going to sleep?”

  “You have your choice of those beds, the couch, the recliner, the floor, or the sidewalk.”

  Monk turned to me and whispered: “Help.”

  I patted him on the back. “Everything is going to be fine, Mr. Monk. Good night.”

  I went to the door. Both Monk and Stottlemeyer hur
ried after me.

  “What time are you coming back tomorrow?” Monk said.

  “I’m not sure that I will be.” I opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

  The captain chased after me. “What does that mean?”

  “We’ll see how things go.”

  “What things?”

  I’d already had this conversation once that night and I wasn’t going to have it again. Monk and Stottlemeyer could both live without me for a while.

  “Sweet dreams,” I said, gave him a little wave, and took off down the stairwell.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Mr. Monk and the Never-Ending Nightmare

  The next morning I slept in, made myself a bagel and cream cheese, and read the newspaper. Julie met some friends for coffee before she went to work. I wished that she could have found something more stimulating for a summer job than washing cars but I knew how tight the job market was lately. I was worried that I might have to grab a towel and join her.

  Instead of looking forward to a day of solitude and relaxation, I felt my anxiety rising, a trembling sensation in my midsection that jacked up my pulse and made my throat dry.

  Where would I find us another job? I was fresh out of luck and inspiration. I’d have to search want ads and job-hunting Web sites just like the tens of thousands of other people in the Bay Area who were unemployed.

  But first, I’d start by applying for unemployment benefits. That couple of hundred dollars a week could mean the difference between keeping our house and losing it. At least I had that—what was Monk going to do?

  As if on cue, someone knocked at my front door. I flung the door open, certain that I was going to find Monk standing on my porch. But it wasn’t him.

  It was Stottlemeyer.

  “You have got to find Monk another place to stay,” he said.

  There were dark circles under his eyes and his hair was a mess. He looked like he’d rolled right out of bed and into his clothes without bothering to shower or shave.

  “Why do I have to do anything?” I asked, stepping aside to let him in.

  “Because you’re his assistant.”

  “Not anymore. You should know that better than anybody.”

  “Okay. Then we have to find him somewhere else to go, because if he stays with me, I’ll kill him, and that could really hurt my career as a homicide detective.”