Mr. Monk on the Road (22 page)

The inside of the motor home was dark, the only illumination coming from the glow of park lights outside the dinette window. The Monk brothers were still at the table where I’d left them hours before. Their attention was completely focused on the task in front of them. Their hands moved rapidly over the table, yet somehow they managed to never touch each other. It was like they were hypnotized, performing their task with speed and efficiency while consciously unaware that they were doing it.

I closed the door hard, the sound startling them both so much that they flung their shells into the air. They looked at each other, and then at me, and then outside, as if they had no idea how they’d ended up where they were sitting.

“How did it become night?” Ambrose asked.

“I believe it has something to do with the sun setting,” I said.

“We must have really gotten into the game,” Monk said.

“It’s been great,” Ambrose said.

Monk nodded and referred to a notepad beside him. “Up until this match, we were tied, six to six. Shall we call this one a draw?”

“It feels like the right thing to do,” Ambrose said. “Six and twelve are nice, even numbers. It’s good to end up even.”

“It’s the best,” Monk said.

We’d all become lost in our pursuits, each of us emerging from them with the sense that we’d achieved some kind of balance within ourselves and with the world around us. I did it floating in a swimming pool in the desert. They did it with a bag of peanuts.

I guess it doesn’t matter how you achieve balance as long as it happens now and then.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

A
mbrose prepared spaghetti and meatballs for us for dinner. He made sure that each noodle was the same length, and laid them out individually on our plates so they wouldn’t get tangled up. And then he served us each two perfectly round meatballs in a zesty tomato sauce on the side. He didn’t put them on top of the noodles because he took the
and
in spaghetti
and
meatballs very seriously. His interpretation was that they were meant to be served together, but separately.

After dinner, we had our leftover Danish pastries for dessert and watched a
SpongeBob SquarePants
marathon on TV. The Monks thought the cartoon was hilarious, but I didn’t think it was funny at all. I found everything about the show aggressively irritating.

“How can you dislike it?” Monk said, barely able to breathe, he was laughing so hard. “SpongeBob is square. And so are his pants!”

That got Ambrose giggling so hard I thought he’d throw up. When he finally got hold of himself, he said, “And he lives in a pineapple!”

“Under the sea!” Monk said, and they erupted into laughter all over again.

“Yes,” I said. “I know.”

“But there are no pineapples in the ocean!” Monk choked out, and still more hilarity ensued.

I was glad they were both so happy. I occupied myself reading the guidebooks about the places we might visit and putting skin cream on my sunburn.

Bedtime involved the same awkwardness as the night before. The only change this time was that I didn’t sleep through it when Monk and Ambrose cleaned the bathroom. I probably could have slept if it wasn’t for our neighbors, who were playing hip-hop loud enough to wake Tupac Shakur.

The songs were pounded into my head. In every one of them, the women were referred to as “bitches” and “hos”—and they were always eager to party and do the guys in a variety of ways.

And that, my friends, is the cleaned-up, PC version.

I couldn’t understand what any woman would find appealing about songs that cheer men on to degrade them, verbally and physically. What was even more shocking was that half of the songs were sung by women.

It made me feel old. Why? Because my parents thought the same thing about the music I used to listen to.

But this stuff was far more explicit and crude than the hardest-edged music of my day.

Then again, my parents probably consoled themselves with the same rationalization, too.

Monk came out of the bathroom, peeling off his cleaning gloves, and stood beside my bed, where I was cozy in my sleeping bag.

“You have got to tell them to turn down their music,” Monk said.

“I’m in bed. Why don’t you do it?”

“Because you’re down with those dudes. You speak their funky jive. I don’t.”

“You sound fluent to me,” I said, rolling over and showing him my back.

“Fine, then I guess we’ll just have to try and sleep through it,” he said, and headed back to the bathroom.

I knew he was right. If they were going to listen to one of us, it would be me.

I got out of the sleeping bag, put on my flip-flops, and wrapped a jacket around myself, even though it was still very warm outside. I wasn’t naked, but I didn’t want to confront a bunch of partying guys in a T-shirt and sweats.

I trudged over to the RV, which was practically shaking from the vibration of their subwoofers, and had my fist up to bang on the door when I saw the pair of mud-caked, tar-stained boots on the front step.

The boots must have been a size fourteen, and I didn’t want to meet the drunken, tattooed, neo-Nazi, devil-worshipping, ex-convict monster who fit into them, at least not on my own.

I scampered back to our RV, where Monk was waiting for me at the door.

“The noise hasn’t stopped,” Monk said. “Are you sure they understood you?”

“I didn’t talk to them.”

“Why not?”

“Because I need backup,” I said. “The guys in there are huge and possibly Satanists.”

“How do you know?”

“Haven’t you heard the music they are listening to?” Ambrose said, stepping up behind Monk. “They must be Satanists. Or worse.”

Monk dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “I hear kids on the street listening to that kind of music right outside my door every day.”

“And you wonder why I don’t go outside,” Ambrose said.

Monk turned back to me. “Did you see any of them?”

“No, but I saw their boots.”

“That’s all? You are being ridiculous. I’ll go with you, but you’ll have to do the talking. I’m not very street anymore.”

As if he ever was. He stepped outside and we went over to the RV. I pounded on the door, while Monk regarded the boots.

“How bad can they be if they are considerate enough to leave their dirty shoes outside?” Monk said.

Someone turned down the music, and I heard footsteps coming to the door. I took a deep breath and prepared to face one of Satan’s minions.

“We’re about to find out,” I said, taking a step back.

The door opened to reveal a little old lady with white hair wearing a flowered dress and furry slippers.

“Hello,” she said with a sweet smile. “Can I help you?”

I didn’t see how she could be in the same camper with that music unless she had her hearing aids turned off. So I spoke loudly.

“Um, yes, we are in the RV next door and your son is playing his music awfully loud. Could you please ask him to turn it down so we can sleep?”

She smiled. “There’s no need to yell, dear. My son can’t hear you no matter how high you raise your voice. He’s out on the road, jamming gears on an eighteen-wheeler like his dad used to, from the Mississippi to the Pacific. But we’ll be glad to turn the music down a notch.”

Another woman appeared behind the white-haired lady. She was also old, but her hair was dark black and tied in a ponytail that tumbled all the way down the back of her denim shirt to the waist of her faded jeans.

“Don’t stand there yapping with the door open, Bessie. You’re letting in all the mosquitoes,” she said.

“There are mosquitoes?” Monk said, whirling around as if there might be a big one standing right behind him, holding an ax.

“Come on in,” Bessie said. “Have some milk and cookies.”

Monk practically leaped into the motor home, mostly to escape the mosquitoes. It certainly wasn’t for the milk, which scared him even more than blood-sucking insects.

I went in out of curiosity. I wanted to learn more about two old ladies who listened to hard-core hip-hop.

But once inside, I realized I had it wrong. There were
three
old ladies.

The third woman had her hair in a bun, wore a hand-knitted sweater and polyester slacks, and had two jangling charm bracelets around her thin, age-spotted wrists. She sat at the table, which was cluttered with cards dealt for bridge, a plate piled high with brownies, another plate covered with cookies, and lots of beer cans.

I didn’t see any milk.

The décor was generic motor home, but with a big glass display case built in to their impressive entertainment center. The case was jammed full with stuffed animals, spoons, rocks, postcards, seashells, mugs, dolls, banners, poker chips, and other stuff I assumed were souvenirs of their travels.

“Get out a couple of glasses, Mabel, we’ve got guests,” the ponytailed lady said. “I’m Gertie Zarkin, and these are my sisters, Bessie and Mabel. Sorry we disturbed you with our music, but aren’t you going to bed awfully early? The night is young and so are you.”

“We’ve had a long day on the road,” I said. “We started out near Carmel this morning and even stopped for a bit in San Luis Obispo and Solvang.”

“That is a long day,” Mabel said.

“I can’t believe that was your music we were hearing,” Monk said.

“What do you expect us to listen to?” Gertie said. “Artie Shaw? Perry Como? Neil Diamond?”

“I don’t know, but you’re too old and sensible to be listening to songs about dancing, drug abuse, and relentless fornication.”

“We may be too old to do as much of that as we used to,” Gertie said, “but that doesn’t mean we don’t enjoy what we can get, even if now it’s mostly hearing about it instead of doing it.”

“Thinking young keeps you young,” Mabel said, taking out two glasses from the cupboard and setting them on the table. “You have to change with the times or you get stuck.”

“It’s also why we hit the road in a motor home rather than sit around on our porches knitting socks,” Gertie said. “It’s not old age that kills you. It’s the sitting around on your fat ass doing nothing. You start to rust.”

“I have to admit, though, that I’m a little old school,” Bessie said. “I still love Snoop Dogg.”

“I’m old school, too,” Monk said. “But I prefer Marmaduke.”

“She’s talking about Snoop Dogg,” I said. “Not Snoopy.”

“Snoopy
is
a dog,” Monk said.

“They’re not the same thing,” I said.

Bessie went to the refrigerator. “What can we offer you? Milk? Juice? Beer? Tequila?”

“Ensure?” Gertie added.

“Do you have any Fiji bottled water?” Monk asked.

“Only water we have is out of the tap,” Bessie said.

Monk shivered. “Nothing for me, thanks.”

“I’m fine, too,” I said.

“Maybe I can tempt you with these instead.” Bessie lifted the plate of brownies up to us. They looked and smelled heavenly. “Help yourselves.”

“Thank you,” I said, immediately reaching for one.

“I wouldn’t,” Monk whispered to me. “They might be laced with marijuana.”

“They aren’t laced with pot,” Bessie said. There was certainly nothing wrong with her hearing. “They’re
loaded
with it.”

“You aren’t serious,” Monk said.

“I still use the recipe that I got in Amsterdam forty years ago,” she said. “It’s world famous and packs a wallop.”

“Possession of marijuana is illegal,” Monk said.

“Not if it’s for medicinal purposes,” Bessie said. “We all have legitimate prescriptions.”

“Pot is great for my arthritis,” Mabel said.

“You know what they say—a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down,” Bessie said. “So does a lot of chocolate.”

I put the brownie back. “No, thank you.”

Bessie winked. “I understand, honey. You don’t want to get high in front of your father.”

“I’m not her father,” Monk said, wandering over to their display case. “I’m her boss.”

“And you travel together in a motor home?” Gertie said. “I’m surprised you’re so liberal when it comes to nookie but not when it’s about a little weed.”

“We are not intimately involved,” Monk said.

“We’re taking Mr. Monk’s brother on a road trip for his birthday,” I said. “I’m their driver.”

“What’s your profession?” Mabel asked Monk.

“I’m a consultant to the San Francisco Police Department,” Monk said. “I investigate homicides.”

“Sounds exciting,” Mabel said. “Are you investigating one now?”

“I should be investigating two, one in Santa Cruz and one in San Luis Obispo”—Monk glared at me—“but she won’t let me.”

“I thought you were the boss,” Bessie said.

“Not when we are on vacation,” I said. “How long have you three been on the road?”

“For a few years now,” Gertie said. “We’re wandering aimlessly but with the general intention of hitting the forty-eight contiguous U.S. states.”

“But we’re in no hurry. We spent too much of our lives in a rush to get somewhere, to achieve something,” Bessie said. “Now it’s nice just to take each day as it comes.”

“And do it together,” Mabel said.

“At our age, we aren’t rushing to reach the end of our journey,” Bessie said. “It’s a destination that doesn’t seem as far away as it used to.”

“Or as far away as we’d like it to be,” Gertie said.

“But we keep ourselves active,” Bessie said. “We’re just relaxed about it. Does that make sense?”

“It does to me,” I said. I hoped I had their zest for life and willingness to keep up with popular culture when I was their age.

Monk gestured to the display case. “Are these souvenirs from your trips?”

“We pick up something everywhere we go,” Mabel said. “We just got that Golden Gate Bridge salt shaker in San Francisco last week.”