Monk and I stand stiffly with suitcases in hand, preparing to check in to the motel. The concierge has a renewed interest in us, now that we are establishing ourselves as money-paying guests.
"How can I help you folks?" he says, finishing up the hamburger from earlier.
"We'd like… two rooms, please," I state calmly, finding my heavy suitcase difficult to hold for prolonged periods of time.
"I'm sorry, Miss," he says. Monk looks over at me, beaming. Maybe we won't have to stay anyway! I'm very happy too, but I don't want to make it too obvious to the owner of the place. Although I would like to Monk to solve this case, I changed my mind as we were approaching the desk for the second time. Monk definitely has no tact whatsoever with expression of his feelings, in the case of this type, that is.
"There's only one vacancy; it just opened up at check-out time today, fifteen minutes ago. Better decide now, before it's gone." He gives me a greasy smile, and I cringe.
Monk walks away, toward the motel entrance. I can see Stottlemeyer coming up the hallway, probably wondering why he is leaving. He reaches me, and gives me a look of confusion.
"Where the hell is Monk going?" he asks me.
"Home. There is only one vacancy," I state quietly. "Just where I'm going, as well. This is too much."
I begin to turn away from the desk, but a strong hand holds me in place. "You and Monk have to check into this room," Stottlemeyer pleads. "I thought you wanted him to make money. I'm sure if he solves this case he'll be getting a lot, because this has been going on for almost six weeks now."
Money…. Is it really worth spending two nights with Monk in one room of a filthy, supposedly haunted motel? This sounds like a cheesy B-movie horror flick that can be found in the bargain bin at your local D&K store.
"And just what do I get out of this?" I ask in a smart-alec tone. This is my life and my time, and I'm entitled to my own demands. "He pays me the same paycheck, no matter what case we are on. I'd rather be home with my daughter."
Stottlemeyer will break down soon if he doesn't think of a way to convince me—fast.
"What do you want me to say? It's just two nights…." He's now at the breaking point. Pretty soon he's going to yank Monk out of the parking lot and drag him into the building. First he has to convince me, though; I'm the adult in this.
Now the captain is giving me these earnest looks, which really affect me in a weird way. This big masculine guy is pleading with me to do something. Me, the former bartending blackjack dealer who is now the assistant of an assistant to the police. Wow, it's nice to feel important. I had forgotten how that felt.
I guess that look is enough to make me agree, for I soon hear myself say "Yes," and regret it the second it leaves my mouth. Too late now. I've made a verbal agreement with the police captain of San Francisco.
As I give the man the captain's 100.00 for our two-night stay in this cheap, hole-in-the-wall motel, I can't help but wonder why anyone would spend so much money to stay here, even if it does give you nightmares for the rest of your life. Notice my sarcasm.
Monk is soon being pushed from behind by the captain as he attempts to dig his heels into the flooring to prevent this from happening. "Don't tell me we're actually going to stay here," he cries, dropping his suitcase.
Although the motion is dramatic, the intensity of the situation soon is lost as Monk realizes what he has done by dropping his luggage on the ground, and hastily picks it back up, dusting off the bottom of it with yet another wipe. We will surely be out by tonight, and then the real horrors will start.
I grab our room key and begin to head down the hallway. The motel is one story, and smells so strongly of motel –you know that smell—that I already have a raging headache. Or maybe it's from the realization that I'm going to have to deal with a nagging employer for two days straight.
I can see Monk struggling to lug his bag down the hallway as he continues to wipe it, being watched carefully all the while by Stottlemeyer, who is blocking the exit.
Our room number –12—I soon reach, and I slide the primitive key into the hole, expecting ants to come crawling out, but I am mistaken, at least in that respect. What I find in the room truly shocks and disgruntles me. It is the lone double bed, in an orange sea of horrors.
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
Not only is there one place to sleep, but the carpeting is so atrociously filthy that I would not lay a sock or blanket upon it, let alone the length of my body. I will not be sleeping on that floor. I would sooner push Monk onto it as he sleeps.
Upon entering the room, I lay my suitcase down on top of the heavily scratched dresser, not even wanting it to touch the floor. I decide to examine the room before Monk arrives, for he will be screaming about everything once he arrives.
The double bed seems… small… but maybe that's because Mitch and I always slept in a queen-size. The floor is a hideous shade of orange, with grotesque, matted stains zigzagged and spilled all over it. It isn't merely dusty or muddy; it is stained with the most inexplicable combinations of color and texture that I could ever hope to see in the refrigerator of Jeffrey Dahmer. The moldy curtains are hung crookedly upon the rod, and upon closer inspection, I notice that the rod is in fact broken. Ouch. Monk's going to hate that as well.
Looking into the bathroom –it's amazing that a motel this horrible actually has a bathroom in each room—I notice a familiar scene, the 'before' picture of a bathroom in a CLR commercial. As I first gape at the right-hand side of the room, I see that the outer ring of the bathtub is caked with rust and lime deposits, and the shower head is indescribably grotesque. There is a mildew-like stain running along the tiles of the bathroom, and the toilet, with its lifted seat, has a revolting ring of yellow.
I hear the yell of a tortured animal. Monk has entered the room.
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I exit the bathroom to find him – gone. He must have gone back out in the hallway. As I'm about to open the door to go fetch him, he comes back in, scaring me half to death. Stottlemeyer appears behind him.
"If you don't stay here for two nights, Monk, I'll have to shoot you. The San Francisco PD has looked really bad lately, and we can't screw up a stupid case like this." He is speaking very closely into Monk's ear, but is talking way too loudly for the proximity. Monk is rolling his eyes and making those twitching motions, struggling to tolerate his superior yelling into his ear. "You don't take a step outside this room without Natalie nearby, you understand?"
The detective turns to face Stottlemeyer. "Then why don't you stay here instead, if you're going to be watching me anyway?"
The captain is fuming. "Because I have to take care of my sons for the weekend; Karen is filming something out of town. I can't just shirk my responsibilities because you don't like the atmosphere. The department is counting on you. I know you can figure this one out, Monk. Please." He doesn't even glance at the place, instead shutting the door heavily behind Monk and leaving.
I walk into the main area of the room and stand by the window, watching the crooked curtains billow over the naked heater coils. Heater? It has to be 80 degrees outside. I hastily shut it off and turn around to watch Monk's reaction to this place. He has to be a basket case by now.
"Oh my God," he moans, gazing around in absolute horror at the bed, the carpeting, and the curtains. He even notices where the wallpaper has been coming off in jagged sheets. "Oh… my…G—"
I interrupt his horror, putting my hands up as if surrendering. "I am so sorry about this, I really am." I feel the need to apologize for this over and over. I can imagine just how much he hates this, because I am not obsessive-compulsive and I can't stand it.
He just stands there, mouth agape, with the suitcase, suspended by his whitened hand, still lingering above the tainted floor.
I walk over to the dresser and shift the television set towards my luggage. "Here," I say, patting the ruined wood, "put your suitcase down here."
He shakes his head sadly, staring at the wood the whole time. "Too dirty," he states emotionlessly. I pull out a wipe, and scrub feverishly at the surface as he watches, pulling it up to find that there is a thick black layer of grime.
"Okay," I say. "I cleaned it." I really am proud of him for not killing me yet, or making a run for the door again.
He seems somewhat satisfied, and timidly approaches the dresser, laying his suitcase atop the wood. Once his hands are free of the luggage, he makes his way for the bathroom, to most likely wash up. I cover my ears and close my eyes.
The yell of disgust comes sooner than I expect. Monk emerges from the tiny room, his face drained of all color, with a paleness comparable to that of my scalp. I am startled at the utter horror that is conveyed on his face, and the sudden unhealthy pastiness he has just acquired in a matter of seconds.
"Mr. Monk, are you alright?" I say, incredibly frightened at this rapid change. He can't look me in the eye; he just stares straight out in front of him into nothingness.
I ensure that my hands are clean, so as not to further startle him, and wrap my arm around his back, leading him to sit on the bed. Once there, I turn him around and seat him upon the comforter, which actually has no obvious stains on it. The relief is a small one, but a relief, nonetheless. I sit down next to him, supporting him with an arm behind his back.
"I am so so sorry that we have to be here," I say, but the apology sounds hollow. His trance seems to be unbreakable. "How about I go to the manager and get a maid in here?"
He turns his head towards me but doesn't focus on my face. It's a distant look. "No… no maid," he says.
"Why not?" I have to keep him talking; I don't want him having some kind of speech disintegration from the stress.
"I'd prefer… to clean it myself…. to ensure that it's truly clean…. Besides, there don't seem to be any maids employed here…."
I stand up, preparing to squat down in front of him. I have to make this situation more comfortable. Maybe Stottlemeyer is still here. Only one way to find out…
"I will be right back, to get supplies," I say. "Don't move."
Opening the door slowly, just in case Stottlemeyer is actually watching for Monk to leave, I notice him at the end of the hallway, speaking to a guest from room 3.
"Captain Stottlemeyer!" I yell down the hallway in the most urgent tone I can muster. He looks up and gives the person a 'wait' gesture as he walks toward me.
I have to tell him about Monk. "—He's having some kind of a nervous breakdown," I say unsteadily, and Stottlemeyer raises his eyebrows. "He needs—cleaning supplies, at the very least. He's going to go insane if you don't make this more comfortable for him. The room is horrible, Captain, even for my standards."
"Okay, okay," he says. "I'll send Disher out to get the supplies. The closest gas station is out of the way for m—"
"We don't want gas station cleaners; we want bleach and Windex and CLR and carpet cleaner, toilet bowl cleaner, and a mop and bucket and wood polish…."
"Hold on, hold on," he says, pulling a notebook out of his pocket. "What was that again?" Wow, he's actually going to listen to my requests. This will make Monk feel a whole lot better. This stupid case must really matter, for the captain to be so… hospitable.
"Alright." I count out the items on my fingers as I imagine what Monk would request. "A large amount of bleach, two buckets, a mop, a pack of latex gloves…. CLR, Murphy's Oil Soap, carpet stain remover, definitely some Sno-Bowl and a toilet brush and toilet paper, um…. Windex, mildew remover, a scrub brush, baking soda, wood polish, a vacuum cleaner, some of those Lever 2000 wipes, and some rags. He also won't want to sleep in the motel's sheets. We need a double-size sheet set, and I think he has his own pillowcases already. We'll also need some hand soap and paper towels, but I think he has toiletries, towels and rags, enough for both of us. Oh! And you can't forget a case of Sierra Springs. I only brought a few bottles. Please don't let Disher get the generics for the name-brands I mentioned. You probably know that already."
He nods, scribbling it all down rapidly. "Wow, this is one expensive trip," he mutters as he finishes up the list.
"Well, it'd become a lot cheaper if you stayed here instead," I reply snappily. "I really feel bad for Monk; this place is filthy."
"I know; it's just that—" the captain changes the subject. "Will you need any bedding, or are you going to sleep with their bedding?"
"There's only one bed," I state. The captain gasps.
"Monk will not go for that." He is probably shocked that Monk has remained in the room this long.
"I doubt they'll have any cots in this place. In fact, I doubt it 100 percent." I cross my arms and lean against the door of room 12.
Stottlemeyer starts to walk towards the front desk. "I'll go ask," he says, as he turns around.
After asking the concierge, he looks back at me, shaking his head and raising his eyebrows. I knew it. Just my luck. But I had already figured that. A packed motel, with only one new vacancy at check out time…. There's no way a cot will be available, if they even have them here.
I walk back into the room. My employer is still sitting on the bed, staring up at the ceiling now. I look up to find it must have been leaking at some point, for there are large round yellow stains everywhere, including over the bed itself.
"Mr. Monk?" I say, hoping he'll snap out of this weird trance soon. "I've got some good news."
He immediately leaps to his feet and crosses over to his luggage. "We're leaving?" he says, but it sounds like more of a statement than a question.
"Ummm, no, God, I wish I could say that. I'm actually getting you a whole bunch of supplies."
"Like what? A camper?" he replies, attempting a dead-serious joke.
"No, the next best thing."
He pauses, deep in thought. "A tent?"
"No. I am getting you every kind of cleaning supply there is, so this place will be spotless."
"What are you talking about?" He's in denial. "You were only gone for five minutes…."
"I gave the list to the captain for Disher to pick up for us," I say matter-of-factly. He's obviously not convinced I've fulfilled that duty.
"Well… what did you ask for? Bleach?"
"Yep." I nod my head too happily.
"Mop and bucket?"
"Mm hmm… Two buckets, actually.."
"Uhm… toilet bowl cleaner? Carpet cleaner? More wipes?"
"Uh huh." The color is beginning to enter his face again, and I can't help but smile.
"Mildew remover?" he points over at the bathroom, and at the curtains.
"Yep, it's all covered, Mr. Monk."
"Window cleaner?"
I continue to nod. He comes over to me and stands in front of me as if he's going to hug me or something.
"I hope you're not kidding with me," he says. "Because that would be a very bad thing."
"Of course, I'm not. I hate this place too!" I exclaim. "You're not the only one who is revolted!"
He is now smiling. "Maybe this won't be so bad, after all," he says, giving a half-shrug. I'm still standing right in front of him with my hands in my back pockets, waiting for further mentionings. I'm correct in my assumption.
"And gloves, did you ask for gloves?" It's like he's trying to catch me forgetting something. Even though I haven't been with him for too long yet, the neat-freak part of me can name a decent amount of things to tidy up this room.
I nod. "I remembered everything you'd ever want, Mr. Monk, including bed sheets, and toilet paper, and paper towels, and even CLR and Murphy's Oil Soap!" He looks off in the distance. He's going to name at least one more item, I just know it.
"Vacuum cleaner…." Yep, I knew he'd have one more to mention. Wow, I really have him down now.
"Yes."
He's smiling almost to the point of being giddy. "When will it all be here?" he asks me, a sense of urgency in his voice.
"I'm not sure, maybe a little more than an hour?" I can see his smile fading. "But that's probably a maximum. I remembered that my map showed a town quite close to this place, so hopefully they have a grocery store." We both sit down on the edge of the bed and attempt to think of how to pass the time.
I get up to examine the contents of my suitcase, and realize that I had managed to throw a couple containers of wipes in with my stuff. I have my shampoo/conditioner two-in-one combo bottle, a hairdryer, a travel tube of shower gel, and a couple of razors.
Monk shields his eyes from my examining my suitcase, and shifts his position on the bed with a loud squeaking. I turn around to see him facing the door, staring off into space.
"What are you doing?" I ask, completely clueless as to why he'd be so ashamed to look. He turns his body around to sit on the end of the bed once again, shielding his eyes to only look at me and not my suitcase.
"Those are… your things…. It's rude to stare at other people's things."
I'm a little perturbed by his statement. "Are you trying to tell me something? Because if you are, you should just—"
"No, no," he mumbles, shaking his head and holding his hands up. "That's not what I meant…. I'm just… I'm not the type to gape at a… woman's… luggage…."
"Do you realize how bad that sounded just now?" I say, trying to hold back my laughter.
He doesn't get it. He continues to sit there, giving me this look of total confusion. He's not one for innuendoes. I really have to get him to lighten up.
As he continues to block the view of my luggage from his sight, I grab his shielding hand and pull it down to his leg. "This is getting ridiculous," I say. "I'm not some— S&M star that carries around whips and chains. I'm just like you…. Except female…."
The hand begins to rise again. I push it down, as he stares at me dumbfounded. "Esenem?" he asks, completely lost. "I'm not familiar with that term…." Wow, he doesn't even know that it's actually two letters, and not one word.
"Never mind, Mr. Monk," I say, patting his head. "That's something little boys like you shouldn't know about. Just don't say it in public, okay?" He's so damn innocent….
"—and you aren't just like me. Why did you just say that?"
"I know I'm not just like you, thank goodness," I reply with a sigh. "I'm just a… a modest person like you are, not someone who flaunts anything that shouldn't be flaunted."
"Oh, I get it," he murmurs. I can see he's trying to peek at my stuff now that I've established the fact that I'm not carrying terrible things. I hold up my shower gel for him to see. "See? I use shower gel." I grab my razors. "And razors…."
"Razors? Huh?" He doesn't know what women use razors for?
"You know—razors, Mr. Monk. What do you use them for?"
He's hesitant to answer. Maybe I'm getting a little too personal. Nah.
"To… uh, shave my…" he rubs his face. "I don't know, what do you call it?"
"Your facial hair?" I say. He nods in agreement, although I can tell he's scared to know where this is leading.
"Well, women have hair too," I start to say. "We shave our—"
He has stuck his fingers in his ears and shut his eyes and is now humming softly. I tap him insistently on his shoulder. He opens his eyes to look at me, but doesn't remove his fingers from their positions, and he's still humming.
I grab either of his arms and pull them away from his head. "I'm not going to tell you, okay?" I say. I allow for his arms to fall onto the tops of his legs as I continue, now crossing my arms. "Weren't you married for seven years?" I ask.
"Yes," he replies quickly. "What does that have to d—"
"Didn't you ever notice razors in the shower that weren't yours?"
He thinks deeply. I can't believe it is actually taking thought to recall this.
"I-I guess so…" he says slowly. "But I never thought to ask—"
"Oh my gosh," I say. "No wonder you miss her so much. You never caught her shaving her—"
He has resumed his position. I'm sorry, but he just has to know what I am referring to. He probably assumes it is something sick, and forbidden. Nothing about the body should be sick and forbidden, especially concerning legs. I grab his hands very quickly and pull them away from his head as I say the words he doesn't want to hear—"legs and underarms."
It's like I've cut him, for he recoils so suddenly and with such a pitiful expression on his face that a pang of guilt passes through me. Wait a second, though. He needs to know some things, if he ever hopes to get married again. Not everyone is like Trudy was, and I'm kind of jealous of how she was able to hide something like that from him for all these years. Or maybe he just blocked the gross things out.
He is now cringing back on the bed, with his legs still hanging down the side, and not making eye contact with me.
"Let me just show you something," I say carefully, and he only allows his gaze to rise to my neck. I bend down and grab his ankle with a single rapid movement, and straighten his leg so that it is parallel with the rest of his body. He lets me do so, but the look of fear and hurt is still on his face, and he's still cringing.
I lift up his pant leg quickly, revealing his own very hairy leg to him. Well, to myself as well, since I've never actually seen his bare legs before. "You see this, Mr. Monk?" I say, pointing at it.
"Uhm… my leg?" he responds uncomfortably.
"Your leg hair." I pinch a strand between my fingers. I can't believe he's letting me do this; I'm thoroughly impressed. I continue to explain, as I have kept his attention for a length of time now.
"Women usually have some leg hair too," I say. He looks at the point of throwing up. "Not quite as… much as you do, but they do have short fine hairs." I pause momentarily, as his rate of breathing increases. Great, now his adrenaline is rushing. Fight or flight response—junior biology class. "I'll bet you've never seen a woman with hairy legs before, though, because we shave it. Just as we do our underarms. They don't shave in France, though."
He's still disgusted, and seeks to get himself away from me. I'm still holding on to his verrry slender ankle with one hand, and he's staring at it like it's a leech from the seven lakes of hell.
"Okay, okay, I get it," he says, attempting to wrench his leg free. "Let's just… drop it, okay?" He uses his hands to reinforce this statement.
I let him have his ankle again so that he can adjust the pant length to where it had been.
After the boredom sets in completely, we turn on the television and sit in extremely close proximity to it, on the edge of the bed, for neither of us wants to take off our shoes. After watching a horrible-reception version of "Gunsmoke" and random news shows, we hear the knock and race over to the door.
It is Disher. He has a garbage bag slung over one shoulder and a mop and sweeper in the other hand, and looks more than a little upset. As I open the door, he takes a peek at the room and scoffs. "Why'd you need all this? It's not that bad!"
"Oh… yes it is," Monk says, appearing behind me. The lieutenant awkwardly transfers the bag from behind his back to my hands, and I balk at the heaviness of it. He then hands Monk the mop and vacuum cleaner. The detective studies the mop handle as if it is an antique, then looks up at Disher.
"Is this new?" he asks him with a dead serious tone.
Disher rolls his eyes. "Of course it's new, Mr. Monk," he comments. "I had to drive almost an hour out of my way to get this all for you. I hope you're comfortable now."
"Well, thank you, Disher," I say sweetly. "Is this all of it?"
"Yes," he says with an official tone, as he locks his thumbs into the waistline of his pants. This is a usual stance for him when he feels important.
"Alright then, Randy," I say, and I give him a little wave as I shut the door. I can tell by Monk's incessant fidgeting behind me that he is raring to get started, and if I am going to survive two whole nights with him, I'd better try to read him.
I'm beginning to think all the Monk fans disappeared. Please review, to prove that there are still Monk-lovers existing!
