Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse Read Free

know.” Monk picked up his suitcase and slid it in beside the other one. “I was respecting your space.”
    I think he was just being lazy, but you never know for sure with Monk. Even if he were, I wouldn’t call him on it, because he’s my boss and I want to keep my job. Besides, it gave me the opening I was waiting for to address a touchy subject.
    “Of course you were, Mr. Monk, and that’s really great. I appreciate that, because Julie and I have our own way of doing things that’s not exactly the same as yours.”
    “Like what?”
    Oh, my God, I thought. Where to begin? “Well, for one thing, we don’t boil our toothbrushes each day after we use them.”
    His eyes went wide. “That’s so wrong.”
    “After we wash our hands, we don’t always use a fresh, sterile towel to dry them.” “Didn’t your parents teach you anything about personal hygiene?”
    “The point is, Mr. Monk, I hope that while you stay with us you’ll be able to respect our differences and accept us for who we are.”
    “Hippies,” he said.
    There was a word I hadn’t heard in decades and that certainly never applied to me. I let it pass.
    “All I want is for the three of us to get along,” I said.
    “You don’t smoke pot, do you?”
    “No, of course not. What kind of person do you think I am? Wait—don’t answer that. What I’m trying to say, Mr. Monk, is that in my house, I’m the boss.”
    “As long as I don’t have to smoke any weed.”
    “You don’t,” I said.
    “Groovy.”
    And with that, he got into my car and buckled his seat belt.

2
    Mr. Monk Moves In
     
     
     
     
    I live in Noe Valley. It’s south of the much more colorful and well-known Castro District, with its energetic gay community, and to the west of the multiethnic Mission District, which is surely next in line to be conquered by the unstoppable forces of gentrification, Williams-Sonoma catalogs gripped in their fists.
    Noe Valley feels like a small town, far away from the urban hustle and chaos of San Francisco, when, in reality, the bustling Civic Center, overrun with politicians and vagrants, is only about twenty blocks away, on the north side of a very steep hill.
    When Mitch and I bought our place, Noe Valley was still a working-class neighborhood. Everybody seemed to drive a Volkswagen Rabbit, and all the houses were slightly neglected, in need of a fresh coat of paint and a little loving attention.
    Now everybody is driving a minivan or SUV, there’s scaffolding up in front of every other house, and Twenty-fourth Street—a shopping district that was once lined with bakeries, diners, and barbershops—is overrun with patisseries, bistros, and stylists. But the neighborhood hasn’t gone completely upscale. There remain lots of homes in need of care (like mine), and enough little gift shops, secondhand bookstores, and mom-and-pop pizza places that Noe has managed to hold on to its quirky, Bohemian character (equal parts of which are now authentic and manufactured). It’s still very much a bedroom community, filled with young, struggling families and comfortable retirees with nary a tourist in sight.
    On the drive down Divisadero to my house, Monk asked me to adjust my seat so it was even with his. I explained to him that if I did that, I wouldn’t be able to reach important things like the gas pedal, the brakes, and the steering wheel. When I suggested instead that he move his seat, he ignored me and began fiddling with the passenger’s-side mirror so it was tilted at the same angle as the mirror on the driver’s side, which I’m sure he figured would compensate for the natural imbalance created by the uneven seats.
    I don’t get the logic either. That’s why I keep a bottle of Advil in my glove compartment at all times. Not for him, of course. For me.
    When we got to my little Victorian row house, I let Monk get his own suitcases out of the car while I rushed inside for one last look around for things that might set him off. It’s