Mr. Monk on Patrol (10 page)

Which, to be honest, was exactly what I was doing at that moment. I was pretending I was Angie Dickinson in
Police Woman
and that Monk was my crusty boss, which he was, so that part felt very authentic.

It was childish, I know, but I was having fun. I was deep into my imaginary episode, pretending to be scanning the streets for perps, pimps, and pushers, when Monk slammed his hand on the dashboard, startling me.

“Stop!” he yelled.

I stomped on the brakes, bringing the car to a sudden, jarring halt, which dug the seat-belt strap into my chest and sent a jolt of adrenaline into my bloodstream.

I was wide-awake, more so than I’d been in hours. For one terrifying moment, I was certain that I’d fallen asleep at the wheel and that Monk had saved me from running over a dog, or an old lady, or some kid on a bike.

But there was no one in front of us. In fact, there was nothing amiss at all that I could see.

“What’s wrong? You scared the hell out of me, Mr. Monk.”

“Pull over,” Monk said. “Hurry.”

I parked in a red zone, one of the perks of being in a cop car, and turned to face him, my heart pounding so hard in my chest that it felt like it was trying to escape. “What’s the big emergency?”

“You might want to call for backup,” Monk said.

“Is there a robbery in progress?”

“No,” he said.

“An assault taking place?”

“No,” he said.

“Then what do we need backup for?”

“An unspeakable crime,” he said.

I looked around and identified only one thing that could provoke such an exaggerated response. “Are you talking about that dog peeing against the tree?”

“Worse,” Monk said and pointed out the window.

A few doors down was a gallery with some sculptures in the window. The place was called Poop and was tucked between a café and a clothing store.

“It’s just a name,” I said.

“It’s a profanity,” he said.

“Poop?”

“Sssh,” Monk said. “You’re in a police car.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“We should be setting an example by being law-abiding citizens.”

“No one can hear us,” I said. “And even if they could, there’s no law against saying ‘poop.’”

“Sssh,” Monk said. “Pop the trunk.”

“Why?”

“Would you please just do it?”

I did. He got out of the car and so did I. He went to the trunk. He took out two gas masks and a bullhorn.

“Prepare yourself,” Monk said, handing me a gas mask. “This could get ugly.”

I tossed the mask back in the trunk and slammed it shut. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting? It’s just a cheeky name for a gallery.”

“It’s much, much worse than that,” Monk said. “This could quite possibly be Summit’s Chernobyl.”

“What are you talking about?”

Monk began creeping up cautiously on the Poop storefront.

“Have you seen what they sell?”

“Art,” I said.

“Look closer,” he said.

I walked ahead of him and up to the gallery’s front window. There were four items on display.

There was something that looked like an ossified pile of soft-serve ice cream, about one cone’s worth, on a piece of polished marble. A little placard in front of it read:

AUTHENTIC COPROLITE (DINOSAUR POOP). 65 MILLION YEARS OLD. CUT AND POLISHED. $1,275
.

The next item was a bronze watch laid atop a piece of jagged stone like a lizard sunning itself. It was a very masculine, predistressed watch with styling that made me think of mud-caked Jeeps, guys in khaki, and the grassy plains of Africa. The watch face had an organic texture and was the color of a dried leaf. The placard beside it read:

FINE SWISS TIMEPIECE WITH JURASSIC COPROLITE (DINOSAUR POOP) FACE AND AMERICAN CANE TOAD STRAP. $12,000.

Beside it was a crude, two-foot-tall version of Michelangelo’s
David
, sculpted out of what looked like straw and clay and protected in a glass box. Its placard read:

PANDA POO DAVID BY STANLEY HUNG, IMPORTED FROM CHENGDU, CHINA. $25,000.

And finally, fanned out like peacock feathers, was an array of multicolored, very pulpy paper. The tiny placard beside the paper read:

WIDE SELECTION OF ELEPHANT, RHINO, AND BISON DUNG STATIONERY NOW AVAILABLE!

It was disgusting and yet strangely fascinating.

I took the excrement art as intentionally outrageous, a heavy-handed attempt to be shocking, but I had no
idea what to make of the fossilized dino droppings, or the dung watch, or the crappy paper.

It made me very curious about the store, which I suppose was the whole intention of the window display. I wanted to see what other poopy products they were selling, but first I had to deal with Monk, who I feared was probably on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown.

I took a deep breath and turned to face his bullhorn as he made an announcement, nearly scaring the poop out of me.

“Attention poo-poo felons, this is the police. You are completely surrounded. Come out with your hands up and thoroughly washed.”

His words were heard up and down the street. People began pouring out of the buildings all around us. Monk turned to address them with his bullhorn.

“Go back inside. You must remain indoors for your own safety. You don’t want to be on the street when the Poop door opens.”

Nobody was listening. In fact, even more people came out.

“Mr. Monk—,” I began, but then he yelled into his bullhorn again.

“What’s wrong with you people? Take cover. This is a toxic emergency.”

I yanked the bullhorn out of his hand. “That’s enough, Mr. Monk.”

That was when a woman emerged from Poop. Monk let out a cry of alarm and slipped his gas mask over his face.

She appeared to be about my age but carried herself with an elegance and grace that I could never pull off. She had long blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and perfect skin. She was immaculately dressed in a silk
blouse and slacks and approached us with a genuinely warm smile, as if she hadn’t been summoned by a bullhorn, and seemingly oblivious to the crowd coming out of the café, the clothing store, and buildings all around.

“Is there a problem?” She asked the question without a trace of anger or embarrassment and because of that, I liked her immediately.

If anything, she was amused.

“You’re under arrest,” Monk said.

“We aren’t cops, Mr. Monk,” I said, then turned to the woman. “I am so sorry about this.”

Monk looked at me in shock. “You’re apologizing to her? This woman is the most heinous, despicable, and deadly criminal I have ever encountered.”

“Oh my,” she said. “This may be the worst first impression I’ve ever made.”

She didn’t seem upset but I spoke up quickly, eager to reassure her that she wasn’t in any trouble.

“My name is Natalie Teeger and this is Adrian Monk. We’ve just arrived from San Francisco. We’re consultants with the Summit Police Department and the sentiments that Mr. Monk has been expressing are his own. He is repulsed by even the idea of excrement.”

“Of course he is,” she said. “Most people are. That’s why I opened Poop here two years ago, to enlighten, amuse, and educate people about the natural, and enduring, value of excrement in our lives.”

“You’ve been here for
two years
?” Monk said. “And nobody has stopped you?”

“Quite the contrary,” she said. “I was just elected president of the Summit Chamber of Commerce.”

“I knew this city was corrupt,” he said. “But this is beyond comprehension. It ends now. You’re going down, Poo Lady.”

“My name is Ellen Morse,” she said. “Won’t you please come in and let me show you around?”

“No. Way. In. Hell,” Monk said. “In fact, I’m almost certain that
is
hell.”

“I’d be glad to,” I said to Morse and took a step toward her.

Monk grabbed my arm. “It’s suicide.”

“You’re overreacting,” I said, and yanked my arm free.

“Am I?” Monk was trembling with anger. “You’re about to enter a building full of poop. Wall-to-wall dung. It’s like walking into a nuclear reactor, only not as clean. I won’t let you do it.”

“How do you intend to stop me?”

He balled his hands into fists. “Brute force.”

“I can take you, Mr. Monk.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I wouldn’t even have to throw a punch. I’d just have to sneeze. Or spit.”

“I wish I had a Taser,” he said.

“You’d Tase me?”

“You’d thank me later,” he said. “Now you won’t live to.”

“I’ll be out in a few minutes,” I said. “Maybe I’ll buy you something.”

Morse held the door open for me and I walked inside.

Poop had the ambience of an art gallery coupled with the hippie vibe of a Marin County health food store. It was an open space, with exposed beams and pipes, artwork on display here and there, hardwood floors, and several rows of shelves composed of boards propped on the feet of many old folding ladders. Speakers piped in the white noise of nature—burbling springs, birdcalls, and wind rustling the leaves of tall trees. The air was heavy with floral incense.

“Everything sold here is derived from solid animal waste,” Morse said. “We have the items divided into four sections—art and jewelry, food and nutrition, health care products, and stationery.”

I gave her a look. “Did you say
food
?”

“I did,” she replied with a sly smile.

“People eat poop?”

“They do,” she said.

“Sane people?” As soon as I said it, I realized I must have sounded like Monk.

She laughed and led me to a shelf lined with bottles
containing a golden red liquid. “Are you familiar with argan oil?”

“Sure,” I said. “I had it once on a salad at Le Guerre, a fancy French-Moroccan restaurant in San Francisco.”

“It’s crap,” she said.

“I thought it was very tasty,” I said. “It’s strong, but it really brings out the flavor of meat and cheese.”

“What I mean is, the oil is poop.”

“You’re kidding me,” I said.

“It comes from goats in southern Morocco, who climb into the argan trees, eat the fruit, and excrete the nuts, which are collected, roasted, and pressed to make the oil.”

She handed me a bottle. It was priced at almost forty dollars. I examined the label.

“They don’t say anything about it being goat crap on the bottle,” I said.

“You wouldn’t eat it if they did,” she said. “Or put it on your hair or use it to moisturize your skin.”

I cringed at the thought that I’d been putting poop in my hair or down my throat. She smiled at my discomfort.

“I can see what you’re thinking. You’re picturing yourself sticking a spoon in a pile of steaming dung or slathering it in your hair with your bare hands,” she said. “It’s revolting and it makes you sick.”

“I’m surprised to hear you say that,” I said, “considering that you sell the stuff.”

“The excrement used in argan oil, or any of the food or health care products that I sell here, has been so refined that there are no toxic elements remaining. But the facts don’t matter. We are conditioned from a very early age to revile excrement, despite its many practical and even vital uses. It’s a totally Western bias,” she said. “In India, for instance, cow dung is revered. A
new home is considered blessed, and the occupants destined to be prosperous, only after a cow has defecated in the living room. And once they move in, they smear dung on their front porches to welcome and honor their guests.”

“As enlightened as you are about poop, you must still be at least a little revolted by it, too, or you wouldn’t burn incense to hide the smell.”

“Do you like the incense?”

“It’s better than sniffing L’Air du Crap,” I said.

“It is crap,” she said. “The incense is imported from India. It’s floral-scented cow dung.”

I began to regret leaving my gas mask behind. “Is that healthy?”

“Indians think so,” she said. “They believe dung is antiseptic and pure because it comes from the sacred beast.”

“But is it?”

“They have practiced their beliefs for centuries without harm,” she said. “They wash their bodies with dung soap, brush their teeth with dung toothpaste, and they aren’t sick and dying, so you tell me.”

India was definitely a country Monk should never visit under any circumstances. And even though I’m a lot more liberal minded than Monk, I decided that if I ever visited India, I’d take plenty of soap and toothpaste with me and a pair of old, comfortable shoes I wouldn’t mind parting with when I left the country.

And if Indians were really immersing themselves in so much dung, it certainly explained why most of the customer support operators I talked to in Mumbai were always so surly. I would be surly, too, if I had to deal with that much crap, literally and figuratively, every day.

I was still thinking about all the implications of such
a poop-centric life when the front door of the store flew open and Monk burst in, wearing his gas mask and holding the other one in his hand.

I guess he’d gathered up his courage and given himself a running start to ensure that he would actually make it through the door, even if he had second thoughts on the way. But his momentum carried him right up to a display of portraits painted on dried cow patties, where he came to a dead stop.