Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse by Lee Goldberg

But Stottlemeyer said his wife would leave him if he brought Monk home. I went to Stottlemeyer first, since he used to be Monk’s partner on the force, and asked if he’d take him in. But I’m not really his friend so much as I am his employee, and, considering how little he pays me to drive him around and run his errands, I’m barely that. Randy Disher of the San Francisco Police Department and me. That was a problem, because the only friends Monk has are Capt. Since Monk’s building was going to be tented and fumigated, his landlord told him he’d have to stay with friends or go to a hotel for a couple of days.

When I asked him why he does that, he looked at me quizzically and said, “Doesn’t everybody?” He knew because he keeps track of all the irregularities in the siding. He spotted a pinprick-sized hole in a piece of siding and knew it was fresh. Usually taking care of Monk is just a day job, but that changed the week termites were found in his apartment building. If that’s the price of genius, them I’m glad I’m not one. He’s a brilliant detective who solves murders that have baffled the police, which amazes me, since he is utterly incapable of handling the simplest aspects of day-to-day life. You haven’t heard of me, but if you live in San Francisco and you watch the news or read the paper, you’ve probably heard of Monk, because he is famous. I’ve made a profession out of taking care of myself, my twelve-year-old daughter, Julie, and one other person: Adrian Monk. In that way, I guess my dream came true, though not quite the way I expected. Most of all, I liked how those women took care of themselves.

I admired the Angels because they were strong, independent, and had a sassy attitude. It wasn’t because I wanted to fight crime or run around braless-I was looking forward to the day I’d fill out enough to wear one. When I was nine I dreamed of being one of Charlie’s Angels. Of course, I had bigger things planned for myself. I’m just another anonymous shopper pushing her cart down the aisle at Wal-Mart. I haven’t done anything or accomplished something that you’d recognize me for. You’ve never heard of me, and that’s okay, because the fact is I’m nobody special.

Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse by Lee Goldberg