Mr. Monk Goes to Germany by Lee Goldberg (general ebook reader .TXT) 📕

edition without the nude photos. Perhaps there were men in Germany who could actually say that they read Playboy only for the articles. But I didn’t pick one up to find out.

Monk took a big breath before stepping onto the plane and then froze when he looked down the aisle.

“Oh my God,” he said. “Are they insane?”

I peered over his shoulder. I couldn’t see anything unusual, so I looked for the usual that might drive Monk batty. But I still couldn’t see the problem.

“What is it?” I said.

“There are three seats in each row.”

He was right. I didn’t know how I’d missed that. Not that it would have changed anything. It was what it was.

“The row actually has six seats, which is an even number, but there’s an aisle that goes right down the middle,” I said. “Look at it that way.”

“We are going to crash,” Monk said. “Look at it that way.”

“Keep your voice down,” I hissed into his ear. “We are not going to crash.”

“The plane isn’t evenly balanced,” Monk said. “How can we possibly remain airborne?”

“There are three seats on each side of the plane,” I said. “It’s balanced and it’s symmetrical. You should be thrilled.”

“Three is not an even number,” Monk said. “The entire plane is uneven. That can’t be safe. Do you think the pilot is aware of what’s going on back here?”

“Dividing the row in two sets of three is the only way you can divide six in half,” I said.

“They should have had four seats across, divided the rows into twos, and saved lives.”

A stewardess came up behind me. “Is there a problem?”

“The first cloud we hit we are going to be goners,” Monk said.

“Goners?” she said. “What is a goner?”

“Someone who is eager to be gone on their trip,” I said with a smile. “We can’t wait for that first cloud, because then we know we’re really gone. Up, up, and away, that’s where we want to be.”

She nodded. “Please take your seats.”

I gave Monk a shove and practically pushed him all the way to our seats in row twelve. I had the window and he had the middle seat. A businessman with a Playboy tucked under his arm took the aisle seat.

Monk pulled the airsickness bag from the seat pocket in front of him and began to breathe into it. The businessman pretended like he didn’t notice.

Once everyone was seated, the stewardess went down the aisle passing out more magazines. It seemed like every man in the plane took a Playboy. Monk held up his hand as she passed our aisle.

“Would you like something to read, sir?” she asked.

“Yes,” Monk said. “Could I get a manual for surviving a crash landing?”

“Information on our emergency landing procedures is printed on the laminated card in the seatback in front of you,” she said in the same robotic voice American stewardesses use. I guess stewardess-speak is universal, regardless of your native language.

“I was hoping for something more detailed,” Monk said.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That’s all we have.”

“Okay,” Monk said. “How about the Holy Bible?”

“We don’t have that either,” she said. “How about an International Herald Tribune?”

I quickly spoke up. “That will be fine.”

She handed me the newspaper and walked on. I swatted Monk in the chest with it and dropped it on his lap.

“What’s the matter with you?” I said. “You aren’t religious.”

“If I am going to meet God today, I want to be holding his best seller.”

“It won’t help,” I said. “Do you think he’s forgotten that you tried to throw out the bowl of holy water at Mission Dolores during Sunday Mass and replace it with hand sanitizer?”

We began to taxi away from the gate. As we did, the stewardesses started their usual safety lecture about how to use the seat belts, where to find the exits, how to operate the oxygen masks, and when to inflate the flotation devices that were stowed under our seats.

Monk bent over and started searching under his seat for something.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“Getting ready,” he answered and pulled out the uninflated bright yellow life preserver and slipped it over his head, elbowing me and the businessman in our sides as he reached around to snap all of his straps.

The businessman leaned forward to glare at Monk and our eyes met.

“He can’t swim,” I explained.

“We aren’t in the water,” the man said.

“Yet,” Monk said.

A stewardess came down the aisle to check that everyone’s seat belts were fastened and stopped when she saw Monk wearing his life vest.

“Could I have my oxygen mask now?” Monk said. “It will save time later.”

She just shook her head and walked on. I elbowed Monk in the side, just hard enough to get his attention.

“Stop it,” I said. “You’re going to get us thrown off the plane.”

“If it happens over water, at least one of us will be floating, ” Monk said.

We reached the runway. The stewardesses took their seats and Monk assumed the crash position: bending forward, placing his arms over his head, and pleading for his mother.

The plane sped up and lifted off, the roaring of the engines failing to cover the wailing of a few infants and Adrian Monk.

Once we achieved cruising altitude, Monk tentatively sat up and looked around. That was when the businessman beside him decided to open up his Playboy.

It wasn’t abridged.

Monk let out a squeal and immediately tried to