Monk could have been himself.
Without the drugs, he would almost certainly flip out on the plane and, with the heightened airline security these days, he’d either be gunned down by an air marshal or imprisoned for endangering the passengers with his disorderly conduct.
So relying on pharmaceuticals was clearly the best way to go for us, for the other passengers, and for humanity.
We got through the security checkpoint at the airport and boarded the plane without incident. Our airline was Air Brahmaputra, the cheapest flight into Frankfurt that I could find.
Monk is a cheapskate, whether he’s drugged or not.
We were traveling on an old Air Canada plane. The only reason I knew that was because Air Brahmaputra hadn’t even bothered to re-cover the seats or the worn carpets adorned with the previous airline’s name and maple-leaf logo.
The stewardesses were dressed in colorful saris with bare midriffs and spoke with heavy Indian accents. Indian music played on the sound system. I could see that the flight would be like spending twelve hours on hold with Dell customer support. Now I was doubly glad that I’d brought sleeping pills.
Our two seats were in an odd-numbered row in the middle of the plane. Monk didn’t even notice the numerical incongruity, or if he did, he didn’t care.
I took the seat by the window so I could rest against the bulkhead when I passed out.
Monk took the aisle seat so he could get up and wander around the plane, as he’d done on the way to Hawaii.
The seats were narrow and stiff and there was no legroom at all. If the passenger in front of me reclined his seat, we’d be sleeping together. I sat up to get a peek at him. He wasn’t bad-looking. If I was lucky, he was also charming, single, and loved kids.
I stayed awake until the beverage service began. Monk had a Coke and talked the stewardess into giving him a dozen bags of peanuts to go with it.
I washed down my pill with a glass of water, and within a few minutes I was asleep.
When I awoke eight hours later, the seat beside me was empty, my bladder was ready to burst, and everybody was singing Wayne Newton’s “Danke Schoen.”
I squeezed out of my seat and saw Monk. He was wearing lederhosen—Bavarian leather shorts with wide suspenders— and leading a parade of singing passengers down the aisle. He looked ridiculous.
My bladder wouldn’t wait for them to pass, so I jumped out in front of him and hurried down the aisle to the rest-room. While I was inside, I wondered about how Monk had gotten the lederhosen and where he’d changed into them. He was going to be in for a shock if he was still wearing the outfit when the drugs wore off.
When I emerged from the bathroom, Monk was heading down the opposite aisle towards the back of the plane. He waved at me. I waved back.
I was pretty certain that what he and the passengers were doing violated all kinds of in-flight regulations, but the stewardesses didn’t seem to mind. They sat in the galley reading magazines and munching on snacks.
I asked one of them for a bag of peanuts and a bottle of water and went back to my seat. The Monkster joined me a few minutes later. He was drenched with sweat. It was an amazing sight. Until that moment, I don’t think I’d ever seen a bead of perspiration on his skin.
He wiped his brow with his sleeve. “Wow. Don’t you just love to travel?”
“Haven’t you slept at all?”
“How can you sleep when there is so much to do?” he said.
I’d never thought of a flight that way.
“Nice outfit,” I said. “Where did you get it?”
“A couple of German guys up in row thirteen gave it to me,” Monk said. “I want to fit into German society as effortlessly as I do into our own.”
“And they just happened to have a pair of lederhosen in their carry-on bag?”
“It’s what they were wearing in Frisco,” he said.
That must have been an interesting sight to see.
“Have they been cleaned since they were worn?”
Monk shrugged. “They passed the smell test.”
“You sniffed the shorts?”
“You know what they say—if you can’t smell it, it isn’t there.”
Who are these people and why do they keep saying such stupid things?
“What did you do with your slacks?” I asked.
“I shoved them into your bag,” Monk said.
“They are going to be a wrinkled mess,” I told him.
He gave me a playful punch on the shoulder. “Loosen up, babe. We’re on vacation.”
That’s when a little boy, who looked no older than six or eight, came up to Monk. His nose was running. He wiped it on his sleeve.
“Can I have a balloon doggie, too?” the boy asked.
“Of course.” Monk turned to me. “Tissue, please.”
This was more like the Monk I knew. Perhaps the drugs were beginning to wear off. I reached into my purse and handed him a tissue.
He wiped the kid’s nose with it, then held it against his nose and said, “Blow.”
The kid did.
“One more time,” Monk said.
The kid did.
“Isn’t that better?” Monk pinched the tissue closed and shoved it into his pocket.
He reached into another pocket and came out with a slim balloon, which he blew up and twisted into
