MAR. 17, 2006
MONK FLUNKS TRAFFIC SCHOOL, PART I

There are some things in life that I'm pretty sure that everybody hates to do, regardless of their sex, race, religion or nationality -- like flossing your teeth, cleaning your bathroom and attending traffic school. You could pick anybody off the street and they'd agree that those tasks suck.

Everybody, that is, except Adrian Monk, the famous detective and my employer.

He flosses his teeth hourly. He cleans his bathroom several times a day. And even though he doesn't drive, he still recently insisted on going with me to traffic school, which I had to attend to burn off a speeding ticket from my driving record. (I was taking my 12-year-old daughter, Julie, down to Monterey to visit her grandparents when I got nailed by a cop going 75 in a 65-mph zone.)

The eight-hour class was held not far from my house, in a storefront in the Mission District. The walls were decorated with various road signs and posters urging people not to drink and drive. Three rows of folding chairs were lined up facing a simple, gun-metal-grey desk and a dry erase board on the wall.

As soon as we arrived, Monk started re-arranging the seats into four rows with an even number of seats in each. I shrugged my silent apologies to my fellow students as they stood around and waited impatiently to take their seats.

I wanted to sit in the back, where I might be able to get a little sleep, but Monk insisted we take front-row seats.

"I don't want to miss anything," Monk said.

"I'd like to miss it all."

"Then you won't learn anything."

"People don't come here to learn, Mr. Monk. They come here to endure their punishment."

"Punishment?" Monk said. "This is a perk."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Double yellow lines, cross-walks and left turn only lanes. Speed limits, traffic lights, and clearly-defined parking zones. It's beautiful. It's perhaps the finest expression of our humanity."

I stared at him. "Traffic lanes and stop signs. That's what you think expresses the best of mankin?"

"It's peace, order and equality," Monk said. "If only sidewalks and hallways had lanes. It would mean an end to the chaos."

"What chaos?"

"Have you seen how people walk?"

He tipped his head towards the people passing by on the street outside. That's where I longed to be and the class hadn't even started yet.

"They go to and fro, every which way," he said. "Nobody walks in a straight line. Everybody is weaving and dodging, trying to avoid a collision. Some are running, some are strolling. It's anarchy. But if we all had to walk in lanes, travel at a set rate of speed and signal our intentions, it would revolutionize society. I dare say it could even lead to world peace."

I looked into his eyes. I thought I saw tears.

That's when a door opened in the back of the room and in walked our teacher with the bearing, imperiousness and dour solemnity of a Supreme Court justice. He was in his 50s, wore a tweed jacket and a bow tie, and carried a copy of the California Vehicle Code as if it was some kind of sacred text.

Monk stood. I yanked him back down into his seat.

(continue reading "Monk Flunks Traffic School")