Mr. Monk in Outer Space by Goldberg, Lee (best books to read for self development TXT) 📗

“What’s insensitive about that?”

I gave him a look to see if he was joking, but then I remembered that Monk doesn’t have a sense of humor. He was serious. All the time.

We arrived at Dr. Kroger’s office precisely four minutes early. That’s because we always get there eight or ten minutes early, wait outside on the sidewalk until it’s four minutes before the appointment, and then go in.

Dr. Kroger was a trim and fit fiftysomething, much like the late Brandon Lorber, and had a golfer’s tan. I don’t know if he actually played golf, but he looked like someone who did.

He had an enormously calming presence, which I suppose is a necessary quality for someone in his profession, but if you’re already calm, which I am most of the time, you run the risk of slipping into a coma while you’re talking to him.

There was no one in his waiting room when we arrived, and as soon as Dr. Kroger opened his inner-office door, Monk marched in without so much as a greeting.

The office was clean and contemporary and looked out on an inner courtyard that had a fountain that trickled down one of the concrete walls and into a bowl of damp, glistening stones.

If I ever needed to see a shrink, I’d want his office to be warm and cozy and inviting, like a family room. Dr. Kroger’s office was sterile and almost cold enough to keep food fresh. No wonder Monk felt comfortable there.

“We’ve got a psychiatric emergency to deal with,” Monk said, taking his customary seat.

Dr. Kroger raised an eyebrow. That’s about as worked up as he ever got. “We do?”

“It’s not me, of course,” Monk said.

Dr. Kroger nodded sagely. I think he even picked his nose sagely. He was that kind of guy. “It’s everyone else.”

I was walking out when Monk called to me. “See, Natalie?” Monk said. “He gets it.” I couldn’t let that remark go without an explanation.

“Mr. Monk is talking about his current case,” I said. “He’s investigating the murder of Conrad Stipe, who created a TV show called Beyond Earth, which has a cult following.”

“These are deeply disturbed individuals,” Monk said. “They walk around with their internal organs on the outside of their bodies.”

“Is that so?” Dr. Kroger said, as if that was something he saw every day. He sat down in his chair beside Monk and motioned to me to stay. I stood at the door, feeling awkward.

“Yesterday, we visited a Beyond Earth convention where the fans dress up as characters from the show,” I said and sat down on the couch facing Dr. Kroger and Monk. “One of the characters is an inside-out alien being.”

“I see.” Dr. Kroger glanced at Monk. “And you find this behavior unnatural and distressing.”

“They need to be institutionalized,” Monk said. “You can commit them, can’t you?”

“Not unless they are my patients and I believe that they present an imminent danger to themselves or others.”

“What if we were talking about a member of my family?” Monk asked.

“Are we?”

“My brother, Ambrose, is one of them,” Monk said. “He’s a member of the cult.”

“It’s not a cult, Mr. Monk,” I said.

“You said yourself that the show has a cult following, ” Monk said.

“I didn’t mean that kind of cult,” I said. “I meant the good kind.”

“There’s no such thing as a good cult,” Monk said. “Before you know it, you’re sacrificing goats, dancing naked in the woods, and selling cookies door-to-door.”

“You think the Girl Scouts is a cult?”

“Haven’t you seen the vacant look in their eyes?”

“Everyone eventually gets that look around you, Mr. Monk.”

“I thought Ambrose never left the house,” Dr. Kroger said.

“He doesn’t,” Monk said. “He’s crazy at home.”

“I think it’s great that Ambrose is a member of this fan club. You should encourage his participation,” Dr. Kroger said. “This is a very positive step for him.”

“They speak a fictional language!” Monk said.

“It’s a harmless bonding ritual and, in Ambrose’s case, quite healthy and perhaps even essential for his mental and emotional well-being.”

“Harmless?” Monk said. “They save breakfast cereal for thirty years. Some of them have even had plastic surgery to give themselves pointed ears.”

“Granted, that might be going too far, but it’s not necessarily a sign of a mental illness,” Dr. Kroger said. “Human beings have an instinctive need to belong to some kind of social group for their emotional and physical well-being and survival. They will go to extreme lengths to achieve this. Even you, Adrian.”

“I don’t think so,” Monk said.

“Your dream is to become part of the police department again,” Dr. Kroger said. “That’s a reflection of your need to belong to something.”

“It’s a job,” Monk said. “It’s not a TV show.”

“It’s a social group with its own culture, code of conduct, belief system, shared values, and common goals. Everyone wears a uniform or carries a badge so that they can be recognized as members of the group to their own members and to ‘outsiders.’ It’s not unlike the costumes that the science fiction fans wear. And like the fan club, they also provide an essential support system for their members.”

“The police department enforces the law and maintains order,” Monk said. “That’s what they are supporting.”

“They are also supporting each other,” Dr. Kroger said. “Just look at how Captain Stottlemeyer and Lieutenant Disher have supported you over the years. It’s because you are one of their own. Who supports Ambrose?”

“Me,” Monk said.

“Like you did this morning?” I said. “You completely dismissed his efforts to help.”

“Because they were wasted efforts and no help.”

“Everyone needs to belong to something,” Dr. Kroger said. “I have my family, I have friends, and I have my profession. That’s what defines me, gives me identity and a sense of belonging. Ambrose never leaves