By Slim Man
Here’s an excerpt from the Slim Man Cooks cookbook. It has 52 recipes, and each one starts with a story like this:
Taking a Toilet to the Turk
I was in an up-and-coming rock band in Baltimore called BootCamp. We had two of the first 100 videos on MTV. Record companies were calling. Managers were courting us. We got an offer to play all summer long at a beachfront club in the Hamptons (Long Island, New York). We didn’t have to think too long. We took the gig; the club owners told us they’d rent us a house on the water.
House? This was a funky little shack directly across the road from the club. The tiny, dilapidated shack was literally right on the bay; when the tide came in, the rotted back porch would be covered in swamp water. There was no fresh water in the shack; when we took showers, it was saltwater. It should have been condemned. We made a sign, and put it outside: The Funky Shack. We were scheduled to play at the club six nights a week and twice on weekends.
I told my dad about the Big Gig.
He called me the next day. Get this—he wanted me to go to my uncle’s house (his brother, Oscar), pick up a toilet, and take it to my dad’s girlfriend’s house in Long Island. Why? I don’t know. It’s not that toilets are expensive or rare. You can find them just about anywhere. And just why am I taking this toilet to my dad’s girlfriend’s house anyway? Was my dad trying to impress her? “Hey, honey, I’m getting you a new toilet for your birthday. My kid’s gonna hand deliver it.”
I thought my dad was screwing with me. But when I called Oscar, he confirmed the story. He had a toilet left over from his new house—and I was supposed to pick it up in Baltimore, Maryland, and drop it off in Long Island at my dad’s girlfriend’s house.
And the kicker? My dad wasn’t going to be there. Neither was his girlfriend. His girlfriend’s Turkish father was supposed to be there. And? Her father didn’t speak English. Not a word.
The BootCamp Boys packed up the old Chrysler station wagon that belonged to our keyboard player’s dad. We had a ton of suitcases, keyboards, and guitars—everything we’d need for four months away from home. We drove to my uncle’s house, picked up the toilet, put it on top of our stuff, and headed up the New Jersey Turnpike.
We decided to have some fun.
Whenever we’d stop at a rest area, we’d take the toilet out of the car and carry it into the men’s room, and then carry it back out to the car. It was the beginning of summer; the rest areas were crowded with folks heading to the beaches. And these folks were staring at us. Four crazy musicians, with 1980s hairdos that looked like several small furry animals had perched on top of our heads, carrying a toilet in and out of the men’s room; then packing it into a beat-up Chrysler, and driving off.
When we got to my dad’s girlfriend’s house in Long Island, I took the toilet out of the car, carried it to the house, and rang the bell. A short man with wavy hair opened the door. He took a look at me, and then at the toilet. He obviously had no idea who I was, or why I was there.
So, I’m standing there holding a toilet in my arms, trying to explain who I was and why I was there. The guy understood nothing. Not a word. I kept saying, “Toilet! Toilet for you!” I started yelling, as if by saying it louder, maybe he’d understand what I was saying. “TOILET! TOILET FOR YOU!”
He looked at me like I was from another planet. I finally just left the toilet on the porch and walked away. I waved goodbye as we pulled out of the driveway.
Come to think of it, I hope I had the right house.
Slim Man is a singer, writer, and toilet transporter. His concert schedule and his new cookbook, Slim Man Cooks, are available at slimman.com.
