Analogue Sheep : Vol 1 : There's only 1 public toilet in Chicago

The Stand Up Crawl was an unofficial circuit for every hack, hopeful, and half-starved vagrant with a dream of comedy. Mic nights in dive bars, community centres, even laundromats—anything with a mic, a light, and an audience. That’s where I found him: The Public Toilet Guy.

He was wiry, gaunt, with a face like a crumpled paper bag and eyes that carried secrets they’d rather not reveal. His bit was simple, a single premise stretched into an epic:

“There’s only one public toilet in Chicago,” he’d begin.

The audience laughed before he even got to the meat of it. He’d weave an absurd, sprawling anecdote about hunting for this mythical toilet—encountering labyrinthine bureaucracy, a surreal chase through an abandoned library, and an underground jazz club guarded by a man who demanded a password. It was hilarious.

But here’s the thing: he never told you where it was. The punchline would veer left at the last moment—a gag about how he accidentally ordered deep-dish pizza from a parking meter or something equally ridiculous.

I was hooked.

I’m not a comedian; I’m a critic. Or I was. Reviewing comedy’s a thankless job, but this guy? He was my white whale. I had to know: where’s the toilet?

After his set at a Brooklyn bar that smelled like beer and mildew, I approached him.

“Hey, man. Loved your set. That toilet bit—it’s brilliant. But…is it real?”

He grinned, revealing teeth that told stories of their own. “Of course it’s real. You wanna see it?”

His name was Mel. Or at least, that’s what he told me. We set out the next day in a borrowed car that smelled like cigarettes and regret.

As we drove, Mel filled the air with stories, each one more bizarre than the last. He talked about sneaking onto a yacht to steal a bottle of wine, his brief stint as a rodeo clown, and how he once tried to sell fireworks to a cop. The stories all seemed half-true, half-fable, but they were undeniably funny.

He coughed a lot. At first, I chalked it up to the cigarettes, but by the time we hit Ohio, he was hacking so hard I thought he might crack a rib.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Just the usual,” he said, brushing it off.

In Chicago, Mel was a different man. He stared at the skyline like it was mocking him. We drove aimlessly for hours, stopping at random places. He’d point to a dingy gas station or a park restroom.

“Could be here,” he’d say, grinning.

By day three, his energy was gone. He sat slumped in the passenger seat, his face pale, his jokes fewer. Finally, I confronted him.

“Mel, do you even know where this toilet is?”

He smiled weakly. “You ever think maybe it’s not about the toilet?”

I didn’t have time to press him. He collapsed that night in the motel.

I found the menu in his bag while waiting in the hospital. It was from a hotel called The Chicago—not in Chicago, but back in New York.

On the back, his bit was scrawled in shaky handwriting:

There’s only one public toilet in Chicago.

It’s clean, welcoming, and always open…but only if you’re part of the show.

Mel didn’t make it through the night.

I went back to New York, retraced his steps. The Chicago Hotel was across from a theatre running the musical Chicago. The staff told me it was a haven for struggling artists, a place where comedians, actors, and musicians could crash in hard times.

And the restroom? It wasn’t magical, mythical, or legendary. It was just a clean bathroom in a hotel lobby.

But for Mel, it was a symbol—a little piece of dignity in a world that hadn’t given him much.

I never tell people the truth when they ask about the toilet.

“There’s only one public toilet in Chicago,” I say. And I leave it at that.