I met a lot of people through my time as a reporter. Some became acquaintances. Some became Facebook friends. A few became in-person friends. One – Steve Martin (not THAT Steve Martin) – became a best friend.

It all started at The Lift.

In February of 2005 The Lift started hosting iPod Mondays. People put together a 15 minute playlist and the iPods would line up behind the bar, waiting to be played. Sitting at the bar, waiting for his iPod (actually, it was some MP3 player I don’t remember the name of) was a quirky guy with glasses, reading comic books on his computer. His selection of songs always caught my ear. Lots of obscure, female-fronted 90s acts. The kind of stuff that didn’t get a lot of mainstream radio play, but would pop up on MTV shows like Alternative Nation, 120 Minutes, and college radio stations.

But we weren’t quite friends yet. To paraphrase Ron Swanson (played by Nick Offerman, from Steve’s hometown of Minooka, IL.), we were ‘Alcohol consumption proximity associates.”

Around this time, I started writing for Juice, part of a wave of “young professionals” weeklies that Gannett had started. We needed content, and lots of it. In the first few months I had pitched an article related to a comic book convention, and was looking for people in their 20s and 30s who had interesting collections.

“You should talk to Steve Martin,” said Clint Curtis, the host of iPod Monday. “He has a Spider-Man-themed bathroom.”

So at the next iPod Monday I approached the quirky guy reading comics at the bar, saying I had heard he has a Spider-Man bathroom, and I would like to write an article about it. We set up a time to meet at his place, a townhouse on the south side.

The walk up to his bathroom included a lot of detours. To check out his CD collection. To check out his DVD collection. His video game collection. Doctor Who and Star Trek books. Photos of him at a Doctor Who meetup. Finally, the Spider-Man bathroom. By this point he had won me over. I could tell that we were going to be friends.

Steve’s nerdiness wasn’t just like mine. I’ve never been huge into Doctor Who or Star Trek. At the time, I wasn’t playing many video games. But we had music and comic books in common. Our nerdy interests were complimentary to each other.

From there, we kept chatting at iPod Monday. We became MySpace friends. We started showing up at the same parties, and realizing our post-college social circles were very similar. Guitar Hero became popular, and Steve was right there, inviting people to jam with him. First on the PS2, then PS3. Then Rock Band came out, and our band of misfits (The 4^th Street Mafia, though Steve preferred “The 4^th Street Gang.” He wanted it to have more of a Little Rascals sound) became, at times, a literal band of misfits. Well, as much of a band as you can be when you’re playing with plastic instruments.

 Steve and I would get together to hang out, but never often enough. I’ve got kids, and he had a job that had him working 10 day stretches of overnights, so months would sometimes pass without getting together. But eventually the stars would align and we would get a chance to hang out and watch a movie from Steve’s massive collection. If we were lucky, our friend Aaron would be there too.

But over the last few months, Steve and I got to spend a lot more time together. I was in need of a place to stay while looking for a new house, and Steve opened his home to me. For a few months I got to spend almost every day with Steve. We fell into a routine somewhere between college roommates and platonic domestic partners. There would be plenty of “Honey, I’m home!” “How was your day, dear?” type references, then playing video games and watching movies.

Steve’s house was something like Pee Wee’s Playhouse, and not just because he had multiple pictures of Pee Wee, and even a working Clocky on his walls. He had a game room that included nearly a dozen Aracde1Up machines, and countless board games. He probably owned every video game system you can imagine (and some you could never imagine). Many of them modded so they could plug into an HDMI TV port. Every room had an Alexa, which Steve said made him feel like he was living in “The house of the future!” Of course, Alexa screws up requests fairly often, so at times the future feels kind of like Idiocracy.

My kids would come to visit regularly while I lived there, and Steve quickly took to the role of “Uncle Steve.”  They loved playing video games at his house, finding a movie to watch, or just making a request like “Alexa, play 100 fart noises” and watching in satisfaction as Steve collapsed to the floor in hysterics.

“I just want to make everyone happy,” Steve told me on multiple occasions. He did, but I worried that Steve put others’ happiness over his own. Steve was a showman. He would put on grand karaoke performances on nights out. Making other people happy is a fine goal, but is it sustainable for your own happiness?

Changes in Steve’s life had made it a rough year for him. He had lost his job earlier in the year, and had not yet found another one. I worried about him when I wasn’t there. His house of the future let him be isolated from much of the world. Like me, he had psoriasis, but losing his job meant losing his good insurance and an effective treatment for his psoriasis was no longer available to him. He was self-conscious about how he looked with it. He had taken to wearing soft, mitten-like gloves to prevent himself from scratching his skin in his sleep.

And he was drinking. Enough that I was worried. But my experience has always been that people don’t stop drinking until they’re ready. Steve had quit drinking before. I was sure he could do it again. Pushing someone to stop before they’re ready can drive a wedge between you, so I just tried to be there for him. When Steve wanted to talk, we talked. When he wanted to watch silly cat videos on Facebook, we did that. When he wanted to watch a movie, we would pick out something from his library, or find some new releases that he had already found a digital copy of.

He would get there. Until then, I would be there.

In November, I made an offer on a new house, and it was accepted! It meant I would be leaving Steve’s Playhouse, but I vowed that I wouldn’t let Steve fall off my radar for weeks or months. We would have weekly movie nights. The kids would come over. I’d probably still have a sleepover at his place from time to time.

On Dec. 19 I closed on my new house, and spent my last night at Steve’s. I could tell the fact that I was leaving was hitting him hard. There were hugs. I assured him that I would still be over a lot. I tried to make it clear how much it meant to me that he had opened his home to me. I couldn’t wait to show him my new place once it was ready.

And over the next few weeks, I kept checking on him. I stopped in as I gradually moved things out of his house. We hung out. But I was still worried. Steve fell while shoveling his driveway. He called it “The Hitler Driveway” because of the steep slope, similar to a Nazi salute. It wasn’t my favorite Steve-ism, but the driveway was a monster.

He hurt his wrist and left hand in the fall, and I suggested he go to urgent care. He assured me it wasn’t broken, but he was frustrated that it meant he couldn’t play video games. I’m a teacher, Steve was a pharmacist, so I trusted that his medical knowledge exceeded mine.

The kids and I came back to visit on Christmas evening. If you don’t know, Christmas was Steve’s birthday. My youngest had made Steve two drawings, one for his birthday, the other for “Steve-Mas.” Steve was not a fan of having his birthday on Christmas, and Jonas really appreciated that. He wanted to make sure he didn’t give Steve a present that covered both days. People deserve a distinct present on their birthday and Christmas. Especially if they’re on the same day.

 Steve greeted us as we walked in, wearing a shiny suit jacket and Santa hat. He seemed thrilled to have Steve-Mas visitors. He cried when Jonas gave him the two presents, saying “I’m going to keep these for the rest of my life.”

That was the last time my kids got to see him.

I was back a few times over the next week to check in on him, and to continue moving some of my things out. I made a mental note to help him take his Christmas tree after the new year. I tried to make sure he was eating. But if Steve was in the mood to talk, food took a back seat.

Not long after the new year, he mentioned in a Facebook chat with me and Aaron that he had fallen again on the Hitler Driveway, “smashing” his face, and breaking his glasses. He said his face was a bloody enough mess that his phone’s face ID didn’t recognize him.

Again, I suggested a trip to urgent care. But Steve brushed it off, saying he didn’t have a concussion. Again, I deferred to Steve’s medical knowledge, but I was still concerned. My aunt died after hitting her head and seeming fine for hours, before passing in her sleep. The chat between Steve, Aaron, and me continued normally that day, but then Steve’s comments stopped.

I continued setting up my new house, and a few days later I got a message from a friend of Steve’s, saying she hadn’t heard from him for days. That wasn’t like him, he loved chatting with her whenever he got the chance. Steve was normally camped out in front of his TV, which had Facebook on it. Messenger would ding, even if he was watching something or playing a game.

I sent Steve a message. No response. I texted. Nothing. I called and got his voicemail. I sent a message to the group chat with Aaron about the cartoon The Pirates of Dark Water, hoping it would stir Steve with his usual response whenever an obscure show is mentioned: “Of course I have it on DVD/Blu ray/torrented.”

But there was nothing. Steve had told me to keep a key to his house and a garage door opener. I drove across town and entered through the garage. I walked downstairs, hoping to find him sitting in front of his TV. No Steve. I checked the basement, then made my way upstairs. Not in the game room. Not in the living room. Not in the guest room where he occasionally slept. Not in the guest bathroom. Not in the room where I had been staying.

One room left, Steve’s master bedroom. That’s where I met him my best friend again; in his bathroom. No longer the start of a friendship. The final memory of one.

A few days before this, my girlfriend had taken her kids to see “Wicked.” She had gotten close to Steve over the last year. She told me that a scene in the film had reminded her of him. Jeff Goldblum plays the Wizard, and almost any Jeff Goldblum role feels like a very fitting stand-in for our Steve Martin.

Steve wanted us to be happy. He wasn’t a religious man, but in whatever comes next, I hope he is happy. He made so many people happy, and so many of us cared for him.

Please, let the people who care for you know that they are cared for, too.

In the hopes of ending this in a more uplifting way, as mentioned above, Steve had a great ear for music. He put together amazing playlists and ran an awesome Music League game that I hope to revive in his honor at some point.

Here’s a playlist with over 40 hours of Steve songs. It’s a good way to remember him.