My Roast Of Steve and Deb

Posted August 28th, 2004 by Sean Williams

Steve began losing his hair right about the same time he started putting on weight. I promised myself I wouldn’t make fun of him for his hair loss or weight gain, so please believe me when I tell you that I mention this only as a point of reference in time, not to mock or point out any kind of shortcomings. It was just strange that his baldness and weight gain would happen at the same time, as if he was given only so much skin and the more it slipped toward his gut, the more stretched out it was on his head.

His pitifully few close friends began to panic, knowing full well that Steve’s method of courting girls was to sit in his bedroom and hope someone cute moved in to his house, and with him moving swiftly out of his “awkwardly cute boy” phase and into his full blown “Holy crap, that poor unfortunate man” phase, we knew we had to do something or he would grow old and alone with only his belly to keep him warm at night.

I had begun dating a girl in New York, whom I honestly believed had recently escaped from an institution, and who, I thought at the time, was living in a half-way house with another spaz from the loonie bin. I’m not sure what it says about me that I sincerely wanted to date a woman I was pretty sure was insane, but it does explain why I wanted to introduce my friend Steve to her room-mate. Surely this poor girl who lived with what I thought were nearly thirty cats and hid dirty dishes under the couch instead of washing them wouldn’t mind the bald fat man that Steve was becoming.

I have a copy of their first emails to one another right here. Please allow me to read…

****

July 1, 1999

Dear Deb,

This is Steve. I like sharks. And anacondas. But sharks are awesome.

Steve

****

July 1, 1999

Dear Steve,

Ohmygod. Okay, seriously, I like sharks too. Except for water sharks. Actually I love all animals, always, except for sloths, because they are lazy, and that’s just not right. I don’t care what anyone says, sloths should get jobs, all of them. Why should sloths just live in zoos and let their trainers feed them? Don’t get me started on sloths.

I think I love you,

Deb

****

July 2, 1999

Dear Deb,

Please send a picture.

Steve.

****

July 3, 1999

Dear Steve,

Here’s a recent headshot of me. I’m an actress. No, seriously, I am. I live for the craft. Although, secretly, a part of me wants more than anything to be a veterinarian. Anyway, enjoy the picture!

Deb

****

July 3, 1999

Dear Deb,

Yowza. I’ve got a ticket to New York on the tenth. I would come earlier but I can’t bring myself to pay full fare. Find out from your doctor if it’s okay to meet with me. Wait, I’m a doctor. Um, it’s okay to meet me!

I think I love you,

Steve.

****

And that’s how this whole sordid thing began.

All kidding aside, what happened next was like something out of a movie. A romantic movie. Steve showed up in New York and, from the second their eyes met, their love was deep and intimate and awe inspiring. Steve spent every moment trying to figure out how to be more entertaining, more resourceful, more romantic, and Amos, of course, responded in kind. (Amos is Deb’s cat). Oh sure, Deb was there and was witness to this borderline illegal relationship, but she had just entered a severe diet designed to shed the extra pounds she carried around her ankles and she was too hungry to protest.

Eventually, Deb and Steve’s devotion to the same animal became a devotion to one another and they decided to take the big step. Moving in to… separate apartments in the same time zone. After all, they might both be crazy, but they aren’t foolish.

After some time, and much prodding from Amos, they threw caution to the wind and moved in together. The apartment had a functioning fireplace into which things were thrown with regularity. I’ll never forget arbitrating for the two of them in those early years, Steve claiming that certain things were “trash” and Deb trying to explain to him that, even if they didn’t work, large electronics weren’t meant to be burned inside the home. But they worked their way through all of that and now here we are today, at the eve of their wedding. Naturally, they wanted their nearest and dearest to be involved, so they decided to ask Mac Rogers to marry them.

Mac Rogers.

A playwright who specializes in brutality to his main characters, about whom respected theater critics have said “who?”, a man who hates children, dogs and minorities, a man about whom my mother said “I just wish he’d keep his damned pants on”, a man who told me that Steve didn’t deserve a girl as foxy as Deb, and then asked me if he could borrow ten bucks. For their reverend they picked total irreverence, combined with an advanced drinking problem and, I’m not making this up, rickets.

I would have been honored to do their wedding, especially since I actually graduated from divinity school and have my own church in Soho that caters mostly to immigrant street walkers, but I guess I understand their decision. And don’t worry guys, Mac told me this morning that he *totally* has some good ideas for the wedding on Sunday.

Am I concerned about their future? No. Not a bit. I know these guys love each other. Am I concerned about their children? No. I’ll be on hand to make sure they wash the dishes and that Steve gives them equal time to play with their own toys. Is it strange that a fat guy would be mentioning how fat Steve is? No. My weight has nothing to do with the fact that Steve is fat. Again, I’m not mocking here, this is strictly informational.

Am I worried that Steve will actually buy a monkey with the money he should be saving for his kids’ college? Yes. Yes, I am.

So please join me in toasting Steve and Deb, Steve for somehow lucking into a lovely woman who adores him and Deb for gut-wrenching bravery. Here’s to you guys.