As most college freshmen are, I was randomly assigned a roommate by an old computer with a terrible sense of irony and humor. Sure, we were told to fill out surveys to gauge our “lifestyle preferences,” checking boxes like “I like a clean room,” “I like to listen to music while I study,” and “I will not stand over my roommate in the middle of the night and whisper lyrics to Whitney Houston’s greatest hits.” But I’m convinced those surveys were simply a tactic to keep us from rioting when we discovered we’d been matched with someone whose “lifestyle preferences” were practically the polar opposite of our own.

A few months before the school year was set to begin, I got an e-mail announcing I’d been matched with a Troy, and promptly found him on Facebook, which revealed nothing beyond the fact that he was graduating from some preparatory private high school in one of the wealthier Chicago suburbs and was also named Troy.

When I walked in on moving day, Troy had already moved all of his belongings into the room, which appeared to be nothing more than a laptop, two thin pillows, and a duvet, which he was sitting atop, his parents on either side of him, all of them in stern silence. They had the appearance of parents who prized stellar grades and nothing else. Troy sat at attention between them. He was a little shorter than me, but smaller in size, with slight muscles hugging his school T-shirt. He had hair closely cropped to his head, and a sort of blank-looking face, like he was already over it all.

“Hey, I’m Matt,” I said. “Nice to meet you.” But before I could get any further, my family came bounding in with boxes, bins, and baskets overflowing with clothes, food, and furniture, my mother barking directions about what would go where before she’d even fully entered the room. There were some eight or nine family members who came as part of my entourage, and they worked like an assembly line, carting in the mini-fridge, hanging clothes, making the bed, disinfecting the carpet, and constructing shelving units that would hold all of the shit I’d brought with me, all while Troy’s family looked on in stunned wonder. By the time they finished, my half of the room looked like a Bed Bath & Beyond catalog had exploded. Troy’s half of the room looked even more depressing in contrast.

We’d only managed to exchange a handful of words, and already I was worried I was making the impression that I was some type of high-maintenance mama’s boy—which was technically true, just not something I was eager to advertise twenty minutes into our introduction.