It was that first day in his apartment, while perusing his vinyls, that I noticed he had Sufjan Stevens’s Illinois. I held it dearly to my chest, turned and faced him, and said, “You do realize this is the greatest album of all time, right?”

Roscoe chuckled. “Are you just saying that because it’s called Illinois and you live in Illinois?”

It was a fair enough question. But it was also pure coincidence. Illinois was a vision of pure genius. A transcendental work of art. It was lush and strange, jaunty and whimsical, epic and challenging. In their review for Illinois, NME magazine called Sufjan “a brainy little fucker.” He literally immersed himself in the “Prairie State.” Studied its lore like a sacred text. The entire album was teeming with bizarre facts and fascinating history. Sufjan was a genius, to be sure, and blisteringly clever, but, above all else, the album was brimming with heart.

It was a fucking symphony—a triumph—of the human condition.

I could have said all of this. But for the sake of not sounding like the nerd that I obviously was, I said, “Screw you. This album is the shit.”

“Okay, okay!” said Roscoe, hands raised in playful defense. “Just trying to gauge how hipster you are.”

“I prefer ‘cultured,’” I said, air-quoting. “Sounds less douchey.”

Long story short, Roscoe and I were a couple of cool cats.

But today was different.

When Roscoe answered the door, he was wearing a maroon dress shirt, dark slacks, and a tie. Even his hair was combed—slicked back and to the side, unleashing mild anarchy at the nape of his neck.

Not once in the history of ever had I seen Roscoe’s hair combed.

I glanced down at myself—above-the-knee jean shorts, flip-flops, and an off-the-shoulder, oversized hot-pink sweatshirt that said RAD.

“I feel underdressed,” I said.

“What?” said Roscoe. “No, you’re fine! Come in.”

He gestured me in just a little too enthusiastically. I reluctantly followed. The first thing I saw was that his normal dining table—a small disk on a single leg—had been transformed into something majestic. White tablecloth, candlelight, china, and the sort of silverware setup that involved multiple forks. A soft and swoony song with a hint of banjo was playing in the background for ambience—Sufjan, of course. “For the Widows in Paradise, for the Fatherless in Ypsilanti.”

Something was up. So very, very up.

Something also smelled freaking delicious. Suddenly, it was all I could think about.

“Whoa,” I said. I sniffed the air like a bloodhound. “What is that?”

Roscoe grinned. “That is Berner platte. Here. Sit.”

He graciously pulled my seat out for me. I sat—suddenly entranced with the spectacle of everything. There were so many forks!

“What do you do with three forks?” I asked.

Roscoe chuckled. “The basic rule is you start with the outside cutlery and move inward.”

“How many things are we eating?”

“Oh, a few.”