As we walked toward the corner of Juniper and 108th, the bright glow of the streetlight made it even harder for us to keep from swaying. There were three of us, Jose Varela, Jose Villalobos, and myself, Jose Nunez, trying to decide which way to go. Varela, the oldest, swayed and yelled, “Ya fools are drunk as hell!” Villalobos giggled and stomped toward Varela and scolded him. “What you expect? We just drank a 40 of Old E.” Varela pushed him away. “Shut your ass up before I knock you out.” Villalobos put his hands up and threw a couple of punches. “What’s up? You want some? Come get some, homes. What, you scared? Chabala. Ranker. Leva. That’s what I thought, punk.” We all laughed. I stood there quietly with my hands in my pocket searching for change that I knew I didn’t have. “I thought we were going to a party?” It was past midnight and our only option was up the street toward the music coming from a parked car. Varela led the …