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There was nothing to be nervous about.
"Let's get you another one of those," the Hispanic man said and signaled to the bartender.
We began chatting as I sipped on another glass of alcohol.
The man sitting on my left was a tall, thin black man named Curtis. He had gone to Columbia and was now an accountant by day. He was clearly very intelligent and witty, and confident in himself.
On my right was Greg, who had gone to BYU as a baseball player and become a Mormon missionary before leaving and finding a new life as a high-school gym teacher. He had dirty blonde hair and light blue eyes. He was the shortest of the group, and also probably the most reserved.