One evening when I was 16, after surfing Holyoke Avenue (RIP), my friend’s older sister asked us to transport a “party ball” to someone’s house in our van, essentially a small plastic keg of beer. Our 17-year old driver agreed, even though the party ball had already been opened. His sister was hot, so I would have smuggled uranium if she asked us to. The van only had two seats and when the party ball started leaking, we were essentially sitting in a pool of beer that sloshed with every turn.