Kiwi and Cocaine

Halfway into my Disneyland internship, somewhere around ten Brazilians moved into our Disney dorms and started working alongside the rest of us interns.

I took a liking to them them right away... didn't know them as well as I would have wanted, I'll admit. But they knew how to party.

I should note that I'm not much of a partier, but I love new company. And they were fun to be around.

Among the Brazilians was guy that I ended up spending the most time with. He'll remain unidentified for his own privacy, but let's call him "Hank", for simplicity's sake.

One night, Hank invited me downstairs from my 5th floor corner apartment to one of his boisterous Brazilian bashes.

There was something different about the way the Brazilians threw their parties. We all lived in one building, five floors tall, so it was hard to not know where and how everyone partied. The following are nicknames I'm giving them now: There were the "Kings" in room 400 with their castle made of beer cans. There were the "Saints" in 506 (literally the nicest people I've ever met) with their innocent, but euphorically fun board and video game nights. There was also a room that threw a party the first week with a view of Disneyland's fireworks.

Hank's party had none of these things. Hank's party didn't even have a window. But when you were at Hank's party, you felt like you were at a rave. At least, I did.

"You want a drink?" Hank asked me over the degrading American music.

"Yeah. What have you got?"

"I'll make you the special. You've never had this before. Trust me," which sounds suspicious.

Hank went behind the bar and mixed some stuff.

"Try this," he said as he handed me a grainy concoction of green slime in a shot glass, "It's a kiwi shot."

It looked like this minus the cuke.

We smiled, clinked our glasses, and I took the shot.

I have never felt so juiced in my life. The normal confident, drowsy, drunk feeling that comes with a heavy shot didn't affect me the way it should have. I wasn't tired. I didn't feel drunk. I was feeling something else that made me feel wired. More confident than a normal person should be, too. I felt invincible and quick, like a bolt of lightning. So I did what anyone in my position would have done-- I ran downstairs, out of the lobby, around the corner to Vons, and bought a jar of peanut butter.

Once I ran back to my apartment, I ecstatically crafted a sandwich, ate it voraciously, and made my way back to the party. I don't believe I was gone more than twenty minutes. Then again, I'm convinced I was on crack-time, and I don't know how that conversion normally works.

I don't have proof as to whether or not Hank laced my drink with something stronger than booze. I'm not even concerned. But the next day, I ran into one of our mutual friends-- a well known party animal-- and he mentioned something about a kiwi drink the night before.

"Did Hank make it for you?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, "I don't know what he put in that shit, but he must have put cocaine in it or something."