On the night of Chinese New Year’s Eve I went to the Shed, where I joined a birthday party for Curtis’s friend Abby. It being New Year’s, everyone had bought fireworks to set off. We went outdoors to a corner and started lighting ours. There were also people in front of the Anus Hospital (now disappointingly called the Colorectal Hospital) setting off a bunch. All of a sudden, one of their fireworks toppled over and shot into us. It hit my coat, bounced up, hit a guy named Ryan in the leg and the hand, and hit K. in the face. He was holding his eye, which made everyone really scared. Luckily, it had missed his eye, but only by about one inch. It took off some skin right next to his eyebrow, so he was bleeding a little. This was actually the first fireworks mishap I’ve ever seen.
This guy, K., seems to have terrible luck with injuries, so it’s interesting he was the one that was hurt. When riding a motorcycle in Shanghai he wiped out in a crosswalk and broke his arm, and when riding near the border of Mongolia he wrecked and broke his leg (or maybe it was vice versa).
I’ve called this guy K. because he goes by a very unusual nickname, and I haven’t asked his permission to write about him here. I’m not sure why he goes by that particular name, but anything would be better than his real one. His grandma was a fascist and wanted him to be named after Adolf Hitler. His parents were like, “No way!” However, when his mom was doped up on painkillers after giving birth to him, his grandmother raced to the nurses’ station to fill out the paperwork, put Adolfo on his birth certificate, and he’s been stuck with it ever since. Apparently it’s very awkward whenever he crosses a European border.