March 3, 2005 is a day that will live in infamy with The Stevo. No, there was no sneak attack, unless you count The Fates: The Stevo’s constant nemesis, up to their mischievous tricks.

I had been a resident of mainland China for 6 days. I was settling into a routine in my new country, albeit slowly. Jetlag, strange foods and languages, continuous stares, and rain conspired to keep a good man down. My lunch hour was three hours long, something I never complained about. The now-infamous event occurred while I was walking back to my office, perched on the fourth floor of the library building, after the 180 minute midday break.

I cut into a side stairwell, leaving the main ascent 100 meter further away. Up four flights and across a large, empty common room was my desk. After an email or two I’d see my only afternoon class. Then, a bed awaited, an attempt to sort my jetlag and teaching-related exhaustion.

I sometimes think that if the Great Wall were constructed today it would be made from white, industrial tile. It’s everywhere in China, a constant like chopsticks or green onion pancakes. No one told me that wet industrial tile is a lot like black ice. You would think that nugget of information would be prominently featured in the orientation package, with currency exchange rates and instructions on how to run a Chinese washing machine.

I wasn’t thinking anything in particular when it happened. I took a step, something I had done countless times in my then-34 years. I remember a loud snap, like a breaking tree branch and finding myself laying on my left side, my left foot unnaturally against my left hip.

I’ll admit to screaming. There might have even been profanity. The water on the tile soaked through my clothes. I was a pretzel. My leg would not return to its natural state.

I was Humpty Dumpty without the King’s horses and men. You would think that on a campus of 6000 people someone would always be around. You thought wrong.

Taking a deep breath, and offering agnostic prayers, I wrenched my leg back into position. There was a reciprocal snap and another scream.

Somehow, I struggled to my feet after crawling across the tiles to the stairs. I had no cell phone. It was up four flights, or return to laying on the tiles. Using a bizarre kangaroo-like hopping method I made it to the top, after several rest stops. It was cold, still winter, and I was sweating like a mad bastard.

The glass door on the fourth floor landing led to the open room, my office just beyond. The stairwell was used by smokers to catch a hit of nicotine between classes. The door was never locked.

Almost never.

Never, except for one lunch hour in March of 2005. I could see the office door through the glass. I knocked. I yelled. I banged on the glass like the desperate man I was.

There was no response.

I wanted to cry, but wouldn’t give The Fates that satisfaction.

The entire time I was thinking: Great, now I have to return to Canada. That was my luck: If I didn’t have bad luck I’d have none at all. I thought about Chinese hospitals and if local doctors knew about arthroscopic surgery. I though my adventure, my new life, was over before it began.

Down four flights I went. Up four more to the office’s main door. At the top I wanted to weep with both relief and pain. My left knee was on fire. There seemed to be lava smeared from thigh to calf. Each step I took produced Jim Carrey-like facial contortions and audible groans.

It didn’t end there. I went back down the stairs on my way to the school clinic.

I went home and partook of the codeine that had traveled with me to the Middle Kingdom. It wasn’t over, only beginning.

coming soon: Part II: now

image: The Fates In Their FInery  by Theresa Lucero