I've Never Seen One of Those There Before

Many years ago, I was a waitress in a wonderful establishment, Elmo's Diner. It's a small, locally-owned chain (of two) diners that specialize in all-day breakfast and square meals with an emphasis on a regular clientele. As a server, I was encouraged to make a personal connection with my tables (within reason); the personal touch is part of what makes Elmo's great. I contend it's where I really learned how to flirt. Not nasty, dirty flirting, but building a positive connection with a stranger based on light jokes and a charming smile. (You have to tell me if I was a good student.)

It's been years (7? 8?) since I've worked there, but it's still the first restaurant I visit whenever I'm in Durham (when I was there two summer ago, I ate at Elmo's at least once every day). And there are still some customers that I remember: Pet Fashion Woman and Her Husband, the Man Who Ordered the Big Salad, the Mother Who Said Her Asshole Son Liked Me (In a He Listened to What I Said and Didn't Get Angry at the Help kind of way). And then there was the man with the injured knee.

I've been thinking of him a lot recently, since I injured my own knee in Thailand.

Let me tell you something: I'm a peeler. I could blame my mother for letting us kids peel her burnt back all those years ago, but I think she was just working with what already existed. I was one one those kids who let Elmer's glue dry on her finger so she could peel it off. I spent many a rainy Saturday afternoon that way. I still try to peel my own burns, but I use a lot more sunblock than my mom did back on the early 80s, so my peels never quite reach the same legendary levels that hers did. (To be clear: I draw the line at popping. I'm not one of those people who love popping other people's zits. I might take secret pleasure in a particularly well-popped zit of my own, but not someone else's. Eugh.)

So, I've been a bit infatuated with the growing scab on my knee. I know I can't pick at it, because that would lead to ugly scarring (and I'm also a particularly nasty scarrer), but that doesn't stop me from watching it.

At first, I was obsessed with signs of infection. I did get this injury in a non-Western nation, of course. When I kept the wound covered, the oozing, weepy bit was all nasty-looking. It looked like, well, pus. I knew better, but until I took off the bandage and let it dry out into a scab, it was going to look really bad.

Which brings me back to my story. It was a particularly busy Wednesday night at Elmo's. It's not usually busy on Wednesdays, but my section had been slammed, non-stop. I walked up to one large party of 20-something's. "Ask her," I overheard.

"No way!"

"Ask me what?"

"Well, my friend here injured his knee, and he was writing an email to a friend of his about it. There's a lot of pus on his knee. When he wrote her about it, her response was, 'I've never seen one of those there before.'"

I have to interject, because this is really an aural joke. When you try to make a word an adjective, you often add a "y" or "ie" at the end. Of course, if it's a short vowel sound, you double the consonant before adding the -y or -ie, So a knee covered with pus becomes... A pussy knee.

I originally said that you need a dash to make the word work: a pus-ie knee or even a pus-y knee. I've since decided that it just can't be written. Your knee is either "covered in pus", or it's not.

Now that I've taken off the plaster, my knee no longer looks like there is anything related to pus near it. It has developed a highly pickable scab, however. Here's hoping my Thai tan (read: moderate and controlled burn) starts peeling enough to distract me from picking at it.


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Location:Beijing, China