I've Never Seen One of Those There Before

I walked away from the dermatologist with ointments and creams and medicine: I refuse the IV antibiotics crap. I keep with my nice, easy, once-a-day Levofloxacin tablets. I use the weird, brown "soften the tissue" cream once, but it's too difficult to make sure I'm only getting around the wound and impossible to do at school. I change the dressing often — three or four times a day. The wound is, of course, weeping pus. Which is totally gross, especially when it leaks through the bandage and starts running down my leg in the middle of class, but it's far better than keeping it in my body. This is one of those rare moments when pus is a good thing.

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? 10?) 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 Respected Me. And then there was the Man with the Injured Knee.

As I walked up to his table, I heard, "Go on. Ask her."

"No way. I can't."

"Ask me what?"

It turns out, he had injured his knee and there was all this pus. He was emailing his friend to tell her about it. Her reply was, "I've never seen one of those there before." So, how do you spell that adjective that describes something covered with pus?

I thought it needed a dash. Pus-ie. Or maybe even pus-y. But definitely not pusie or pusy, and certainly not pussy. Nope. Not at all.

I have since decided it just can't be written. They all look funny and none of them sound like you'd say it. So, while I have been disgusting my colleagues with tales of pus in the adjective form, I won't tell you about it in that way.

No, for you, Gentle Reader, I will talk about the pus weeping from my wound, or leaking out of the cyst, or dripping down my leg. But I guarantee, for all the drama caused by my infection, I don't have one of those there.



P.S. One of my colleagues is totally enamored with my Tales of Pus. He's a middle school teacher (big surprise there), and a dude (another surprise) of the sporting kind (and again, surprise). He told me guys used to get infections all the time during football because they wouldn't wash their pads for weeks on end. He has been begging me to take pictures of the thing, and really wants video footage of the lancing. His wife is far less interested, but it's nice to have someone to listen attentively to my grossness. (That I love telling the tales is probably an indication of why I get along with guys so well.)

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Location:Beijing, China