Snot

A father and son are sitting at a desk in an acupuncturist’s treatment room, waiting.
The acupuncturist comes in.
He’s Chinese.
He sits down behind the desk.
In strangely accented English, he asks the son to put his hands on the desk.
The Chinese acupuncturist puts his fingers on the son’s arms and closes his eyes, then asks the son to stick out his tongue.
The son sticks it out defiantly.
The Chinese acupuncturist nods and asks the son to lie down on the treatment bed.
The son lies down on the bed and closes his eyes.
The father asks if the son should take off his clothes.
The acupuncturist shakes his head.
He takes some long, thin needles out of his desk drawer and starts sticking them in the son.
One behind each ear.
One in each cheek, close to the nose.
One on each side of his forehead, close to the eye.
The son moans quietly, his eyes still closed.
Now, says the acupuncturist to father and son, we have to wait.
And after the treatment, asks the father, will he feel better?
The acupuncturist shrugs and walks out.
The father goes over to the bed and puts a hand on his son’s shoulder.
The son’s body contracts.
When the son was being stuck with needles, his body didn’t contract, but now it does.
Half an hour later, the Chinese acupuncturist comes back and pulls each needle out in one swift movement  
He tells the father and the son that the boy’s body is responding to the treatment, and that’s a good sign. Now there will no longer be snot.
As proof, he points to the spots where the needles were inserted. There is a red circle around each one.
Then he sits down behind the desk.
The father sits down across from him and asks how much the treatment costs.
He had planned to ask before the treatment, but forgot.
The acupuncturist says 350 shekels and then tells him that there is medication the son has to take after eating, and that costs another hundred.
The acupuncturist explains that the boy needs a series of treatments. At least ten. Every day except Saturday.
The acupuncturist adds that it would be better if they could do the treatment on Saturday too, but he doesn’t work Saturdays because his wife won’t let him.
“Wife” is almost the only word he says in Hebrew during the whole treatment, “wife” and “snot.”
When he says “wife,” the father feels a terrible sense of loneliness.
Then the father has a strange idea.
He wants to tell the acupuncturist that he has to use the bathroom and then, after locking the door behind him, he’ll masturbate into the toilet.
He thinks that will bring him some relief from that sense of loneliness. He’s not sure.
In Chinese medicine, sperm is considered a form of energy. When you ejaculate it, you are weakened, and that’s why it isn’t recommended. Especially when you’re weak to begin with.
The father doesn’t know any of that, but he gives up on the idea anyway. Loneliness is hard for him, but he doesn’t feel comfortable leaving his son alone with the Chinese acupuncturist.
Every day except Saturday, the acupuncturist repeats. He thinks the father wasn’t listening the first time.
The father pays with new bills. Exactly four hundred and fifty. No change necessary.
They make an appointment for the next day.
On the way to the door, the Chinese acupuncturist says in Hebrew, “Be well, you two.”
The son thinks it’s weird for the acupuncturist to say that. After all, he’s the only one who’s sick.
The father doesn’t notice it. He’s thinking about something else.
“Wife,” “snot,” “be well, you two.”
“Be well, you two,” “snot,” “wife.”
There’s nothing stranger than hearing a Chinese man speak Hebrew.

Translated by Sondra Silverston.