Snot Girl and Booger Boy

Chapter 2: The Snot Awakens

One Spring, when Theodore and Eleanor were three or four years old, they started to sniff and snort, cough and sneeze, and become a bit sickly.

Robert noticed the twins seemed a little less rowdy and a little more whiny, and, glancing over the top of his newspaper one evening, said to Marjorie, “Perhaps they should see a doctor.” Of course, what Theodore was really saying was, “Perhaps you should take them to a doctor.”

Marjorie glanced up from her knitting (she always seemed to be knitting, but it was unclear that she ever knitted anything). “Or you could,” but then, hearing Robert’s small grunt, added, “Of course, Dear.”

So, the next morning, Marjorie bundled the twins up and belted them into their car seats in the back of her rusty, smoky, noisy old Checker (the one she bought from the city with her own money, thankyouverymuch) and drove to Doctor Billit’s office in town. It was nice to be out of the house, and even though Robert got to drive “the good car” because he “brought home the bacon,” the Checker was roomy and safe and, despite the smoke, reliable and easy to drive.

Marjorie smiled as she remembered Robert telling her he got to drive the good car because he brought home the bacon. Robert didn’t even eat bacon because of his blood pressure and being Jewish. Anyway, the good car (an underpowered late-model Melrose Sport two-seater) wasn’t that good, and certainly not good enough for a family.

Marjorie walked into the doctor's office with her pocketbook in her left hand, Eleanor holding her right hand, and Theodore holding Eleanor’s right hand. Unlike ducklings who follow in a line behind their mother, Marjorie kept the twins close to her—and to each other—because they tended to wander. She’d once lost them for a moment in a department store and had no desire to repeat that fiasco.

The elderly receptionist registered their presence without looking up from her work and said, “Good morning. What time is your appointment?”

Marjorie hesitated. “We don’t have an appointment. My daughter is very sick, and my—”

The receptionist looked up at Marjorie, and with the tiniest shake of her head, said, “You need an appointment.” Then she looked down again.

Marjorie looked around the empty waiting room, and as Eleanor barked a very loud, wet sneeze at the receptionist’s desk, said, “I’m sorry, but my daughter is very sick, and my—”

The receptionist sighed as she set her work aside and looked back at Marjorie. “Sit over there, and I’ll see if we can work you in.” Then, glancing at Eleanor's overflowing nose, said, “Do you need a tissue?” and then, grimacing as Eleanor made a long, bubbling sniffing sound, handed Marjorie the entire box.

Marjorie sat in the middle of a row of uncomfortable plastic chairs with a twin on each side of her and waited while Eleanor sneezed and snotted her way through most of the box of tissues while Theodore sniffed and cleared his throat and paged through a copy of Highlights magazine. Marjorie could have sworn it was the same copy she’d paged through in this very office when she was a little girl, but that couldn’t be right. Could it?

After a few moments, Marjorie looked at the receptionist, who had immediately returned to her work after their conversation. “Excuse me,” she said. The receptionist, with a sigh, raised her index finger at Marjorie as she picked up the telephone and spoke into it.

“You have a patient, Doctor.” Then, with a withering glance at Marjorie, “No, sir. They have no appointment.”

In barely the space of a breath, Doctor Billit appeared in the doorway next to the receptionist’s desk.

“Good morning!” he said brightly to Marjorie, and then, nodding at the twins, “Come right in!”

© 2026 Brian G Parker