The Scream: Flash Fiction by Shashi Itai

She wasn’t afraid of death. On the contrary. As she stood on the tip of her toes to reach the bottle of Shoprite aspirin for pain relief, she steadied herself. Sympathetic smiles, pats on her back, acknowledgements, commiseration with what her Dr. refers to as, “teenage angst,” “youth in turmoil.”  

As a matter of fact, Rabbi Nadler used this catch-all for last week’s sermon…….”youth in turmoil.”  The image of “The Scream” had made her giggle because suddenly, Edvard Munch’s subject had thick glasses and a yarmulke.  The Scream held out the book, “Man’s Search for Meaning” which she had given a book report on, to the Temple Beth Or Junior Sabbath Congregation, last fall.  She mentally tallied up her mitzvah points; she was rack’n them up. 

Rabbi Nadler’s pimple-pocked son drowned his angst in some kick a poo joy juice, until he was singing in a Southern Baptist falsetto, I HAVE A FRIEND IN JESUS.  This happened every Saturday night, at the AZA, co-ed Shabbos get together, with Rabbi Mandelbaum, held in Aisches Chayil of Kew Gardens, Queens. 

Many Israeli guys showed up in hopes the philosophical whining of American Jewish identity would turn into a more upbeat pastime like hide the salami. Whether it was an Israeli horndog, or a Yeshiva Boucher focused on the breasts of Anita Mandelbaum, the Rabbi’s daughter, I felt like Kafka, looking in.  I wore my black smock top and Fred Braun shoes to signify my morose, but sensitive side. Inevitably, instead of being a beau magnet, the one lunatic would take a look at me, come over and in a throaty voice pronounce me as a cross between the Madonna and a Whore. 

“Did you meet anyone, Lisa?” 

“Yeah mom…” One for the books, but I don’t know which chapter to name it. Why can’t I fit in like everyone else and be normal? Or – Wish I were as pretty and vapid as Carla Siegelbaum, or Why was I born with a Mensa I.Q. and Jewish calves that are more like cows and can’t fit into a normal zippered boot?

“Yeah mom.  It was great.” Thank dad for driving, he really shouldn’t drive at night you know. He can’t see shit.  I wish I were lucky enough to be standing in his driveway, stunned by the brights he was inadvertently driving with the whole 45 minutes home. 

My mom was thumbing through the Star Magazine, where most of her friends were fictional. She would say, “That Burt Reynolds, he’s really a regular guy.” 

Why the fuck do I care about his bowel movements?! My mother really put herself out on a limb – “I think Dinah Shore really loved him, but wouldn’t marry him because she couldn’t have children, too old….”

I reach for the Shoprite pain relievers. Death is not to be feared. I always thought of it as a safety net. If things get tooooooooo bad, I can always end the pain. I thought of my English Honors class with Philip Steinberg. He would stand there and lecture us, with his belt buckle affixed to the side. What symbolism was that?  Willy Lohman, from Death of a Salesman, reminded me of my father.  He came home from work and sat down at the dining room table with a stapler and stacks of Blue Cross Blue Shield insurance forms to fill out – Dr. Shneck’s psychiatric bills, Dr. Fisher’s diabetic clinic bills, valium, insulin, needles, testers from Zaray’s Pharmacy. Hours and hours of keeping track from who and where the reimbursements were coming. 

Is this the life that awaits me?  I’d rather bail out now, than risk the thought of having a daughter just like me who listened to Leonard Cohen and the warblings of Buffy St Marie and Melanie.  My father would ask, “Lisa, is that you singing?”

 “No, dad, it’s Melanie.” 

“WELL THEN, FOR CHRISSAKE WOULD YOU SHUT THAT CRAP OFF! I’M GETTING AN EMBOLISM BY CHOICE, ALREADY. “

Well dad, it was either MY music, or Mom’s accolades on the cure-all, Vitamin C of Dr Linus Pauling. Choose your vein constrictor….

My father’s only outlet besides keeping meticulous insurance files was going to Shoprite and collecting unsliceable cheese ends from the Appy dept. They put them aside for him, intact with their flags. When he died in a fatal car accident, the counter  people hung the cheese flags at half mast.

I wish my mom would get out and make real friends; I wish my dad had some kind of passion. 

The cotton gauze came out easy enough, but there was a problem with my plans.  There were no pain relievers to be found. Empty. Who could play a joke like this?!  G-d – a quality control prank?! My parents?! I careened down the hall to where my parents were.

“DID YOU THROW ALL THE ASPRIN OUT OF THE BOTTLE? DID YOU?  DID YOU KNOW I WANTED TO DOWN THE WHOLE BOTTLE TO BLOCK OUT MY PAIN FOREVER?” 

My dad looked up from the newspaper and said, “If you had a headache, you just need to take two.”  My mother sighed with knowledge.