Jón Gnarr - The Pirate

I came back home from out in the country the same day Vigdis Finnbogadóttir became President of Iceland. It was also the same day that Italian terrorists blew up railway stations in Bologna, killing 85 people, reducing the earth’s population to four billion, four hundred and thirty-four million, six hundred and eighty-two thousand. Icelanders numbered two hundred and twenty-nine thousand, one hundred and eighty-seven of that. Jimmy Carter was president of the United States but was about lose to Ronald Reagan in the presidential election. The Soviets had invaded Afghanistan. The US supported and trained the terrorists who fought against the Soviets. The terrorists would later evolve into the Taliban and seize power in Afghanistan. War would break out between Iran and Iraq. The United States would support Iraq and give them food, money, and weapons. With their support, Saddam Hussein would invade Iran.

Icelanders were just beginning to use credit cards and would go on to take the lead in their use around the world. The Social Democratic Party, which later turned into the Alliance, was in power. The prime minister was called Benedict Gröndal. Inflation in Iceland was at one hundred percent and showed no signs it would stop rising.

None of these issues mattered to me. For me, the world was going to hell no matter what. I had no future. I was unsuccessful. I didn’t fear the future; I just didn’t care about it. I avoided thinking about it. I was killing time. The atomic bomb was waiting to be used and could explode at any moment. It was just a matter of time before the end of the world. Americans had thrown atomic bombs down on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It could happen again. People talked about it. The US military base in Keflavík put us at risk. If there were a war between the US and Russia, the Russians would shoot a nuke at Keflavík Airport. The whole of Reykjanes would burn up. Everyone would die. A shock wave would hit Reykjavík and the houses would collapse. Then the radioactivity would kill those of us who hadn’t died in the explosion.

By now, I’d become a complete punk. One of my first tasks as such had been to go to the pet shop on Grensásvegur and buy a dog collar with spikes — I put it on my neck instead of a hanging rope. Since I had always hated my hair color, I wanted to dye my hair green. Mom forbade that. But because I had repeatedly stuck safety pins through my earlobes and kept getting infections as a result, she agreed I could get a piercing on the condition that I go to a professional in a beauty salon. That was my next task. With a stomachache of anxiety, I sat in a chair in a salon. The beautician first cooled my earlobe with ice. Then she pinched a “gun” on my lobe.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

I held my breath, closed my eyes, and clenched every muscle in my body. I nodded my head.

Much to my surprise, it didn’t hurt at all. I had a real earring! I felt my character grow by half. When I walked out, I felt everyone staring at my ear. Everyone I met stared at my ear. The bus driver stared. I thought I felt the gaze of everyone on the bus directed at my ear. It was amazing! I went through my room and took hold of everything that was childish or not punk. Some of it I threw away; the rest I put in a closet. I hung up the poster of Nina Hagen and the newspaper clippings I’d collected.

Next, I went carefully through my clothes, picking and cutting. I junked most of them. I held onto some jeans, T-shirts, and long-sleeve shirts. I got the jeans and rubbed at the knees with coarse sandpaper until the material gave out and I had ripped knees. I cut the cuffs off the long-sleeved shirts. Then I went over everything with black markers and drew an A in a circle here and there and wrote “Anarchy” and band names I felt were right.

But I needed a decent coat. Punks didn’t usually wear windbreakers. They had leather jackets. Problem was, I didn’t own one. I called Óli for information on where I could get a leather jacket cheap. Óli said I could have his brother Friðjón’s old leather jacket. I ran over to his house in my newly-cut T-shirt and got my jacket. It wasn’t a real leather jacket; it was made of artificial leather. And it wasn’t black, but brown, with cuffs. It wasn’t the right style, but beggars obviously can’t be choosers. I cut the cuffs off it and tore off the toggle that adjusted the fit.

I put on my gear and went to where Mom sat playing solitaire.

“Good God! What have you done now, child?”

“This is punk,” I said resolutely.

Mom sighed deeply and shook her head.

“Can I have some money?”

She went back to solitaire and said, downcast as usual:

“Ask your Dad.”

That was something I wanted to avoid at all costs.

“I can’t be bothered to talk to him. Can’t you let me have some money?”

“Why do you need money?”

She didn’t look up from her game.

“I want to buy patches and an album.”

“What will it cost?”

I mentioned the amount. Mom thought for a while, then heaved a sigh and got to her feet. She took out her wallet and handed me the money.

“Here you go.”

“Thank you.”

I was grateful not to have to talk to Dad and ask him for money. He would never let me have money to buy patches or albums. I had to lie to him that I was going to the movies, then stretch out my hand towards him and let him hold me there in his firm grip, stroking my cheek as he whispered and muttered something I couldn’t hear although I nodded my head anyway and smiled in a friendly way like I was a really good kid. He’d even started talking about the break-in and how inconvenient it was for him, and I had to promise not to do it again. And I promised beautifully, not because I meant it, but because I was suffocating and wanted to get away from him as quickly as I could.

I took the bus down to Hlemmur and went to the only store on Laugavegur that sold tags. It was a variety store, specializing in products for kids and teenagers. An old Arab ran the shop. It stocked everything between heaven and earth, all kinds of fashion clothes, posters, spiked belts, patches, logos, and incense — but also stink bombs and practical jokes. I’d often been to this store, usually just to look around and fantasize. Sometimes I bought things. Once I bought a fake turd. That was a source of endless pleasure until it was confiscated by teachers at school. I’d also often bought stink bombs, which I then threw through windows or put through the mail slots of people who had annoyed me.

The store had wised up to this new era and had become a true punk heaven. It had everything a punk could have dreamed of: pants that had been torn apart and put back together with safety pins and real leather jackets with thick, red linings. And patches. On one side were cloth patches you sewed onto your clothes and on the other breastpins or brooches you pinned to yourself.

I looked at everything carefully and asked the prices. The Arab responded in his exotic accent with a wise, patient demeanor.

After much speculation, I bought a Crass patch with the anarchy sign to sew on my clothes and three small buttons: one that said SEX PISTOLS, one that said FUCK THE SYSTEM, and one with a picture of The Clash. Then I bought several iron spikes to attach to my clothes. I couldn’t afford any more since I also had to buy an album. I fastened the iron spikes to my leather jacket, put on my buttons, and sauntered out to the record shop.