Jón Gnarr - The Pirate

So I sat there evening after evening and put myself through endless suffering in order to find answers to the mystery of life. My anarchist tags and buttons became the source of endless comments.

“Are you an anarchist?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t know what anarchism is!”

“Sure.”

“What is it?”

“It means being left alone and doing what you want without the police or the authorities messing with you. It’s about being against all the rules.”

“Against all the rules? Are you against traffic regulations, too?”

“Errr, yes.”

“So, can someone in a car just drive into you if you’re on the sidewalk?”

“Errr, no…”

“You don’t know what anarchism is at all.”

“Yes, it’s being left alone by idiots like you.”

I usually ended up helpless. My basic knowledge of anarchism didn’t allow for debate. I went back to the library and pored over the books on anarchism. I stored the key names and theories in my memory and decided that I probably wasn’t a Bakuninist but rather a Proudhonist. Next time I was asked if I was an anarchist, I was on top of things:

“Yes, I’m a Proudhonist.”

This was a completely new tactic.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a theory within anarchism that’s named after Pierre Joseph Proudhon.”

Proudhon got me neatly out of any discussion of anarchy. People got the impression that I’d done my homework. If that failed, then I dropped in Bakunin’s name, referring to the conflict between their theories. After that, they stopped looking at me like some kind of half-wit, and more as a mentally disturbed genius. But although that tactic stopped debate, it didn’t stop the Morons. They didn’t care how much I knew about Proudhon or Bakunin or anarchism. They just thought it was fun to pick on me.

I tried to avoid Alli if I could. If we were both together, the tormenting was so much worse. We were on sale, two for one, ripe to be bullied. It didn’t improve things that I was the son of a cop and Alli was a teacher’s son. The Morons for some reason found it more fun tormenting Alli than me. Sometimes they got at him and left me more or less in peace. He also took the teasing more personally than I did and got angry. That was, of course, grist to the Morons’ mill, and they got all the more provoked and excited. I didn’t get stirred up. I didn’t care, even when Coke was poured over me and used chewing gum thrown at me. I had a goal. I was on a secret spy mission. My assignment was to gather data about punk. And if this was part of my martyrdom, so be it. When I’d got to know more punks, we’d get together a big clique, and no one would dare do anything to us. One day, punks would control everything.

The only person I spoke to was Eiki the Druggie. He was a disabled kid who was three years older than me. He was called Eiki the Druggie because he was always so stupid that it was like he was always on drugs. I liked Eiki. We had often played together when we were small and knew each other well. I had more in common with him than most others. There was some mysterious force connecting us. We were both outsiders. Deviations from the norm. The genius and the imbecile.

Finally, the evening came when the year-long toil yielded the desired result. Siggi the Punk came into Bústaðir. He was even more magnificent than I’d imagined. He was really thin and withered and a whole head shorter than me. His dark hair was cropped and patchy. He’d evidently cut it himself. It was obvious that everyone had a lot of respect for him. Even the worst of the Morons went and talked to him and asked him for news. He was tactful and reserved, speaking low, answering questions, and sucking in through his nose. Then he came and sat on the couch. I stared at him. This was the first real punk I’d met and the first person I’d found who was more punk than me. He had a dog collar around his neck, and his leather jacket was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. It was black and sewn together from a number of smaller leather pieces. A leather jacket like that was a real possession. His jeans were torn into pieces from the knees up to mid-thigh and scrawled all over with black marker. On his feet he wore tattered army boots. He must have been sixteen or seventeen years old. His eyes were dull and dreaming. He smelled of strong patchouli perfume. That was something I’d have to get hold of for myself. He looked at me. I was totally paralyzed by fear and didn’t dare speak to him.

“Hey,” he said.

My heart surged. He’d said hello to me!

“Hey,” I said, absolutely rigid with admiration.

We fell silent.

“Siggi, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, and hocked.

I couldn’t think of anything else to say. What kind of idiot was I? What could I say, really?! Mostly, it was absolutely invaluable for me just to get to watch him and to observe. One of the employees came over and said hello to him. He was very respectful. He was apparently well liked by everyone. I noticed that he had a speech impediment and struggled to say gl - or cl -; he said tlothes instead of clothes and dlasses instead of glasses. I was determined to practice so I could speak the same way. When the employee went he turned to me:

“Got a cigarette?”

“Yes,” I said and picked up the crumpled pack of Winstons I’d stolen from my mother. I smoked at most one or two cigarettes a day, so a pack was enough to last me a month. I smoked more to be tough than out of any need.

We went outside and smoked. I read all the writing on his pants and checked out the patches on the jacket. He just had two patches: Anarchism and Crass. He showed little interest in me but just stared right ahead, empty and indifferent.

“I bought a Stiff Little Fingers album the other day,” I said, to say something.

“Yeah,” he said, indifferent.

There was no curiosity in his voice. It was like I’d reported something that was common knowledge, that didn’t matter. How could it be unimportant to have bought the Stiff Little Fingers album?

“They’re very good,” I added.

He was silent and just smoked. Now and then he sucked through his nose and spat. He didn’t seem to have a cold. It was more like a tic.

“What music do you listen to?” I asked, curiously.

He didn’t answer immediately.

“I don’t listen to bubblegum,” he declared in a low voice.

Bubblegum? I’d no idea what that meant. Bubblegum? Were they some band I’d never heard of? I desperately wanted to ask but didn’t dare expose my ignorance. So I nodded like I completely understood. Maybe this was a New Wave group? Definitely.

“I don’t listen to New Wave,” I said, just to be sure.

He said nothing, just sucked in through his nose.

“Some punks listen to Adam Ant and The Police,” I added, to make sure he didn’t think I did that sort of thing.

“That’s not punk,” he muttered.

“No,” I echoed.

He was the first person I’d met who shared this understanding with me. Something wonderful was happening. We finished smoking and stubbed out the ends.

“Shall we go back inside?” I asked.

“No, I just came in to get a cigarette.”

“Okay…”

“I’m heading home. Want to come?”

I hardly believed my ears. Siggi the Punk was inviting me to his house? Were we becoming friends? He was accepting me?

“Yes, yes,” I said, trying not to sound too eager.

Siggi lived in a terraced house in Smáíbúðahverfinu. His mother, a short and fat old woman, greeted us as we entered.

“You’re home, Sigurður?”

Siggi slammed the front door with all his might.

“Shut the fuck up, hag!”

I reacted more than his mother. She seemed used to him speaking to her that way. That was something I had so often longed to tell my dad but never dared. And I had never dared say anything remotely similar to my mother. Mom never lectured me about anything. What little she said was usually spot-on. I followed Siggi into his room. I said hi to his mother on the way. She didn’t answer me, just looked at me angrily. He closed the door and locked it with a key.