Jón Gnarr - The Pirate

“Gnarled old crone,” he muttered.

His room was a little cubbyhole with a single bed. The walls were scrawled over with anarchist symbols and all kinds of slogans. Above the bed hung an upside-down cross; under it had been written in black ink “JESUS DIED FOR HIS OWN SINS, NOT MINE.” Over the tiny window hung a dirty sheet. The room was dark and dirty and covered with rubbish, newspapers, comic books, and empty cigarette packets. On the bed was a giant ashtray packed with cigarette butts. The patchouli smell was overwhelming and hung in the air like a thick cloud. Siggi sucked in through his nose and spat on the floor. Spat on the floor in his own room! I made a mental note of that. This I was going to try! Then he went over to the record player and put an album on the turntable. A piercing guitar-screech and fast drum rhythms resounded from the single small speaker. The singer screamed so fast that you couldn’t work out any of the words except an occasional “fuck,” “system,” and “death.” I liked it a lot.

“Which band is this?” I asked, full of expectation.

“Discharge,” he replied without looking at me.

I nodded like I knew absolutely who that was and tried to store the name in my memory. Siggi took a pipe out of his ashtray and began to scrape the ash from inside with a pocketknife made from the aluminum foil out of a cigarette packet.

“Want a pipe?”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Scratch.”

“Is it hash?” I asked, surprised.

I had never seen hash before, let alone smoked it.

“Scratch,” he said again.

Here I had to admit my ignorance.

“What’s that?”

“It’s hash that has already been smoked.”

Huh? Hash that has been smoked but that you can somehow smoke again. Ash from previously smoked hash. I was happy to try it. I was willing to try anything. My life up to this point had been pointless.

“Do you have a cigarette?”

I handed him a cigarette. He tore it into pieces, crumbled the tobacco into the aluminium foil, and mixed it with the ash. He held the foil in the air and heated it over a lighter flame. Then he tipped everything into the pipe and lit it. He took a big hit. He held the smoke inside and handed me the pipe. The bitter smoke burned my throat, and I was coughing. Siggi blew out and took the pipe.

“You’ve got to keep it in if you’re going to get high.”

He took another hit of the pipe and handed it back. I took a small drag and held it down inside. We took turns smoking until there was nothing left but ashes. Siggi threw himself on his bed and put his hand over his eyes. I sat on the end of the bed and waited for something to happen, for euphoria to pour over me. Nothing. Discharge just kept screaming from the player.

“They’re good,” I said.

He did not answer.

“Siggi?”

“Huh?” he murmured.

He seemed to be asleep. I sat on the bed, embarrassed, waiting for something to happen, until I realized that nothing was in the cards.

“I’m thinking about just going home.”

“Yes,” he said.

He obviously had no intention of getting up and following me out, so I just went.

“Bye,” I said before I closed the door.

He didn’t answer and was apparently asleep. I said goodbye to his mother on the way out. She didn’t answer me, but instead looked at me with contempt in her eyes. It was midnight but still bright and warm. I walked home, where my mother greeted me with hands on hips.

“Why are you home so late?”

“Uhh, I just am.”

“Where have you been?”

“Bústaðir.”

“Why were they open so late?”

“A table tennis competition,” I said and took off my shoes.

She was skeptical but didn’t say anything. I’d become very good at lying.

I said good night and went into my room. I put the Stiff Little Fingers album on the record player and turned the volume to the lowest setting. I lay in my bed. A turning point had occurred in my life. I’d become a real punk.

And so began my relationship with Siggi. He was older than me and clearly not all there. I talked to him every chance I got. I’d ask him things about punk or anarchism or how you should draw logos with markers, for example, what the different types of anarchist logos were. He always treated me really well. He wasn’t ever patronizing or anything like that and seemed to look at me as an equal. I thought he was great, and we got to hang out more and more together — just shooting the breeze. It gave me a bit of protection, since Siggi enjoyed a certain respect that I didn’t. I was left alone when I was with Siggi. We hung out, a little pair outside Bústaðir, smoking and talking about punk. I asked, he answered, teaching me the various facts of punk rock, helping me find out what was punk and what was not. We wandered around a lot, went down to the bus station at Hlemmur, hung around downtown.

Sometimes when Siggi and I were wandering about, we broke into unlocked vehicles. We were looking for coins and cigarettes and stuff, even sometimes grabbing cigarettes directly from ashtrays. Those days, all cars were unlocked and almost invariably contained cigarettes. It was the norm. Everyone smoked and cigarettes were everywhere, so it wasn’t like we were surprised when we found them. We weren’t vandalizing anything, just taking the smallest items, bits and bobs, coins and cigarettes.

Several times, the police stopped us. One night, when we were on a journey through Bústaðahverfið, messing about in cars and things like that, someone called the cops. We were at a place somewhere near Réttarholtsvegur and were scrawling the anarchy sign on the walls. Suddenly the police turned up in the form of a Black Maria that braked hard: out jumped several cops. We sprinted off, cops on our heels. I was scared but also tremendously excited; I felt like I was someone important. I was on the run from the police with Siggi the Punk! We ran into the forest behind Bústaðir Church, which everyone calls the Big Wood. Siggi ran in one direction and I in another. The place where I ran out of the woods there was a garden. It was summer, around midnight. In the middle of the garden was a house and, behind it, two trashcans. Without thinking about it, I clambered into one of the trashcans and pulled the lid down over me. I was awfully breathless, sure the whole neighborhood must be able to hear both my breathing and my heartbeat as I hunched down in the trashcan. The can was empty, but the smell was disgusting. I put myself through it, however, in the name of freedom, so that I wouldn’t be captured by the police. I was certain that at any moment the cover of the can would be yanked off and the fists of the police would appear and pull me up — but nothing happened. I squatted there and tried to listen for any sounds. To hear cops running about, talking or something. But there was absolute silence. After a long wait, I decided to lift the lid slightly and check around. I raised the lid super carefully and looked about. There was nothing, absolute silence. I went back down into the can. The police had indeed run past without knowing I was there. So I stood up in the can.

“So, are you done being in the trashcan, pal, or do you want to stay there a bit longer?”

I turned around. Behind me were three cops who had been standing there the whole time. The cops had had a good view of the whole thing and were standing grinning at me. They had seen me clambering down into the trashcan and had waited for me to come out again. I, of course, was looking right at them and all three knew perfectly well that I had no chance of escape.

“Uhh, no, no…” I answered and clambered out of the barrel. I was led to a police car where the cops accused me of breaking into cars and graffitiing walls. I flat out denied it.