Jón Gnarr - The Pirate

“He’s repulsive, but he sings beautifully.”

Anyone who knew anything listened to Bubbi Morthens. He was awesome. Beyond that, I didn’t know much about music, less than most others. I just enjoyed this and that song. Mainly, I listened to the lyrics. After I listened to songs, I read the lyrics. I was usually more interested in the text than the music itself. It could be difficult; they were often in English. I didn’t understand all the words, but was determined to learn them.

Sometimes I went over to Óli the Stud’s to listen to albums. He owned punk albums, like the Sex Pistols and Sham 69. He also had headphones, so you could really turn up the volume without it being heard throughout the house. The Sex Pistols were the main punk band. I’d seen pictures of them in the paper. The lead singer was called Johnny Rotten. He had red hair like me. He didn’t try to be cool so much as disgusting. His clothes were torn, and he always grimaced in front of the camera, and when he was standing upright he tried to carry himself like a loser. That was awesome. I sometimes imitated him in the bathroom mirror. I felt a bit like him. Maybe he was like me when he was thirteen years old. Perhaps he’d felt out of place and not like the others. He definitely wasn’t good at school. I seriously doubted that Johnny Rotten knew multiplication tables. The most famous song by the Sex Pistols was “Anarchy in the UK.” I didn’t fully understand the lyrics.

I am an anarchist

I am an antichrist

I didn’t know a whole lot about anarchy. I knew the word anarkismi in Icelandic, but not really what it meant. The Antichrist was the Devil. I knew the UK was Britain but didn’t fully understand why. But the song was good. Johnny Rotten screams in it, and laughs too. That felt good. The only big difference between me and Johnny Rotten was that I wore glasses. That wasn’t cool. Only nerds wore glasses. Punks don’t usually wear glasses. I didn’t even get to choose the frames for my glasses. I’d seen a picture of Johnny Rotten with tiny sunglasses. Sunglasses were cool. I wanted round glasses, but the eye doctor said my myopia was too severe for small glasses and I had to have big, square glasses. That was fucking lame. But Mom liked them, so she bought them. I’d rather have large, round frames like John Lennon. Though I didn’t think John Lennon was all that. He was kind of a hippie.

But he had better-looking glasses than me. Sometimes when I went into town and was trying to be tough, I took off my glasses and put them in my pocket. But I couldn’t see properly and ended up waving about in a foggy world. But at least I didn’t look silly.

One time I went over to Óli the Stud’s, he wanted me to listen to a song through the headphones. When the song started, it was like it had always been somewhere inside me; my spirit felt a distinct harmony with it. I felt like this was somehow my song. Like it was written both for me and about me. Restive feelings shifted within me. I wanted to scream and cry as I listened. But I didn’t. I just lay there, fascinated, with closed eyes, listening to the song again and again. I lay on the floor in his room for hours and listened to the same song over and over again. Óli the Stud came and went and left me quite alone. We didn’t talk at all. Finally he nudged me and said my mom had called and I had to go home for dinner.

The band was called The Clash. The song was called “Bankrobber.” After it, there was no turning back. Punk had infected me. I wouldn’t listen to anything else. I wanted more.

“Did you get your grades?” asked Mom at the dinner table.

“No,” I lied.

“Why not?” she asked, suspicious.

I’d prepared an answer.

“They weren’t ready. I think they’re sending them to us at home.”

She looked at me searchingly. I looked questioningly back at her, trying to look as innocent as I could.

“Look at me!”

“What?”

“Are you lying to me?”

I looked down at the plate.

“I’m not lying about anything.”

“What did you do with your report card?”

“Nothing.”

“I’ll talk to your teacher.”

“Sure,” I replied, as if nothing was out of the ordinary, as if I was a man with nothing to hide. I didn’t feel like discussing it. I just wanted to be left alone. I didn’t want to talk about school. I wanted to talk punk. I wanted to ask Mom what anarchism and Antichrists and antipasti really were. But I knew she didn’t know anything about that. I didn’t feel like being nagged over something that didn’t matter.

“Why are you conducting yourself so badly?”

“I don’t know.”

“What is your ambition, your goal in life?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you know?”

“I don’t know. Nothing?”

“Stop being lazy, Jón! You’re absolutely able to make something of yourself if you try. What do you actually plan on being?”

“Nothing in particular.”

“Do you think you’ll get into college at this rate?”

“I’m not going to college.”

“What are you going to do, then? You can’t just stay at home all day.”

“No, of course not. I’ll work or something.”

Mom sighed.

“I don’t know what to do with you.”

She gave up a long time ago. She’s grown tired; I’ve exhausted her near to death. She’s about to turn sixty. My dad is sixty-three. An old man. They don’t know what’s cool and what’s lame. They don’t know what punk is. They have no idea what’s going on. I can’t talk to them about anything. I’ve stopped talking to my dad altogether. I try to avoid him if I can. When he tries to talk to me, I pretend I don’t hear him, and I go to my room. It’s awkward, and it troubles me. I stopped asking him for money. I can’t bear to see the expression on his face, the allegation in his eyes, or listen to the whining tone of his voice.

“Money? Didn’t I give you money last week?”

I want to scream at him to keep his dumb mouth shut. I want to tell him that I find him awkward and annoying. But before I ever could, he’d slay me with a look. I’m always hurting him. He often makes me promise things I can’t achieve. Sometimes he makes me promise things I don’t even understand. Like promising to always be diligent or to keep an eye on the garage. What does he mean, “keep an eye on the garage”? Keep an eye that the kids in the street don’t kick a ball at the garage door? He made me promise to talk to the kids and ask them kindly not to kick the ball against the door. I couldn’t say no or tell him it would be stupid because that would hurt him. So I agreed to do it. But who does he really think I am? Some idiot who walks over to some kids and asks them to please not kick the ball against his father’s garage door because he finds it a pain seeing the marks of their ball on the door? Dumbass! He doesn’t own me. I’m not afraid of him or his weird promises. I just don’t bother talking to him. I steal money from his wallet when he isn’t looking. I go through the pockets of his clothes and steal leftover singles. He’ll never figure it out. By contrast, Mom would know instantly if I stole money from her. Sometimes Mom doesn’t have any money and needs to ask Dad for some to buy food, clothes, that sort of thing. Each time, Dad treats her just like when I ask him for money.

“Potatoes? Didn’t we buy potatoes only last week?”

Mom always gets annoyed when she has to ask Dad for money.

“We’re out of potatoes.”

“Out? Who finished the potatoes?”

“Ah, Kristinn, I can’t be bothered with all this nagging.”

Then Dad sighs, reaches into his wallet, pulls out some money, and gives it to her with puppy eyes. He’s getting irritated with Mom.