Jón Gnarr - The Indian

They all nod and nod.

They know so many of these stories. And they know how to tell them. I stand at a distance, drinking in each and every word. It’s like the words are glue; they fix me there.

Some of the stories I’ve heard so many times I’ve got them memorized. But I still love hearing them again.

One story is about a little girl who was always biting other kids. Her mother was completely at a loss what to do, until she said to her:

— If you bite, I’ll hit you in the mouth.

And the next time the girl bit someone, the mother struck her on the mouth so hard it bled.

— But she never bit anyone again after that!

By far the most serious stories are about cancer. That’s very serious. Cancer is a very dangerous disease. It makes people get terribly weak and when Mom goes to visit them in the hospital then they’ve got skeletal faces and it’s like a concentration camp.

— There was nothing left of him, just skin and bones. It was horrible to see him.

— Just like a concentration camp!

Then people die, and it’s better to die than to live with cancer. It’s “good to go.”

I don’t find the cancer stories entertaining. I hope I never get cancer.

While they share stories, they drink coffee and smoke. Mom smokes Winstons. Salla smokes Viceroys, and Gunna smokes Camels.

I like Salla’s cigarettes best of all because she keeps them in a leather case. Indians keep things in leather cases.

When they talk, they also use words that no one else uses. It’s woman-speak. It’s like a code, like they don’t want anyone else to understand what they are saying. Stebbi and I sometimes use cryptography in our tribe of Indians. We use a notebook from the Landbank. The notebook is a little book you get when you open an account, a sort of booklet with saving tips. You can write all kinds of memos in the notebook. Cryptography is very cool. Each character has a specific symbol. Jón is written like this:

My mom sometimes uses strange, made-up words. If someone is angry, then he is foj . When I’m sick, she says I’m sloj . If I’m not sick, but am coming down with something, then I’m dommara -like.

— Is the boy ill?

— Yes, something’s laid him low.

— Is he sloj ?

— Well, he’s burning up.

If something is absolute crap, it’s simply moj . And they know odder words, too. It’s fun to listen to them talk.

— Is that a new coat?

— Yes, thanks for noticing. Isn’t it lekker ?

— Very smart.

— Gunnar got it for me from London.

— That’s quite a fancy coat.

— Both for special occasions and everyday.

— Isn’t it too long?

— That’s the fashion!

I’m never fashionable. The clothes I wear are principally durable.

— Well, the boy’s wearing fine pants.

— Yes, I got them from the megastore, Hagkaup.

— Aren’t they great?

— Yes, they’re very durable.

— Hagkaup has terrific stuff. And so cheap!

— He always rips the knees.

My pants are called Duffy’s; they’re blue jeans. Mom bought them on sale in Hagkaup. I have several pairs. I like wearing jeans. I also have corduroy pants. I’d rather wear jeans than corduroy. Indians can wear jeans if they aren’t wearing Indian pants. But no Indian goes around in corduroy.

They start in on the makeup. Mom stirs black mud in a coffee cup.

First they put rollers in their hair, then styling gel. Sometimes they also paint their nails. When they do, there’s a very peculiar and pungent odor.

They tilt their heads back. Mom puts cotton patches over the sisters’ eyes and then black mud on their eyelashes with a cotton bud. All the while they smoke and chat. They talk more loudly when their eyes are closed, as if they think that people hear worse with closed eyes. Gunna tells the story of an irritating woman who is working with her at The Sausage Folk. Mom and Salla know the woman and also find her annoying.

— She’s always being a tizpot about something!

— She’s naturally disappointed with things.

— What is it with her?

— She’s such a pickywitch .

— Snobbery, plain and simple, that’s the way with these people.

I’ve been to The Sausage Folk. They make hot dogs there. I went there with my mom one time to visit Gunna and Salla. It smelled very strange and everyone was wearing white aprons, white shoes, and hats.

On the way home, I tried to give Mom the slip and go down to the beach. I was too little to go on my own. Mom noticed what I was up to and held onto the hood of my coat so I couldn’t run off.

Every time before we would go into town, Mom would talk to me and tell me that I had to act calmly. Every time, I promised. But then I would forget myself. There were so many things I just had to see. Sometimes I saw weird people I wanted to go and talk to.

It was fun to go into town and run. Mom would run after me. It was like being in a chase. And it was incredibly exciting to run away and hide and make Mom look for me.

Once, I hid myself under a car. Mom was right next to me and called for me. It was incredibly exciting. She saw me, though, when the car drove off. I was so scared I started crying and my mom saw where I was lying, weeping on the road. She became very angry. She was angry because she was scared and I had nearly been seriously hurt.

She was often angry…but weren’t we just playing?

She also often took me on the bus. I had to sit next to her by the window. Mom wanted me to spend more time watching what was going on outside, but I was thinking about things that were going on inside the bus. I imagined I was an Indian who was headed to prison. And when my mom wasn’t looking, I’d climb over the seat and make for the back of the bus. Sometimes, I’d run off the bus when it was at a stop, somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. I’d hide myself, and wait for Mom to find me. And sometimes I was in the same place for a long, long time. Indians are good at waiting and hiding. Sometimes, though, Mom didn’t come and I didn’t hear her calling for me. I’d realize I didn’t know where I was, and I would get scared and start crying and call for my mom. Usually some people I didn’t know would come and try to help me. Then Mom would come. She was pretty much always upset.

I wasn’t allowed to talk on the bus. Not to my mother, and not to strangers. And I had to promise not to before we got on the bus.

— You’ll sit still and be quiet, understand?

— Yes.

But then I just had to talk.

— Mom? What sort of house is that? Look, look, Mom, an ambulance! Perhaps Grandma is dead! Should we go and check?

Mom didn’t answer; she shushed me. I’d try talking to other people. I wanted to know people’s names, where they lived, what their favorite food was. Mom called it chatter.

— You shouldn’t chatter at people like this.

Sometimes I’d tell people about myself, what my name is, where I live and how old I am. I’m not rude to anyone. Except to people who looked annoying or who were rude. I was sometimes rude in response.

— Do you screw a lot?

That gets people worked up. It’s hilarious.

But my mom would get mad at me. I thought that was really unfair. I felt she should be mad at the people who were being rude to a little boy. Rude people shouldn’t be allowed to go into town or on the bus. They should stay at home, in pajamas, until they promise to stop being rude.

The doctor said I couldn’t suggest this kind of thing to Mom.