Jón Gnarr - The Indian

Kristján Þór lives with his mother and older sister. His sister is called Gréta. She’s a teenager. It’s really fun to tease her. She’s always having boys over and cuddling with them and listening to ABBA.

Kristján Þór’s dad and mom are divorced. His home is great fun. It’s so different than my home. There’s candles and incense.

In the hallway there’s a book called The Joy of Sex . It’s about people who are always fucking. The book has illustrations of all kinds of sex positions. It’s the funniest book I’ve ever seen. We look at the book a lot when we’re alone at his house.

Kristján Þór is no loser and he’s not stupid. He’s just odd. He’s tall and has these large cheekbones. Some people think he’s a bit retarded because he doesn’t talk much.

Kristján Þór does everything with me.

Once, we made ourselves powerful rubber band guns out of the handles of paint cans, and by wrapping thick slings together from rubber bands we scrounged off the newspaper delivery man. That’s thick, stretchy elastic. The guns were so powerful that you could shoot farther than you could see. Those were real guns.

Some teenagers who lived in the neighborhood close to Kristján Þór were always tormenting us when we were outside playing. These boys were complete idiots and would never leave anyone alone. They were in the Grímsbær gang. They teased us every time we went to the shops in Grímsbær; we were totally fed up with them. One evening we saw them loitering outside the shops. All day we’d been playing at shooting targets on fences with our sling guns. We’d practiced a ton and had become first class marksmen.

It was evening and we were on our way home. It was pitch black. We could see the boys well in the shop’s light; we hid ourselves behind the fence on Grímsbær playground where there aren’t any lampposts. We took all the slings we had left, shot at the teenagers and aimed for their nads. Then we ran away.

They chased us. We ran as fast as we could but they ran faster than us. It was like they could fly.

I threw myself behind a small bush and they ran past me. Kristján Þór saw that but tried to run all the way home. They got him. I was right there and heard everything.

— Who was with you? they asked.

— No one.

He didn’t blab; he took the blame. That made it even more my fault. It’s usually me who has all the ideas. Kristján Þór just does what I do.

They punched him in the stomach and face. And in the end they kicked him in his balls so hard he puked. The next day, he had a black eye.

We never talked about it. When the boys were gone, he went straight to his house and I went to my home.

Later that evening, his mom called. I was in my room and I heard my mom talking to her. She was clearly angry. Mom said it wasn’t my fault. But I still felt a bit guilty.

I hope I’ll never be beaten like that. I hope no one has an excuse to punch me or kick me in the balls. I once got a soccer ball in my nads and it was about the worst pain I’ve ever felt. It was worse than toothache. It was worse than stepping on a nail stick. The pain goes up through your stomach and into your chest, all the way up to your head — then it fills your entire body.

Hopefully the brothers aren’t gathering a team of big, crazy kids. Some of them have motorcycles and they wouldn’t take long to find us as we head home. Now I wish I hadn’t broken the sword. Now I regret stealing the treats.

— I’m going home, says Kristján Þór suddenly.

He stands up and leaves. Alli and I sit alone in the cabin. We have a long way ahead of us, all the way from Grímsbær to home.

We don’t go straight home. We decide to go down to the valley bottom and walk the lower streets and head behind Fossvogs School.

The trip takes a long time. We sneak like two frightened mice, running between parks and peering all about. At the least sound, we scurry for shelter. Our hearts jump in our chests. I still have the club to hand as a support. And then I really need to take a crap.

— I need to poop.

— Now?

— Yes.

There aren’t any public toilets in the suburbs. When you’re a long way from home, all you can do is knock on people’s doors and ask to use their bathrooms. Most people let you.

I stop at a house and ring the bell. A young woman comes to the door.

— Can I poop in your place?

She looks at me for a while, searchingly. Alli stands back.

— Sure, go ahead.

I go to the bathroom and poop but come right back out. The woman is waiting for me.

— Thank you, I say.

— No problem, replies the woman, and closes the door.

We continue our journey. When we get to Fossvogs School we are reasonably certain that no one is looking for us. Alli is not at all scared. He really didn’t do anything.

— Why don’t we just go home?

— Yes, there’s no one following us.

We crawl out of hiding. We’re safe. We’re local. We walk across the school grounds. Suddenly a cry:

— There they are!

The brothers come running. The blood in my veins freezes. I hear a motorcycle. Alli starts running and speeds up the hill. The boy on the motorcycle chases him. He’s probably the bigger brother. I’m trying not to think about that. I throw away my weapon and run. I’m trying to run home.

— That’s him!

They’re after me. Because I broke the sword. If they catch me, I’m going to be beaten to pieces. I run harder. They’re right on my heels. I hear the motorcycle approaching behind me.

I leap over the hedges by the row of townhouses. I look back. The other brother, the one who had the sword, chases me into the garden. The first two are nowhere in sight. They’re not going to get me. They’ll never get me!

I’ve reached my house. I’m home. They can’t beat me up here. I spy a length of wood in the grass. Lightning quick, I bend down and grab it. I lift it up, stop, and turn around.

He stops, too. Looks at the length of wood I’m brandishing in the air. His brother and the big kid on the motorcycle are trying to find us. They shout but don’t see us. Good for them. He answers them. He’s not grinning. The dipstick broke my sword and hit me in the back sickeningly hard.

We stare each other down. I’m ready to throw the stick at him. Then it’s like he realizes he’s all alone and, moreover, a long way from home. I can see him hesitate. He looks behind and then back at me. He’s afraid.

— You pisspants bastard shit, I mutter.

He was going to hurt me. He did hurt me. He thought it was fun. He has brothers. He has everything. He has a cool sword. His brother has a motorcycle. He’s in the Grímsbær gang. They’re going to beat me up. Maybe not now, but later. At school, or on the soccer pitch. There’s two or three of them, and I’m just one. Someday when I’m walking somewhere, they’ll show up. One of them will throw a ball at my head. They’ll kick me in the balls. They’re going to laugh if I cry.

He looks over his shoulder, then back at me. I throw the club.

It hits him on the forehead. He grabs his head. Then he takes his hand off and inspects it. It bleeds a waterfall. His palm is covered in blood. The blood spurts in rhythmical, slender jets from the wound in his forehead. He’s terrified. The expression on his face is one of desperation. Then he starts bawling and looks helplessly around him.

Retard. Don’t think you can hurt me! I’m not afraid of you. I’ll kill you if you come near me. I own you. I’m stronger than you. I can kill you all.

I run toward the sound of the motorcycle. I leap through the bush and head right for the boy on the bike. He’s a teenager, definitely five or six years older than me. He’s unprepared. He’s not wearing a helmet. I strike him in the head as hard as I can, hitting him with a clenched fist in the temple. He falls off the bike. The bike slams into the sidewalk. It’s still running. I scream. Someone comes running up behind me and lifts me up.