Jón Gnarr - The Indian

Sometimes Mom and Dad’s friends visit to play bridge. Mom gives them beer. When people play bridge, they put their cards down by striking the table with their hands. Dad beats his hand so hard on the table that I’m afraid he’ll break his finger.

The whole family gathers from time to time for a bridge tournament. I think bridge is an annoying game. It’s complicated. I know how to play Go Fish. Sometimes the three of us play Go Fish in the evening. My mom is amazingly good at cards. She remembers all the cards and always knows what to do next. Dad messes up a lot.

Mom and Dad are very different and have different interests. Mom’s always alone. She’s usually in the same mood: some varying degree of tired. Dad’s more changeable. He can be amusing, mainly when he’s doing something he finds enjoyable, but he tends to be distracted. I think that’s okay. I find it worse when he’s annoying. Then he nags Mom and scolds me. He goes on at Mom about her smoking or tries to get her to argue with him about something she or someone else said. I try to avoid him when he is in such moods, or else he holds me and makes me promise him something or other. And he complains about the fact that I’ve not done what I promised to do in the past. Usually, I don’t remember what it was I promised. So I promise, just to get rid of him. He reminds me of Rubber Tarzan’s dad, except he isn’t drunk.

Sometimes he also asks me to tell him something. He takes my hand and holds me there.

— Tell me something.

What? I don’t know what to tell him. I just clam up. He has absolutely no interest in anything I have to say.

I always say yes when he asks me to promise something. I daren’t say no because then he just keeps me there longer and gets really mad. He always keeps me until I’ve promised something.

The promises can be pretty much whatever strike him. There are always challenges. Once he made me promise to write him an enjoyable story. But I was scared that whatever kind of story I wrote, he’d never find it good enough. It wouldn’t be a proper story. I can’t write; I write the dumbest stuff of everyone in my class.

SETTING:

An ordinary Icelandic home.

DAD is sitting in the chair when BOY comes in. He is looking for something.

DAD

:

(friendly)

What do you need?

BOY

:I’m looking for my sweater.

DAD reaches out his hand, a signal for the boy to come to him. The boy comes over tentatively, and takes his outstretched hand.

DAD

:

(gently)

Did you do what you promised?

BOY

:What?

DAD

:Don’t you remember?

BOY

:No.

DAD

:You were going to write me a story.

BOY

:

(sheepish)

Ah…

DAD

:Did you forget?

BOY

:Ehhh, yes.

DAD

:

(teasing)

Ehhhhhh?

BOY

:

(sheepish)

Yes.

DAD

:

(quietly)

Write a story for Dad.

BOY

:Yes.

DAD

:I’d like that very much.

BOY

:Yes.

DAD

:There’s really nothing to it.

BOY

:No.

DAD

:

(quietly)

Will you promise?

BOY

:Yes.

DAD

:

(quietly)

A fun story for your dad?

BOY

:Yes.

DAD lets go of BOY’ s hand, offering him a handshake.

DAD

:

(loud and clear)

Agreed?

BOY

:Yes.

They shake hands. DAD smiles encouragingly and pinches the BOY ’s cheeks. We see the BOY go into his room. He sits on his bed, hides his face in his hands and weeps.

THE END.

Mom finishes her game and lights a cigarette.

— Well now, shouldn’t we get ourselves some dinner?

— What’s to eat?

— I was thinking fried fish.

She breads and fries some haddock. I go into my room for a while.

Once the food is on the table, Dad comes home. He’s in a good mood. He does a few dance steps with Mom. I start to laugh.

— Very flashy, says Mom and smiles.

— You didn’t think I knew how to, did you? says Dad.

Then he kisses her and sits down at the table. He turns on the radio. The news clock sounds like a church bell. Radio Reykjav í k. Now, the news .

We eat dinner under the roaring voice of the newscaster. We gulp down haddock with potatoes, fried onions, remoulade, inflation, invasion, weather.

Mom gives us yogurt for dessert. I lick the lid clean before eating from the pot.

“About 800 miles south-southwest of Reykjanes, pressure is settled at 988 milibars; off the west of Ireland, a growing pressure of about 986 millibars, headed northwest.”

Mom and Dad are wonderful. I like being me. Perhaps we’ll play Go Fish tonight.

“Improving weather conditions…excellent visibility…The hot springs…the weather conditions haven’t altered…a little drizzle in the last hour…visibility fine…slight wave height..temperature: two degrees.”

I got my first album, a Christmas present from Kristín. Packages from her are always labelled: From Us in Norway . The album’s called Grease . You don’t pronounce it gree-arse but grees . I don’t understand why people write English totally different from how they say it. It’s also been a movie. I went to see it with Kristján Þór. It stars John Travolta and Olivia Newton John. It’s about teenagers at school: a new girl starts school and John Travolta falls for her. Everyone is dressed very strangely in the movie and they’re always putting brilliantine in their hair. At first, I thought it was some new fad but Gummi explained that it was actually an old fashion that was coming back around. I don’t know much fashion. I know about hippies. My sister Runa is a hippie. Hippies go about in smocks and clogs and sit on the floor rather than in chairs.

I really didn’t enjoy the movie. People just start singing in the middle of conversations and then they all start dancing out of nowhere. But some kids I know have been to see the movie multiple times. There was an interview with one boy in the paper who’d seen it 80 times! What does his dad think about that? My dad would burst a blood vessel if I went to the movies that often. I tend to prefer action movies like Wild Geese or Jaws . I could watch Jaws over and over again. Jaws is an even weirder word than Grease . You can’t say it: Jafs. Joors. Jau-us . At first, I thought it was pronounced Javas but Gummi told me it was more like dwarfs . I think English is complete bullcrap. Why don’t they just talk Icelandic?

I’ve been listening to some of the Grease album and looking at the pictures. The album cover has pictures from the movie. I think the best song is “Beauty School Dropout.” I like to sing along to the chorus. That’s the only bit I know. I lie on the floor with headphones over my ears. I don’t know the words so I just hum and beat in time until the chorus. Then I join in with gusto and shout along, identifying completely, my melancholy song resounding around the house.

— Doobeeskoo-daba, Doodyskoo-daba!!

Tonight, there’s a Grease Ball at the school. Everyone has to come in Grease clothes and we have to dance. You’re allowed to bring a Coke and one candy bar. I’m bringing Coke but Kristján Þór is bringing Pepsi. He likes Pepsi better. I don’t think there’s a difference. Kristján Þór can’t say Pepsi. He says Fefsi . We’re both going to take a Mars bar. I’ve put a lot of preparation into this ball. I went to the pharmacy and bought a shiny black comb to keep in my back pocket. My mom bought me a tight black T-shirt. I wanted Wrangler or Lee Cooper Jeans but Mom says I have to use my own jeans. Duffy’s, still. They’re not as cool as the other brands. John Travolta wouldn’t wear Duffy’s. Also, I don’t have a leather jacket. I’m going in only a T-shirt.