Jón Gnarr - The Indian

The only boy completely out of place is Rubber Tarzan. He’s the biggest dork at school. He’s tiny and has messy red hair he never combs. He hasn’t dressed in anything from Grease . He’s wearing a sweater and velvet pants. He’s not even wearing sneakers, just black boots.

I feel sorry for him. His father is a loser and his mother is disabled and has to lie in bed all the time. He lives in Blesugróf. It’s a poor area and those who live there are called lice-rats. One time, a few parents got together and gave his mother some used clothes their children had grown out of. But they didn’t ask their kids first. And then Rubber Tarzan came to school in a new coat which one kid recognized as his own.

— Hey, that’s my old coat! What are you doing in my coat?

— It’s not your coat. It’s mine.

— No way! It’s got my name written inside.

Rubber Tarzan is poor. He smells bad, too. And he’s annoying and stupid. Nobody wants his company. I sometimes played with him when I was younger because I had no one else to play with.

It was strange to go to his house. His home is ugly and dirty. Sometimes his dad was drunk in the middle of the day and would harangue us with some nonsense or other.

Rubber Tarzan also has a sister who is mentally ill. When we were at his home, she sometimes ran around buck naked and screamed really loud. It was really more awkward than funny.

Rubber Tarzan keeps trying to walk home from school with me. I don’t want him to. I do my best to make it clear that I don’t want to be his friend. I wish I’d never spoken to him. He’s such a big dork that I can’t afford to be seen with him.

He comes right up to me when he sees me and grins.

— Hi, he says, smiling happily and beaming his crooked teeth.

— Hi, I reply, indifferently.

— What’s the name of the woman in Grease ?

— Olivia Newton John?

— No, Olivia Nineteen Tons!

I smile awkwardly. This joke is months old. Rubber Tarzan is childish and still plays with Action Man. He stands with us. He’s not going anywhere. It’s unbearable. Kristján Þór is not really all that cool, either. Some kids think he’s retarded. He also doesn’t mind Rubber Tarzan. I wish that I was in any other group but this.

The girls are wearing short dresses and have curled their hair. Some are wearing tight black pants, red heels, and black shirts just like Olivia Newton John after she’d finished her transformation. I don’t see Ásta anywhere. People are drifting in. The gym’s still being decorated and they’re playing songs from Grease . No one has started dancing yet.

I get rid of Rubber Tarzan and Kristján Þór and go into the bathroom to check my getup. My top has come untucked. I look more like Tintin than anyone from Grease . I silently curse my appearance. I wish I didn’t have red hair. I wish I had black hair and didn’t wear glasses. I add more brilliantine to my hair. I look at the earrings. I’m not going to put them in before the dance starts. I’m going to wait for exactly the right moment.

I intentionally avoid Kristján Þór and Rubber Tarzan. Kristján Þór looks questioningly at me. I nod to him, friendly like we don’t really know each other. He knows I’m brushing him off and he’s pissed. That’s annoying. But that’s life. You can’t be a dork forever. I don’t have any other friends here but Kristján Þór, but I’d rather be alone than with him and Rubber Tarzan. They’re standing alone in the corner, like they don’t belong. They’re still holding their carrier bags with the treats inside. I shudder to think that I was once like that. All they want for themselves is to pick their noses and play chase.

Ásta hasn’t made an appearance. I daren’t ask her annoying friends about her. Ingibjörg, one of the teachers, comes through the door.

— Alright kids, let’s go into the hall!

The would-be greasers pack into the gym to the thumping sound of music:

You’re the one that I want, you are the one I want, ooh ooh ooh, honey!

I roll with the crowd, making sure to keep away from Kristján Þór and Rubber Tarzan. I puff myself up and sing along with the song like a tough guy:

— Jora voneravon !

Or just: Oh, oh, oh! Jora voneravon! Oh, oh, oh!

Ásta has turned up. She’s saying something to her friends. I watch them all look at me and laugh. It’s impossible to know whether it’s love or pure contempt. Still, at least she’s not irritated with me. That’s a relief.

The music stops.

— Everyone who wants to be in the group dance come up! shouts the teacher.

The developmental differences between the genders become howlingly clear. In just the past year, the girls have changed from giggling little girls into small, sedate women. They arrange themselves expectantly in a row. Opposite them, several boys mill about, looking around in the air, hands in pockets. Most of the guys are still sitting on the floor talking. Several have started playing with balls and climbing the bars, hanging from the ropes or even playing chase. The teachers shush them. I’m no longer a simple-minded child. I join one of the rows. The teacher claps her hands together and the dance begins.

Vellovellovellove! Tell mi mo, tell mi mo, diddi darada da! Tell mi mo, tell mi mo, didi dararada ra.

This game’s unfair. The girls outnumber the boys — and they’re taller. They also dance better.

I try to make out like I can follow along but I immediately lose the thread and get distracted. The song is too fast. I’m sweating and my eyes are smarting. When I wipe my forehead, I realize the brilliantine is starting to leak from my hair. My brow’s all greasy. It’s like someone has sprayed hair lacquer in my eyes. I excuse myself and head to the bathroom.

I dry the hair-lard off my face and wash my hands. It’s like I’ve got whole slabs of margarine on my head. I comb my hair again. It’s time. As of tonight, I’ll stop being a dork who mucks about with toys and plays Fisheries by himself. I’m going to ask Ásta to be my girlfriend.

I take the earrings out of my pocket and put them on the counter. Next, I take out the needle. I tweak my left earlobe to numb it. I take the needle and I stab. First there’s a little prick of resistance. I push harder. I hear the skin tearing under pressure from the large needle. I breathe a sigh of relief and look at my ear. The needle has gone through the skin on one side. I keep going. There’s a little stabbing sensation then the needle goes all the way through. I’ve got a hole in my ear!

I pull the needle out and pick up one of the earrings. I bend the hook and put it through the hole. It’s going well but it’s hard to find the hole on the other side. I’ve got these greasy fingers and brilliantine keeps leaking into my eyes. The hook is also made of soft iron which bends too easily inside my ear lobe. I may have to make the hole larger. I wipe my face and hands. I pull the hook back out and insert the needle. Now I can’t find the hole on the other side of the needle tip, so I just stab a new hole. I’m beginning to bleed a bit. I still don’t feel much. I wipe the lobe with toilet paper and make another attempt with the earring. Things go much better. The hook snaps through my ear. Now for the other one. I have to prick the right ear three times before I get the earring through.

I wipe up the blood and inspect myself in the mirror. I am more than magnificent. From either ear hangs a small Pepsi can. I try shaking my head. The cans dangle. Finally, I comb my hair and wash my eyes.

Myopics see very badly in the distance, but they see very well close up. We see things close to us even better than people with normal vision. I have a minus six in one eye and minus seven in the other. When I take off my glasses and focus in the mirror, I see how handsome I am without them. I decide to go back without wearing glasses. I wrap them in toilet paper and put them in my pocket.