The only person I spoke to was Eiki the Druggie. He was a disabled kid who was three years older than me. He was called Eiki the Druggie because he was always so stupid that it was like he was always on drugs. I liked Eiki. We had often played together when we were small and knew each other well. I had more in common with him than most others. There was some mysterious force connecting us. We were both outsiders. Deviations from the norm. The genius and the imbecile.
Finally, the evening came when the year-long toil yielded the desired result. Siggi the Punk came into Bústaðir. He was even more magnificent than I’d imagined. He was really thin and withered and a whole head shorter than me. His dark hair was cropped and patchy. He’d evidently cut it himself. It was obvious that everyone had a lot of respect for him. Even the worst of the Morons went and talked to him and asked him for news. He was tactful and reserved, speaking low, answering questions, and sucking in through his nose. Then he came and sat on the couch. I stared at him. This was the first real punk I’d met and the first person I’d found who was more punk than me. He had a dog collar around his neck, and his leather jacket was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. It was black and sewn together from a number of smaller leather pieces. A leather jacket like that was a real possession. His jeans were torn into pieces from the knees up to mid-thigh and scrawled all over with black marker. On his feet he wore tattered army boots. He must have been sixteen or seventeen years old. His eyes were dull and dreaming. He smelled of strong patchouli perfume. That was something I’d have to get hold of for myself. He looked at me. I was totally paralyzed by fear and didn’t dare speak to him.
“Hey,” he said.
My heart surged. He’d said hello to me!
“Hey,” I said, absolutely rigid with admiration.
We fell silent.
“Siggi, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, and hocked.
I couldn’t think of anything else to say. What kind of idiot was I? What could I say, really?! Mostly, it was absolutely invaluable for me just to get to watch him and to observe. One of the employees came over and said hello to him. He was very respectful. He was apparently well liked by everyone. I noticed that he had a speech impediment and struggled to say gl- or cl-; he said tlothes instead of clothes and dlasses instead of glasses. I was determined to practice so I could speak the same way. When the employee went he turned to me:
“Got a cigarette?”
“Yes,” I said and picked up the crumpled pack of Winstons I’d stolen from my mother. I smoked at most one or two cigarettes a day, so a pack was enough to last me a month. I smoked more to be tough than out of any need.
We went outside and smoked. I read all the writing on his pants and checked out the patches on the jacket. He just had two patches: Anarchism and Crass. He showed little interest in me but just stared right ahead, empty and indifferent.
“I bought a Stiff Little Fingers album the other day,” I said, to say something.
“Yeah,” he said, indifferent.
There was no curiosity in his voice. It was like I’d reported something that was common knowledge, that didn’t matter. How could it be unimportant to have bought the Stiff Little Fingers album?
“They’re very good,” I added.
He was silent and just smoked. Now and then he sucked through his nose and spat. He didn’t seem to have a cold. It was more like a tic.
“What music do you listen to?” I asked, curiously.
He didn’t answer immediately.
“I don’t listen to bubblegum,” he declared in a low voice.
Bubblegum? I’d no idea what that meant. Bubblegum? Were they some band I’d never heard of? I desperately wanted to ask but didn’t dare expose my ignorance. So I nodded like I completely understood. Maybe this was a New Wave group? Definitely.
“I don’t listen to New Wave,” I said, just to be sure.
He said nothing, just sucked in through his nose.
“Some punks listen to Adam Ant and The Police,” I added, to make sure he didn’t think I did that sort of thing.
“That’s not punk,” he muttered.
“No,” I echoed.
He was the first person I’d met who shared this understanding with me. Something wonderful was happening. We finished smoking and stubbed out the ends.
“Shall we go back inside?” I asked.
“No, I just came in to get a cigarette.”
“Okay…”
“I’m heading home. Want to come?”
I hardly believed my ears. Siggi the Punk was inviting me to his house? Were we becoming friends? He was accepting me?
“Yes, yes,” I said, trying not to sound too eager.
Siggi lived in a terraced house in Smáíbúðahverfinu. His mother, a short and fat old woman, greeted us as we entered.
“You’re home, Sigurður?”
Siggi slammed the front door with all his might.
“Shut the fuck up, hag!”
I reacted more than his mother. She seemed used to him speaking to her that way. That was something I had so often longed to tell my dad but never dared. And I had never dared say anything remotely similar to my mother. Mom never lectured me about anything. What little she said was usually spot-on. I followed Siggi into his room. I said hi to his mother on the way. She didn’t answer me, just looked at me angrily. He closed the door and locked it with a key.
“Gnarled old crone,” he muttered.
His room was a little cubbyhole with a single bed. The walls were scrawled over with anarchist symbols and all kinds of slogans. Above the bed hung an upside-down cross; under it had been written in black ink “JESUS DIED FOR HIS OWN SINS, NOT MINE.” Over the tiny window hung a dirty sheet. The room was dark and dirty and covered with rubbish, newspapers, comic books, and empty cigarette packets. On the bed was a giant ashtray packed with cigarette butts. The patchouli smell was overwhelming and hung in the air like a thick cloud. Siggi sucked in through his nose and spat on the floor. Spat on the floor in his own room! I made a mental note of that. This I was going to try! Then he went over to the record player and put an album on the turntable. A piercing guitar-screech and fast drum rhythms resounded from the single small speaker. The singer screamed so fast that you couldn’t work out any of the words except an occasional “fuck,” “system,” and “death.” I liked it a lot.
“Which band is this?” I asked, full of expectation.
“Discharge,” he replied without looking at me.
I nodded like I knew absolutely who that was and tried to store the name in my memory. Siggi took a pipe out of his ashtray and began to scrape the ash from inside with a pocketknife made from the aluminum foil out of a cigarette packet.
“Want a pipe?”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Scratch.”
“Is it hash?” I asked, surprised.
I had never seen hash before, let alone smoked it.
“Scratch,” he said again.
Here I had to admit my ignorance.
“What’s that?”
“It’s hash that has already been smoked.”
Huh? Hash that has been smoked but that you can somehow smoke again. Ash from previously smoked hash. I was happy to try it. I was willing to try anything. My life up to this point had been pointless.
“Do you have a cigarette?”
I handed him a cigarette. He tore it into pieces, crumbled the tobacco into the aluminium foil, and mixed it with the ash. He held the foil in the air and heated it over a lighter flame. Then he tipped everything into the pipe and lit it. He took a big hit. He held the smoke inside and handed me the pipe. The bitter smoke burned my throat, and I was coughing. Siggi blew out and took the pipe.