Icelandic punks were significantly different from their colleagues in the United Kingdom. Our clothing was set and simple and pieced together: ripped jeans that had been written on, sneakers or black military boots, preferably with loose soles and equally shabby uppers. Any jackets were allowed, but most wore either leather jackets or army coats. Other than that, coats were prohibited. Many of the older boys even had black men’s jackets with logos on the lapel. The army coats were like the jeans, marked-up with black pen. Haircuts were short and messy and ideally looked like you had cut it yourself, which most people actually did. That said, there were a very few people with mohawks or dyed hair. Each individual had his logos, either a band or simply an anarchist symbol. Dog collars were popular around the neck and rings or pins in the ears. The reason for this get-up was simply that there weren’t a lot of specialty shops that sold punk clothes, and what little you could get was considered expensive, so we couldn’t afford it. Most of those there were boys, but there were some girls, too. They were dressed similar to the boys. Most punks came from Kópavogur. They had their own refuge at Skiptistoður in Hamraborg, but it was more fun at Hlemmur.
There were two permanently present groups who were always hanging out at Hlemmur: the punks and the winos. We were in one corner, and they were in another. The winos were adults, men, outcasts — criminals and mental patients who were homeless and slept in abandoned houses and bicycle sheds and such places. Several were sailors from the countryside on a bender in town. They were drunk and stoned from morning to evening. We had little interaction with them, except perhaps if they went to the state liquor store for us or when they gave us some pills. Otherwise we tried to leave them alone. They were deceitful and dangerous, especially if they were stoned. We weren’t really into drugs. Many of us looked down on drugs. We didn’t want to turn out like the winos. I didn’t think taking narcotics would be an interesting lifestyle, and I was afraid of drugs, especially heroin. It was said that if you injected yourself with heroin once, you would be addicted for life. I reckoned it was okay to use pills recreationally or for amusement but no more than that. If you became a junkie, then you were agreeing to give up and let the system win. Then people would finally stop listening to you. Eventually, you’d do something in a drug-fueled haze and end up in Klepp or Litla-Hraun.
The days at Hlemmur were all the same and marvelous. We hung out in our corner, smoked, and talked. Conversation often turned to bands and music and definitions of what was punk and what wasn’t. The depth of the conversation depended on the age and background of the speakers, but we all shared a common contempt for traditional life and “provincialism,” which was a synonym for “normal” and “boring” people — i.e., everyone who wasn’t like us. At the bottom of our ladder, those we respected least, were the disco freaks, our main enemies. Those people wore yellow and pink sweaters, were immaculately turned out, went to the Hollywood nightclub and danced. Ken and Barbie. We were like Action Man.
Besides Hlemmur, there were two other places in the vicinity that we met up. They were the Joker arcade on Rauðarárstígur, and also Einholt. Whenever we were driven away from Hlemmur, we went and hung there until we were kicked out, and then we went back to Hlemmur. We could rarely afford to play the machines, so we hung around just watching those who were playing. In the end, we were generally thrown out for trying to cheat the machines or for messing about. It was always enough that if one of us did something that wasn’t allowed, the whole group got thrown out. In our eyes, and in everyone else’s, we were one mass.
The security guards at Hlemmur were generally nice to us. Some were even our friends, and we’d call them gramps or gramma. Often, they’d sit and chat with us. Whenever we were making a hullabaloo, they’d come over, speak good-naturedly to us, and ask us to stop hollering, please. Now and then one of the grandpas would come over and ask us to leave for a bit because someone had called and complained. We’d head out without a fuss, not because we were law-abiding, but out of respect and friendship for our “grandparents.” We knew and understood that it was their job, and we didn’t want to make things difficult for them. There were, however, some guards who objected to us. In most cases, it was the substitute guards who wanted to get rid of us. They were rude and rather cold in their manner, and when they ordered us to scram, they couldn’t move us: we answered them back, twisting their words, and putting on airs. We let them chase us all around the place, and when they threw us out we snuck back in immediately. We’d break into teams and scatter ourselves all about. We teased them and let them chase us back and forth until they were out of breath with the effort; the whole time we laughed and enjoyed ourselves. It usually ended with them calling the police. Then we made ourselves scarce, popped over to Joker or Einholt, but came back as soon as the police had gone and started up the struggle all over again. We were having the best time.
In general, police interventions were usually fun, a welcome change in the everyday grayness, something happening, an excitement, a diversion. They’d show up in Black Marias and order us to sit inside. Then they’d march us across the street and into the police station. We’d wait around a while until the chief of police came and spoke to us. There was rarely a specific reason behind the police taking us in. It was more like the cops needed something to do or had been asked to seize us. They’d search us, empty our pockets, and inspect everything carefully. The chief was trying to find something he could punish, any violation of law, any drugs or substances you could sniff like gas or glue. But they never found anything; at worst, our cigarettes got confiscated.
“What were you doing in Hlemmur?”
In truth: we lived there.
“Waiting for the bus.”
That was what Hlemmur was for, wasn’t it?
“Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“We were on our way to school when you detained us, so we missed it.”
We always had answers at the ready. The police never had anything on us. More to the point, we weren’t criminals. We were just kids hanging out and killing time. Ultimately, they released us and told us to go home or to school. We agreed and then walked straight back to Hlemmur. In some cases, especially on Friday and Saturday, they didn’t take us in to the station but drove us a little way from downtown and left us there. It was all done most amicably. They chatted with us on the trip and dropped us off either in Heiðmörk or up at Hofda, like we were old friends. Then we walked. We walked all the way back down to Hlemmur, talking along the way.
At weekends, Hlemmur turned into something like a nightclub. After six o’clock, other people usually stopped coming inside and instead waited outside. The winos took over because on the weekends, when they received their assistance handouts, they made up a significant crowd. New winos joined the group and also some guys who were not real winos but more like temporary winos, sailors on shore leave and guys from the country looking to have fun in town. We hung around them and bummed cigarettes and swigs of wine. There was often a lot of merriment, but Hlemmur could also be an inflammable nightclub that boiled over at the slightest provocation. Fights broke out as easily as a hand being waved. One minute everything would be just fine, then all of a sudden someone would jump forward and punch someone else in the face with a clenched fist. Sometimes some guy would go into a fit of rage and punch and kick out at anything in his reach. In an instant, quiet camaraderie turned into a bloody battlefield. Blood splashed on the windows, and broken teeth lay like bodies on the floor. Then there was the screaming. Those times, we were quick to disappear. When people are drug-crazed and confused, they don’t know anything about what they’re doing. Several times I’d nearly been caught up in it myself. Once, a wino I knew came up to me as I sat on a bench outside Hlemmur. He looked angrily at me for a good long time and clenched his fists. He had a brand new black eye, which was swollen shut; he stared at me with just one eye.