“I’m going to destroy this image.”
“You can just destroy it if you like. I have the negatives and I’ll just make more pictures.”
It was a losing battle. Injustice had won out once again.
SORRY, NOT A WINNER
We were always trying to get ourselves money. I was constantly struggling to get money from my parents to go to the movies or just to do anything. Mom usually didn’t have any money. Dad was in charge of the money at home, and he sat on wealth like a dragon on a heap of gold, giving out really limited amounts to me and Mom. Mom absolutely refused to be an intermediary between Dad and me when it came to money — she wasn’t going to do it. Money had great “sentimental value” for Dad. Maybe it was because he was brought up in such poverty and wanted to be responsible for monetary policy. When a situation came up where I badly wanted something that mattered to me and I didn’t have money to buy it, I always tried to talk to Mom first.
“Mom, can I have money to buy punk cards?”
“Punk cards? Why do you need them?”
“Oh, well, there’s some pictures of bands I want. They’re cool.”
I knew I would get the same answer as always.
“Talk to your father.”
Often, I gave up there. Sometimes, however, I wanted to have something badly enough that it was worth talking to Dad.
“Dad, can I get some money from you?”
It was like I had hit him in the face with a wet rag. Silence. Whenever it came to discussions about money, Dad changed, became sad, maudlin, emotional, and worried. It was as if he wanted awfully badly to say something terribly important about money. Something that would be the ultimate truth about money — but he couldn’t find the right words or didn’t know quite what he was meant to say. He just got a weird look on his face, blinked his eyes continuously as though he were about to cry, then reached out for my hand. So began the same predictable play we had rehearsed so often. He held his hand outstretched in the air, and I put my palm in it. He squeezed my hand, rolled back his eyes with a thoughtful expression, and racked his brains. Sometimes he was even watching TV, and he’d squeeze my hand tight as he stared fixedly at the TV. For ages. I felt like the situation sometimes lasted an eternity. Maybe it was no more than a few minutes. But the minutes passed in a tense, absolute silence. The situation always continued until I repeated the question in an even more wretched tone. Beseechingly.
“Can I have some money?”
Then he’d move his head slightly like it was almost too much for him and he was overcome by grief, and he would say without looking at me:
“Money.”
Then he thought in silence a while.
“What will you do with the money?”
I felt the tension build up in my chest, and I swallowed repeatedly.
“Buy punk cards.”
“Huh?”
It was so alien to him that he could hardly repeat it.
“Punk cards?”
The question implied that he thought it completely unintelligible and, moreover, entirely unnecessary. The words didn’t have any real meaning for him. I might as well have spoken gibberish:
“Ramalala.”
“Huh, didn’t I give you money yesterday?”
“Uhh, no.”
“Come now, when did I last give you some money?”
“On Saturday.”
“On Saturday?” he asked, skeptical.
“Sure, you gave me money for the movies.”
“And you need more money?”
We ended up in this scene over and over again. He looked at the television and squeezed my hand, and I stood embarrassed by his side. Sometimes he squeezed so hard that it hurt. How hard he squeezed bore some correlation with how difficult it was to discuss. For example, depending on how high the amount in question was, the harder he squeezed my hand. Several times he even cried for real. Money just had so much “sentimental value.”
I soon became aware that I had to get a job in order to have a source of income. I couldn’t keep on with this drama with my dad. I had to have some income to be able to buy punk cards and cigarettes and the like. Maybe also to be able to go into a store and buy a Coke and hang out. But there weren’t many opportunities for young adults. At first, I tried selling newspapers and decided to try The Daily Scene. I went up to Þverholt and got a blue bag with newspapers in it. Then I walked into town and tried to sell them to people. I soon found out that I was a pretty bad salesman. It didn’t help that I was both shy and withdrawn. People also maybe felt it was weird that a punk was selling the Scene. The kids who were selling papers seemed well-behaved, resourceful salesmen. When they were finished selling all their papers, they went back up to Þverholt and refilled their bags. But I was not resourceful. I found sales pitches uncomfortable and awkward. I tried to bump into people and ask whether they wanted to buy the Scene but got nothing. They had no interest in buying off me. Some said they had already bought a newspaper from someone else. I then walked downtown, where there were more people but also the most severe competition. There were many other newspaper sellers, most of them older than me, who either stood up on the steps or just on the street with one, and sometimes two, newspaper bags on their shoulders, hollering:
“Day-ily Sce-ene! The Day-ily Sce-ene.”
There were enterprising, witty sellers who shouted things from the front page:
“Government toppled!”
“Read all about it in The Day-ily Sce-ene.”
I didn’t have the confidence to cry out like that, so I just doddled about and muttered to people who walked past:
“Will you buy the Scene?”
The older boys were quick to spot me and said:
“Piss off. You shouldn’t be here.”
I muttered a protest, saying:
“I’m allowed to be here, I’m selling here.”
“No, this is a private area. Piss off!”
Someone grabbed me by the neck and pushed me away.
“Piss off, idiot!”
I tried to find somewhere the older kids weren’t at, but then it would turn out there weren’t many people there. I strolled about like this and did my utmost not to get in the way of other sellers, especially Óli. Óli was mentally disabled, a notorious newspaper seller who could be a really mean character. I had often seen Óli and witnessed firsthand how if someone was trying to sell papers near him, then he simply attacked the person. Even the punks were afraid of Óli the Newspaper Seller. When I was done walking around with the pile of newspapers, I just gave up and walked back up to Þverholt with a full bag. I didn’t sell a single paper. I clearly had no future in newspapers sales and decided never to do it again. It was miserable.
Then I met a kid who was selling Red Cross lottery tickets. It seemed a profitable business. It was the first generation of Red Cross lottery tickets, the ancestor of the scratch card. It was just a strip of paper folded several times and fastened together at one end. You bought the ticket, tore the strips at the ends, and flipped the paper apart. Then it usually said inside: “Sorry, Not a Winner. Thank you for supporting the Red Cross.” I immediately saw an opportunity in this. My acquaintance who was selling tickets said there would be much more money in it than in newspapers. And it would also be easier: for instance, the tickets were much lighter than the newspapers, and in addition, one could sell lottery tickets, which you would otherwise be prohibited from selling, because it was for a good cause. You weren’t just making money but were supporting a good cause. I immediately felt I would be a much better Red Cross salesman than a newspaper guy, so I got an address off my friend and went and talked to some woman in Fossvogs who was in charge of it all, and she gave me 100 tickets to start with. I went with the tickets to a house, knocked, and said: