The future lay open in front of me like a black cave, full of uncertainty and risk. I feared it, without knowing quite what I was so afraid about. I feared the unknown. I feared that this world wasn’t made for me. I feared loneliness, being always alone and left out, feared that no one would understand me or love me. Would I always be odd? Would I always be like an alien from another planet? My brain sent me sentences, parts of books, or even things someone else had said. There was a constant weight over my chest; I couldn’t fill my lungs with air. It was like a death-sized fist was inside me, squeezing and pinching — like someone was trying to crush my heart. When thoughts struck me, the weight on my chest increased, and I had to gasp for breath. Mom was always wanting to take me to have my lungs scanned, but I took no notice. I feared I might have a horrible disease that couldn’t be detected. Uncle Gulli died of lung cancer. Maybe I had some new type of lung cancer? It didn’t matter how tired I was when I lay down on the pillow. Thoughts roused me. Numbness and fatigue turned to perceptiveness and activity. I dreaded going to bed because I knew I couldn’t sleep.
Sometimes I would sneak out at night and walk around outside to calm myself down. Anything was better than lying awake indefinitely. It felt good to be out when no one was up and about. It was so bright that it was like it was day, except there were no cars and no people around. I wandered the streets aimlessly. I often went down to Fossvogs School and wandered around the school grounds. If someone came, I hid and spied on them, lying in the grass and holding my breath. Usually it was newspaper delivery guys, but sometimes older teenagers or adults who were walking home.
Night after night, I went down to the school grounds. I’d been there so many times, but it was strange to be there like this — weird but somehow immediately comfortable. Some nights, I hung out for hours. I often climbed on the roof, lying there looking up into the sky. One night, I went over to an open skylight and climbed through. It was a strange feeling, being alone in the school in utter silence. I prowled about and rummaged through things; I went to my old homeroom and examined the pictures hanging on the walls. I stared at the class picture, scrutinizing the other kids and myself. I grubbed through everything I could find but didn’t damage anything.
The staff room was locked. I walked past it and went into the gym. The empty auditorium echoed uncomfortably. I went into the dressing rooms and the shower. The shower brought up bad memories. I’d so often been made fun of there; nowhere were you so vulnerable. The fat kids were always targeted, for example, and laughed at. I hit puberty pretty early, which was also an endless source of teasing in the shower. Worse, my hair sprouted red, continually my curse, offering the mean jerks teasing me infinite opportunities for torment. I hated the showers. They were a place of torture. I went into the girls’ dressing room. A forbidden place, one you were prohibited from entering. I sat on the bench for a good while. The girls’ dressing room smelled different.
I snuck out the same way I came in. I liked being back home before Mom and Dad woke up. I opened the door super carefully, snuck into my room, closed the door gently behind me, and crawled into bed. When they got up, I fell asleep.
One night when I was strolling through the streets of town, I decided to break into my old pre-school. I took a screwdriver, forced a window, and crawled inside. There was little that reminded me of anything, only a familiar smell, the sides of the building, and the primary colors on the walls. I walked around and looked about, picked some things up, contemplated them, sniffed at them — especially the clay stuff. On one table there was a hamster in a cage. I picked him up and petted him. He was soft and sweet. So I stuck him in my pocket and took him home with me.
I hid the hamster inside my wardrobe, in an old fish tank covered with clothes. It was incredibly exciting. Not only had I stolen the hamster, but I was also hiding him from Mom. The hamster was like Anne Frank. My mom was like the Nazis, and I was one of the people who tried to help Anne Frank. Soon, though, my thoughts wandered to all the little kids in kindergarten who were undoubtedly sad that someone had taken their little hamster; guilt became the dominant emotion. I saw before me a group of small, innocent, sad children weeping beside an empty hamster cage. Maybe they thought he was dead.
A few nights later, I broke back into the pre-school and returned the hamster to its cage. On my way through the pre-school, I spotted a Smurf village that had been set up on a table. I was fascinated by all the Smurfs and their Smurf houses, by Gargamel the Wizard and his cat. It was absolutely wonderful. I found a plastic bag and swept all the Smurf stuff into my bag and took it with me. It was only fair that I got something for my pains since I had been so kind as to return the hamster. I hid the Smurfs inside my wardrobe. I felt like a true hero. I had safely returned a hamster to its home. In a way, you could say I’d saved him. I could see the expressions of the little kids before me: a look of surprise and delight over their little faces when they came to school and saw that their hamster had returned. Their faces shone wonderfully with joy. I smiled to myself at the thought. I’d done something truly good. A good deed.
A few days later there was an article in the newspaper The Face: “Burglary Epidemic in Fossvogur!” All kinds of burglaries were named, in places I’d not gone, but it also mentioned the hamster and said that the thief had apparently felt guilty and returned it. They were talking about me! The story focused on me! My hands trembled as I read the piece. I felt like Robin Hood. It was a bit like there were two Jóns. One was evil and broke into places and stole things. The other was good and returned the things evil Jón had taken. But to be good Jón, I first had to be evil Jón. Still, I hadn’t hurt anyone, and I hadn’t damaged anything, either. Good Jón made sure of that.
The following night, I broke back into the pre-school; I’d decided to return the Smurfs. I snuck out again, as so often before, but with the Smurfs in a bag. I forced the same window as before, clambered in with the bag, then took out all the Smurfs and arranged them on the table, although differently than before. I had the Smurfs talking to Gargamel the Wizard. Gargamel’s cat was with Papa Smurf, and I put Grouchy Smurf inside a house looking out the window. How astonished the kids would be, and so happy, to see the Smurfs had come back! I was looking forward to reading all about it in The Face: “Robin Hood Travels Through Fossvogur!” Maybe everyone would think I was someone who stole from thieves. That I was some invisible hero who loved to steal from evil thieves and return things to their homes. Kind of like Batman. Punkman? I was deeply immersed in these thoughts as I left the pre-school. I opened the door cautiously and was confronted by a terrible sight. Two policemen. One of them slammed the door and rammed his shoulder into me.