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.
I can’t see properly when I come back into the gym. It’s pretty dark. I can’t see anyone well enough to recognize faces. I don’t want to draw attention to myself; I try not to squint. I walk nonchalantly along the bars, feeling my way through the air with my hands. I’m hoping I’ll come across Ásta. I try to fumble my way to where I last saw her. I hug the walls as I go, running my hand through my hair for reassurance. I feel the earrings, which are dangling loosely in my ears. I barely touch them. They hurt.
It’s hot in the room and brilliantine is streaming down my face again. My eyes burn and I can’t help weeping. This doesn’t help my vision. I bury my face in my collar, rubbing away the revolting lard. Between the myopia, the tears, and the lard, I can’t see a thing. The smarting’s getting more intense. I can’t bear it. I rub my eyes. I’m filthy with brilliantine. I’ve got to head back to the bathroom. I’ve got to rinse my eyes and clean myself up.
I can’t see the door. I can’t find my way back. I hear some kids laughing. I hope they aren’t laughing at me. I hope no one can see me. I walk away.
Suddenly, the lights are turned on. I can see a little better. My eyes burn and smart. I reach into my pocket and get my glasses. I need to get to the bathroom. I hope Ásta can’t see me.
— Oh my good God! What have you been doing?
I put my glasses on. Ingibjörg is standing in front of me. Her face wears an expression that’s equal parts astonishment and worry. All around me, kids are standing silently and staring at me. I try to act manly.
— I was just stepping out.
She takes me firmly by the hand and leads me away. She orders the kids to remain inside the gym.
We go into the bathroom. The sight that greets me in the mirror isn’t pretty. My neck and ears are covered in blood. My ear lobes have swollen to triple their normal size. My face is flooded with fat, sticky tears. My eyes are puffy and red and swollen. I rinse them in warm water.
— Is he okay? a girl asks. It’s not Ásta.
— Yes, yes. Go back in, replies Ingibjörg.
I feel better. I dry my face and snort up through my nose. I daren’t touch my ears. It’s like the skin has been peeled off them. I’m bleeding from both lobes.
— What happened to your ears? asks Ingibjörg
— They’re earrings.
— Who did this to you?
— I did it myself.
— With what?
I show her the haggis needle.
— Oh my God!
Ingibjörg drives me home. This sucks. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I’m not cool. I’ll never be a hotshot. I’m a moron. I always do everything wrong. I can’t ever do anything right. I’m not like other guys. I’ve got red hair and I’m ridiculous. I can’t play sports. I’m a half-wit who can’t learn. Everything about me is ugly and disgusting. No girl will ever have a crush on me. Other kids have siblings and enjoyable home lives. Other families go traveling and do things together. We never do anything. And when Mom and Dad go somewhere, I can’t come. For me, home is always majorly weird. My dad is a weirdo. He isn’t like other dads. You couldn’t even call him grandfatherly. If I try to talk to him, try to tell him something, he stops me and corrects me or mimics the way I talk. Okay, I do “ehhh” and “uhhhh” a lot when I’m saying something.
— Do you really need to say ehhh so often when you talk?
But I never say ehh or uhh so much as when I’m talking to my dad. If he can’t work out what I’m saying, he moves on to something else, stops listening to me, focuses all of a sudden on my fingers.
— Are you still biting your nails?
I get distracted and look at my fingers. They’re bitten down to the quick. Sometimes I bite them so much they bleed. I bite my nails, the skin around them, even my cuticles. Sometimes the wound festers. I don’t know why I do that. I always have done. I’ve tried to stop but I can’t. I immediately forget and start biting again. I do it unconsciously.
— Yes.
He takes me by the hand, hard.
— Didn’t you promise me you’d stop with this?
I don’t have anyone to talk to. Nobody tells me anything. No one cares about me. I’m like Rubber Tarzan. I’m all alone in the world.
Jón Gunnar […] has proved very stubborn and rebellious, so much so that his parents, who are quite elderly, have largely given up on raising their child […] He often ends up in conflicts with other children, is on the one hand too controlling and the other hand afraid. His physical and his EEG were normal. Psychological tests and observations reveal that the boy is highly intelligent. He suffers from a considerable castration anxiety, he concocts some pretty extraordinary outlets for his aggression, and he flees his anxieties most uneasily. His sense of reality is good and his ability for sympathetic insight is not in any way compromised. In most aspects of his psyche, he’s developed naturally.
He finds that his environment has turned chaotic but lacks the means and ability to change that. There doesn’t seem to be any doubt that the parents have grown too elderly to cope with raising such an unusually energetic boy. They have effectively given up and the child has taken charge to a pronounced degree, so much so that his security is at risk.