How Do You Like Iceland?

text:  Padraig Mara

art:    Adam Wentworth

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We woke up, hung-over and aching in a tangle on the couch with the relentless viking-summer sun shining on us. Hildur counted up the coins with the fish on them, the coins with the guy with the spear on them, and the other coins with the other fish on them, stacked them in towers amid the cigarette butts and empties on the dining room table as I looked for aspirin and undrunk beer. She finished and she said:

-    We got 1, 500 kronur till the end of the month.

I found some beer and finally after two weeks I'm beginning to understand the concept of exchange rates. Sort of. So I said:

–    How much is that?

And she replied:

–    18 dollars American, Johnny. 18 bucks.

I sank back on the couch with her and we watched the seagulls circle over Reykjavik Bay, and quietly passed the last beer back and forth. We ran through my tax return of 3, 800 dollars in a little under two weeks. We had danced and drank and eaten and had a big time of it. And now it appeared to be over. We lit the last cigarette and smoked. And she said:

–    Paddy, I tried to tell you

And I said, I know.

And she said:

–    It'll be easy

And I said, we'll talk about it later.

And she said:

–    Paddy Minn, it's time to get a job.

And I said, Yup.

Hildur and I met in school in L.A. the previous summer and as the term ended and she went back to Iceland and I went back to New Jersey I swore I'd chase her back to her island. Eight months later I did. I showed up in my first store-bought suit, sea bag over my shoulder, a box of candy in my hand, wallet heavy with Uncle Sam's gracious gift and a spanking new passport with one stamp in it. I felt like James fuckin Bond. We set it off for almost two weeks, and now we were dead broke. Every night Hildur would read me the want ad's and ask me what I was qualified to do. I couldn't actually answer. She'd ask:

–    You had jobs back in Jersey, right?

And I said, Yeah, lots of them. I just didn't do anything at them.

Here's one, she said finally. No experience necessary.

                                                                                     JUNE

I showed up that next day, and asked to see the supervisor. It turned out the place was a shipyard specializing in the repair of fishing vessels. As I waited on the work floor, I mentally gathered any qualifications. I might actually have to work there. I remembered I took a ferry once from Staten Island to Manhattan. I made note to mention that. But when the supervisor walked up and shook my hand, and I immediately fell into the interview mode I was used to. As sheets of steel wide as football fields sailed above us in the rafters I rattled off bullshit about being a self-starter. How I was proactive as hell and a problem-solver. Like, if there was a problem, I'd damn well see to it. He gave me a blank look. I stopped talking. This line of blather wasn't working like it did back home. I cleared my throat and said I'm strong and learn quick. He said:.

–    We'll see. 8 o'clock tomorrow.
 
Not knowing how to speak the language, or do any other damn thing really, I got the grunt work, hauling scrap metal, torching plate and grinding welds. All day. Nothing humbles you quite like holding a 35-pound grinder at a 45 degree angle over your head hour after hour. But, after a few weeks my body acclimated to physical work and I began to enjoy it. I got to know my fellow workers: Oli The Young who was in his seventies, Atli the Pilot, Joi Snuff who let me try my first nose load of Icelandic sniffing tobacco, and Preacher Ivar who asked me daily if Jews ran America. I said I didn't think so. I was learning a trade and picking up a very foreign language. I felt like a Jersey Hemingway.

One day toward the end of the month I was called off the work floor into the main office to speak with the owner. He asked me if I had my tax card. I replied that I didn't, wasn't aware I needed it, hadn't even heard of it. He said then I was working illegally, and that I was fired. But, he added, I could keep what I had earned so far. Yeah thanks, I said.

                                                                                     JULY

As it turned out I was not allowed to work in the country legally until I began school in September.  Two months on one income was not an option, which left only the black job market. I quickly heard about a company that needed a worker and paid off the books. An air-duct cleaning service. I didn't have any idea what that meant. Or care. I was down.

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The company turned out to consist of one man, Gisli, and his massive van. Gisli was a huge asshole with a huge drinking problem. When conscious he was the most aggressively stupid cat you could ever have the misfortune to meet, luckily that was only about a quarter of the time. He passed out working, he passed out eating, he passed out climbing steps if they were more than two flights. Gilsi also passed out driving, so his license was taken away.  This is where I came in. For four weeks Gisli and I drove all over south-west of Iceland cutting holes in ventilation ducts with rusty circular saws, breaking ceiling panels, tearing insulation and throwing up in crawl spaces. He had as much of a clue what his job was as I did. But, we carried around a professional quantity of vacuums and tools. So people paid us.

One evening, driving back to Reykjavik from another badly done job in the suburbs, Gisli's van blew a tire at 70 miles an hour on the main highway. I pulled over to the side of the road, stopped, my heart thumping in my chest. I look over to Gisli to ask him if he has a spare. He's out, breathing vodka fumes and drooling. And I say to myself, fuck it. Every drunkard for himself. I jumped out the van, left the door open and walked the rest of the way in to town. He may still be there.
   

                                                                                  AUGUST

I bummed around the house for a week looking for one more tax-free job to carry us till September. Hildur, ever patient, ever helpful, heard of a car wash looking for people. I showed up and was hired on the spot.

As it was explained to me by the shady cat who owned the place, the breakdown was like this: For each car that comes in you and your workmates split 30 percent. But, you gotta be quick, no one likes to wait. Can you be quick?

I said, Yup. Yes, indeed.

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But there was no need for quickness because cars seldom came but there was plenty of speed. The real money was made there dealing amphetamine and those that dealt weren't shy about using and sharing it. We waited in this cement bunker for cars like rabid dogs, tapping out complex rhythms on every surface, running laps round the block, doing push ups and fiddling manically with cellphones. When a customer did happen in to the establishment it was handled with all the grace of a carjacking. The poor bastard would idle up to the door, roll down his window...

Customer- Hi, I'd like...

Car Washer- (speeding their ass off) Out.

Customer- ...Just a...

Car Washer- (getting mad) Out!

Customer-  …A wash and just some tire...

Car Washer- Yes?? OUT!

The car would be pulled in with tires screeching. Four of us would fall on it like hyenas on a sick gazelle. It was the fifth cat's job to chat with the customer. It was part of the service.

Customer- Beautiful day, huh?

Car Washer- (pupils dilated, head nodding at nothing in particular) What are you, the weatherman?

We could wash, detail and polish a car in under 13 minutes. Nascar pit crews had nothing on us.

The weeks passed like this under clear blue viking skies, gnashing my teeth and stuttering my words, waiting at the speed of light for the thousands of dirty cars that never came. The immigrant experience was kicking my ass.

Hildur said, Easy, take it easy. September’s round the corner.

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