Reykjavík Grapevine - 28.05.2004, Page 12

12 the reykjavík grapevine
IT WAS TIME TO GET A JOB
by Padraig Mara
3 weeks after my arrival in Iceland it became appar-
ent that the party couldn’t last forever.
After 3 weeks of jamming, fine dining, tour-tak-
ing and serious merry-making, my tax refund
from Uncle Sam had disappeared. My girlfriend,
sweet and bubbly as she is, said there was nothing
at all to worry about; I should take myself down
to Efling, join the union and ask for their help.
It was time to get a job.
The Union
On a beautiful Monday morning I
was ushered into the office of Lára,
the grandmotherly Efling repre-
sentative whose mission it would
be to get me gainfully employed.
I was puzzled upon meeting her.
Where I’m from, union business is
carried out by fat guys named Al in
stained T-shirts. They handle your
complaint and then tell you to ´get
back to woik´. As I sat across form
Lára, I felt as though I should have
shaved. Or at least worn a sweater or
something.
I explained my situation, that I had
registered at the University of Ice-
land for the coming fall term, that I
was now the proud owner of a newly
minted kennitala. I told her I was
fit and hard working, quite anxious
to join the Icelandic workforce and
that I would certainly consider any
jobs she might have available. Lára
smiled, offered me candy and said
that was fine. She opened her book
of available work, looked at me
seriously and said ´You know, there’s
work for everyone in Iceland.´
Ship-Building
Not long after my meeting with
amma Lára I stood on the work floor
of ISI Shipbuilders talking to the
Foreman. I had to shout to be heard
over the noise and flying sparks.
Being from America, I unconsciously
used certain cliché job-requesting
phrases...
ME- I’d be an asset to your company
and uhh..
FOREMAN (watching sheet metal
half the length of a soccer field being
hoisted in)- Ha?
ME- I’m a self-starter...uhh..Highly
motivated....
FOREMAN- What are you saying?
Can you torch?
ME (looking up at the metal sus-
pended over me)- Not yet.
FOREMAN- Eða weld? Can you
weld?
ME- I’m a fast learner.
FOREMAN (looking down at my
shoes)- Are they steel-tip?
ME- Uhh, yeah.
FOREMAN- Good, we don’t have
to loan you them then. Monday
8:15. Don’t be late.
This was on a Friday afternoon. My
girlfriend and I were so pleased with
my new status as professional ship-
building-guy that we broke out the
Visa card and jammed until we were
50,000 kr. into debt. Jesus.
Little by little I got to know my
fellow workers at ISI. Jói the Funny
(who wasn´t), Young Kjartan (close
to 70), and Atli the Pilot (who was).
I learned to try and steer clear of
Biggi, who whenever using the esca-
lating platform, raised his arms and
yelled ´Hallelujah´, Hallelujah´ as
if he were ascending to heaven and
not the wheelhouse. Oddly enough,
this cat only wanted to talk about
Jesus. We had a brief chat about my
spirtual situation.
BIGGI- Tell me…are you saved?
ME- (changing discs in a grinder)-
What?
BIGGI- Are you saved?
ME- (having trouble with it)- Saved
from what?
BIGGI- I mean is Jesus your sav-
iour?
ME (still wrestling with the
grinder)- I dunno....probably. I never
gave it much thought.
BIGGI- Are you a Christian?
ME- (finally unscrewing the grinder
disc)- I guess...I was raised Catho-
lic...But my father´s half Satanist.
(laughs)
BIGGI: (walks off ).
In the weeks that followed I learned
to grind steel as smooth as glass,
mount stabilizing fins to the bottom
of fishing trawlers and snort Icelan-
dic snuff without sneezing black snot
all over my jumpsuit. You know, the
usual. Eventually I also learned to
blowtorch steel plate.
FOREMAN- Here’s how you open
the gas, turn it one-quarter of the
way. See?
ME- Why one-quarter?
FOREMAN- So that if the tubing
catches fire you have time to turn it
off before it blows up.
ME- Right…
The flame is ignited, the foreman
lights his smoke from the flame,
hands me the torch.
FOREMAN- Don´t go too fast or
you’ll spray melted steel on yourself.
ME- (Looking up from the plate,
sweating) This speed good?
FOREMAN- Yeah, fine.
Pause.
FOREMAN- Hey.
ME- (Utterly concentrated) Yeah.
FOREMAN- Your jumpsuit is on
fire.
One afternoon I was called off the
work floor and sent upstairs for a
chat with the owner. It was payday
and I was half expecting a raise. In
spite of my terrible grasp of Icelandic
and total lack of experience, I had
worked hard and done well. I figured
I may get up to 900 kr per hour.
OWNER- Where is your skattkort?
ME- My what?
OWNER- Tax Kort. Tax Card.
Where is it?
ME- I dunno...I have a kennitala..
OWNER- Are you allowed to work
in Iceland?
ME- Yeah, I am enrolled in Univer-
sity here.
OWNER- Do you have a student
work card?
ME- No, I guess not.
OWNER- Punch out. Come back
with both cards.

I contacted the Office of Immigra-
tion that day. As it turned out, I was
working illegally. I was not eligible
for work permission for another
three months. I called ISI and ex-
plained my situation. I asked politely
if they could keep me on and pay me
black, off the books. They told me
just as politely that they could not.
My limbo status put me and my girl-
friend in a bad position. It would be
three months until I was legally per-
mitted to work in Iceland. According
to our household budget, a three-
month-long, non-paid vacation was
impossible. This left but one choice.
The murky world of....black jobs.
Next Edition, Icelandic Carwash.
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