Summer of Sun

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Before the parade, I head to the café across the street from my apartment. My waiter is blond and muscled. He pushes my tip back and tells me he doesn’t want it. “We make too much money in Iceland already,” he says. Icelanders work hard, drink hard, make lots of money, look gorgeous and read a lot. Feminism is big. They have Björk.

I finish my espresso and head out to the street. The drums from the military band send a vibration through the soles of my sneakers all the way up to my solar plexus. I am almost carried down the hill by the crowds.

A group of spectators has gathered near the ocean. There, in the middle of the crowd, is a muscled man built like a bungalow. A small herd of cameramen has rushed in around him. The Strong Man curls his fist and tucks it in under his ribs and offers his forearm to the camera. There is a bulge the size of a grapefruit. He straightens, forgetting the cameramen, and casts his eyes to the left and then to the right.

Teenage girls squeal and jump around, waving their tiny flags over their heads. The crowd roars its approval when the Strong Man heads over and bends toward the girls, curling his other fist, slowly, watching it clench. He tucks this fist under the ribs on the other side, and there’s the grapefruit, bulging big. One of the girls reaches up and gives the muscle a squeeze, then nods with slow-dawning awe.

The music that was blasting over the loudspeakers is suddenly cut. The crowd is silent too. A giant black transport truck has pulled in behind the Strong Man. It is monstrous, gleaming; the sun flashing on the chrome grill and the bumper spreads across the front and curls up like a wicked grin. The truck couldn’t be heavier if it tried. Two ordinary-size men show up with a harness and chains, and the Strong Man stands still, his eyes cast toward the horizon, his fists hanging loosely at his sides. The men fasten the Strong Man into the harness, do up the buckles, smack him gently on his shoulder and get out of the way.

He drops to the ground where someone has put down a ladder. He crawls up the ladder, which lies flat against the pavement, and the chains go taut. From the crowd, I see drops of sweat bead across his brow, roll down his face and hang in jiggling drips from his chin. Then the transport truck starts to roll forward a few metres as the crowd cheers. The Strong Man jumps up and pumps his arms in victory. Music comes on again over the loudspeakers and swells grandly. I don’t know for sure, but I have a feeling it might be the national anthem. 

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