PACKING HEAT IN OSLO
BY PTIM CALLAN
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Their smiling helpful Norwegian faces smile helpfully at me. I’m the American. I’m exotic. I’m cool. I represent what these young people crave. Nose rings and dreadlocks look at me in the smoky bar. They all speak great English. They wear denim and leather and try to look like someone out of Spin magazine. But they still smile the naïve Norge smile with the small white teeth beneath the small noses and those intensely blue eyes. They can’t be I any more than I can be they. Los Angeles would kill them in about thirty minutes. And if I don’t get out of Scandanavia soon, I’m bound to wind up imprisoned. “I would love to be American,” Gisle tells me again. “You walk in and just say, ‘Hi, I’m Ptim Callan. I’m American,’ and shake their hand. We Norwegians can’t do that. We’re,” pause, “I don’t know the word.” “Afraid, wimpy, small,” I try. He doesn’t realize I’m teasing him. “No, not that,” he sez brightly. “Passive, reserved, quiet.” “Yes. Reserved is a good word.” That’s why I have to leave. In no time flat I’ll be doing real estate speculation or distributing heroin or knocking over convenience stores or humping all the clear-skinned, bright-eyed, teenage girls. I would have to. Anyone with a shred of entrepreneurial instinct, with a particle of pluck, would have to take these people for all they’re worth. We’re as born to victimize as they’re born victim. There’s quite simply nothing to be done for it. “Next week we have holiday,” Bengt chimes in, “to celebrate our independence from the Swedes.” “Those fucking Swedes,” I say. “Yes. It’s seventy-four years of independence.” “Assholes. Shits. You know, you guys need the bomb.” “Oh, I don’t think so.” “Sure. I bet the Swedes are working on the bomb right now. I bet those Finn fuckers bought up all the nuclear shit they could get their hands on when the Soviet Union went tits-up. You watch those Finns, they’ll fuck you.” I have to get out of here before I blow the whole thing sky-high. “Look,” I say, “I gotta go. I have an appointment.” I have an appointment with anything I can find. Get a whore or spray paint a statue or kick some Norwegian smiling face in. “Will I see you guys here tomorrow?” “Sure. We can come here tomorrow. I know you like the ladies here.” “Yeah, I like the ladies here. Haldebraa.” Leaving the bar I put on my sunglasses against the brightness of the late night sun.
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