“Three Finnish Scenes” by Eric Altemus

KOTIPIZZA

Yes! We put strips of all-natural reindeer meat on the Berlusconi. Thank God you asked. It’s named after the Italian Prime Minister. You know, the same one who believed Finland would lose at the Pizza Olympics. Now look at him: A shell of his former self. Expelled from politics. A tax criminal reduced to mere billions.

Our best-selling product.

Imagine a farm somewhere up north. Lapland. The more remote, the better. Winters are harsh, but our reindeer are well fed and properly sheltered, thanks to the efforts of our Reindeer Maintenance Team. State-of-the-art technology, too: they can’t even feel the temperature falling through the triple-glazed windows at night. Go ahead, peer into their eyes, black and glistening. Look at those antlers, so gracefully manicured. Squint hard. See how happy they are? You can touch them if you want. Stroke their fur.

As if there were any doubt that we only use the finest reindeer on our pizza.

I cannot actually tell you where we acquire our animals, however. That is a company secret. I could lose my job. And then what? Ask the government to pay my rent so I could sit here telling reindeer stories all afternoon for free? No. I have a family to feed.

The reverse applies for how we process the meat, though. We refer to it as “initiation.”

Again, think of all our happy reindeer. Select one from the stable and lead it outside, into the darkness. If it cries out, shush it. Normally, they comply. But sometimes they don’t. In that case, you have to act fast. Nobody wants a hysterical reindeer on their hands. So do something. Sing a song. Tell a story from your childhood. Put a knife to the reindeer’s throat and threaten to sell it to Russia. Anything you want. Just make sure the fucking thing dies.

HESBURGER

I Yes! We put strips of all-natural reindeer meat on the Berlusconi. Thank God you asked. It’s named after the Italian Prime Minister. You know, the same one who believed Finland would lose at the Pizza Olympics. Now look at him: A shell of his former self. Expelled from politics. A tax criminal reduced to mere billions.
Our best-selling product.
Imagine a farm somewhere up north. Lapland. The more remote, the better. Winters are harsh, but our reindeer are well fed and properly sheltered, thanks to the efforts of our Reindeer Maintenance Team. State-of-the-art technology, too: they can’t even feel the temperature falling through the triple-glazed windows at night. Go ahead, peer into their eyes, black and glistening. Look at those antlers, so gracefully manicured. Squint hard. See how happy they are? You can touch them if you want. Stroke their fur.
As if there were any doubt that we only use the finest reindeer on our pizza.
I cannot actually tell you where we acquire our animals, however. That is a company secret. I could lose my job. And then what? Ask the government to pay my rent so I could sit here telling reindeer stories all afternoon for free? No. I have a family to feed.
The reverse applies for how we process the meat, though. We refer to it as “initiation.”
Again, think of all our happy reindeer. Select one from the stable and lead it outside, into the darkness. If it cries out, shush it. Normally, they comply. But sometimes they don’t. In that case, you have to act fast. Nobody wants a hysterical reindeer on their hands. So do something. Sing a song. Tell a story from your childhood. Put a knife to the reindeer’s throat and threaten to sell it to Russia. Anything you want. Just make sure the fucking thing dies.

FESTIVAALI

Dead. That’s Vaasa in the middle of July, except for a bunch of metalheads who think they run the place for the week the music festival’s in town. They’re not hard to miss: filthy kids pounding Lapin Kulta, reeking of pot, and throwing rocks at the cars crossing the gulf bridge in between sets. Last night, they tipped over all the portable toilets, and someone finally called the cops. When they arrived, they lined the length of the island road, lights flashing across the water. I was watching from a friend’s apartment balcony, waiting for a riot to break out. But then the bands started back up again.
We watched the police drive away from the island. Everyone left it at that.
All my friends think Vaasa’s the best town in Finland. Nothing happens here, they say. Everyone’s all talk. Pohjalainen runs the same thing in the paper: stocks, weather, the non-issue news about Sauli Niinistö, five hours away.
Summers here never seem to end. Most businesses close for the month, so I wandered aimlessly through the city streets, looking for signs of life: a lone ice cream stand parked in front of the H&M; fresh seagull shit on the statue of a tsar. I started staying up most nights, just to hear the street noise, the same cars racing down deserted streets, past my apartment window, chirping tires and mufflers coughing in the endless light.
I was smoking outside the rokkibaari the night the festival ended when a fight spilled into the street. Some intern at YLE started it. The metalheads beat him so badly, he started snoring on the pavement. He survived but walked with a limp for a while. People started avoiding him in the supermarket or in the square after that. In the morning, Pohjalainen reported on the festival: the record attendance, the cleanup efforts well in hand. Everything went without a hitch.