Ugly Behavior (28 page)

About the same time he noticed it the guys up front started
hooting and their pretty dates looked embarrassed. He started to feel like he
was losing the edge—there was a fine line between offending people and
just embarrassing yourself. One was rock and roll and the other was riding the
short bus. He had to do something to take control again so he just sat down on
the stage, kicked off his shoes and stripped off his pants and boxers. That
wound up the crowd pretty good. He paraded up and down the stage just wearing his
T-shirt, then he thought what-the-hell and tore that off, too, threw it into
that crowd of assholes. Then he pranced up to the front edge of the stage and
wiggled his dick.

He’d pulled his dick out before on stage to relieve himself or
whatever. And he’d been a little self-conscious the first few times. It wasn’t
like he had a rock star pecker; if anything it was of less than ordinary size.
A lot of jokers pointed and laughed, but JK didn’t give a shit. Being monster
stoned helped. After the first couple of times he’d trimmed the pubic hair back
from the base of his dick because that made it look bigger. But he knew it
still wasn’t anything to brag about. But that was part of the point, wasn’t it?

So there he was dancing around naked and wiggling his junk for the
amusement of the crowd. The band was laughing, playing nothing in particular,
just jamming with themselves. He sang a few more lines of ‘Ice Pick’ but he’d
lost his place in the song. So he sang a lot more chorus: “Ice pick! Ice pick!
Ice pick in the head! Ice pick! Ice pick! Poke me ’til I’m dead!” He made up a
verse that wasn’t too bad—if he could remember it later he’d write it
down. But experience had taught him he probably wouldn’t. He was pretty sure
the gig was going to end soon. He fully expected to be pulled off the stage any
second, for the management to shut them down or the cops to arrive. But that
didn’t happen, at least not right away, and he didn’t know if that was because
the club was making some good money or if whoever was in charge was just asleep
at the wheel. Not that it mattered much; it gave him a lot more time than usual
to do his thing. But just to make sure, he didn’t break for the second set; he
and the band kept right on playing.

The problem was he was still prancing around naked, and he hadn’t
yet done the whole ‘Ugly Behavior’ routine, and he didn’t know where else he
could go with it. About fifteen minutes into what should have been their second
set, the crowd looked bored. There were still scattered insults, things thrown
up on the stage, but JK could tell their hearts weren’t really in it.

He figured he’d just jack off onto the front row and call it a
day, so he started pumping what little bit of wrinkled
pud
he had, but as much as he played with it and slapped at it, he couldn’t get his
prick hard.

Just to buy himself some extra time to think of something else, he
picked up a broken sliver of beer bottle and started cutting on his arms and
chest, taking his time to place each mark, applying as much artistic consideration
as possible, using the fingers of his left hand to smear the blood, and though
that sparked a little excitement, the crowd was soon spending more time talking
to each other than watching the show. Rock and roll was supposed to be like a
good train wreck—you shouldn’t be able to pull your eyes away.

And JK wasn’t feeling it, either. He was pretty much
dragging.
 
He’d been thinking about
how they were booked for three hours, and the band didn’t have three hours
worth of material. They’d never needed it before—somebody always stopped
the show before the end of hour two.

JK kept thinking I don’t need this shit I don’t need this shit and
that’s, really, what gave him the idea. His artistic inspiration. Creative
people think that way—they trust the notion, they run with the spur of
the moment. JK turned his back on the audience, squatted, and shit on the
stage. Then he twirled back around in this crazy prehistoric ballet move,
scooped up the runny shit and threw it on those fuckers in the front row.

It was pretty gratifying the way things went to hell after that,
the cops coming in, at long fucking last, and it became pretty much a riot with
those trying to tear JK a new asshole and those wanting the concert to keep
going. Chairs and bottles were flying and people were jumping around trying to
keep, literally, out of the shit. Bunch of people got bloodied, thoroughly
getting their money’s worth. JK and the band snuck out under cover of the
confusion. They didn’t get paid but JK kept telling the band it was a valuable
contribution toward their artistic evolution.

Word got back to Granny when some local reporter wanted to “ask
you about that incident in Tennessee.” She phoned JK up and gave him another
long talk about that “ugly behavior” and then wouldn’t speak to him for several
months. It wasn’t her fault, she just didn’t understand rock and roll. Rock and
roll was all about doing what you weren’t supposed to do. Rock and roll was
vile and offensive and breaking the wall and breaking the law. JK felt pretty
bad about her not talking to him—whatever their differences, she was all
he had—but he didn’t hold it against her. She’d been the only one to ever
give a damn and he owed her. People as a whole he’d pretty much take or leave
but mostly leave with a kick in the head for good measure. Granny was the only
one he’d ever felt any kind of love for. Sure, he’d robbed her a couple of
times, but that was just for drug money, nothing personal, he couldn’t have
helped that.

Memphis changed everything, got them into the papers and on the
news and that set the pattern for every show after that. The fellow in the
local paper—a total asshole—called it the beginning of JK’s long
decline. As far as JK was concerned, he had found himself and his artistic
mission all in one night. JK got interviewed a lot after that, and every time
one of those fuckers complained, he told them they didn’t understand rock and
roll.

The problem with the shows was that topping himself each time
became harder and harder to do.

JK drug out “My Prick Wears A Necklace” as long as he could,
pulling his prick out and singing to it, running his finger around the head
until it became angry and red and too irritated to touch. Something about the
intensity of that quieted the crowd down some, got them to buy more drinks,
which had to please the club management. This song was the closest thing the
band had to a ballad—it was the pause before the storm, the songs after
this building in volume and ridiculousness until they hit ‘Ugly Behavior.’

JK was getting cold, so he did something he’d never done on stage
before—he put some clothes back on. Earlier in the evening some skinny
girl had taken off her slacks and top and thrown them up on stage, danced
around in just her bra and panties, then disappeared. Their two roadies, Wilt
and Leon, had used her clothes to wipe up some of the piss and beer to reduce
the chance of JK falling and busting his head open (Not that it would be the
worst thing to happen—if done correctly it could add to a performance),
so the pants were too small, and really rank, but he squeezed himself into them
anyway.

Those tight girly pants made JK feel just like a ballet dancer in
tights, all light and frisky, and that inspired him to jump around and kick up
his legs. The crowd hooted and cheered, and that boosted the energy level as he
launched into ‘Kill the Bitch!’ Guys got off on that song because it talked
about “Every woman ever denied you, criticized you, left you hated, made you
castrated,” listed every way possible a woman could make you feel bad, ending
up with that three-word chorus, “Kill the bitch!” sung by most of the guys in
the room and some of the women, and JK liked kicking up his heels on that one,
which worked pretty well in too-tight pants. They ripped a little, showing off
his balls, but yes ma’am that’s showbiz for you. JK picked a woman in the front
row to sing the chorus to, just like he always did, and that pissed off the guy
with her: some tall blond frat guy in a yellow sweater, but the kid
oughta
expect that, going to a JK show. Trying to protect
your girl, well, hell, how out-of-touch was that? At least JK didn’t spit in
her face, which he’d been known to do.

‘Kill the Bitch!’ did its job, getting the crowd worked up, and
giving JK a head full of steam into ‘Ice Pick In The Head!’ which he’d moved
later in the show after that performance outside Memphis. It had become a lot
more popular with the crowds since then, become a kind of anthem for poor
fuckers everywhere who’d reached that point where nothing works any more to make
them feel better: not philosophy, not booze, not drugs, not sex, hell, not even
rock and roll. Because people get that way. They just get to the point where
nothing takes them where they need to go. And that’s the pain of living in this
world.

“Ice pick in the head! Ice pick in the head!” JK screamed it,
making a stabbing motion with his closed right fist, bringing it closer to his
head until finally he was pounding himself in the ear again and again, beating
his head until it hurt, until it was harder to hear the crowd screaming, until
it was harder to hear his own screaming. “That’s what I need!” he screamed.
“Ice pick in the head!”

A lot of these kids probably didn’t even know what an ice pick
was, what with their built-in ice makers and ice shavers, that yuppie shit
their parents all bought, unless they’d seen an ice pick in a horror flick one
time, used as a murder weapon. But the pounding, trying to beat some idea into
your head, they’d understand that, he figured. That shit was universal.

But JK, he still wanted to stick with using that phrase “ice
pick.” Because that’s what this song was meant to be. A murder weapon.

And that was pretty much all JK remembered of the show the next
morning. He would have gone into ‘Ugly Behavior’ after that, the energy would
have been high, the crowd would have been shouting the chorus along with him,
egging him on, then he would have done something truly outrageous, something
his sweet old granny wouldn’t want to know about.

In other words, more of the usual. He really didn’t need to
remember the specifics. Same old same old. And waking up the next morning
feeling like he’d gotten nowhere.

Except this wasn’t his usual nowhere. He was lying on something
hard and cold. Stinking. It wouldn’t be the first time he woke up on some
toilet floor, but that wasn’t it, no. The side of his face was stuck hard to
the floor. He tried to grin, but couldn’t. It wouldn’t be the first time he
passed out in his food, but it would be a first time for pancake syrup. He
loved his syrup, especially when his grandma made those big, fluffy, handmade
pancakes. Granny always said he used way too much syrup. Drowning in it. “You
must not like my pancakes,” she always said, “you drown them in sweet syrup
like that!” But he loved them, oh, he loved them. Just like he loved her. So
she didn’t understand rock and roll. Well, he didn’t understand much else.

But all this syrup, this strawberry maple syrup, drowning in it,
wasn’t syrup, was it? He felt the knowledge of it, in his head, like an… ice pick.
No, not syrup at all.

He was in an alley. He could see the cans, the filthy cardboard
boxes. He could smell the exhaust. The piss and shit stink. Directly in front
of him was a wall of dark, scummy brick. And that little blonde girl, that
beautiful little girl, sitting there where no little girl should be.

What the fuck? He tried to speak, but all he could do was whisper.
“Go away,” he said. “You don’t want to see this.” But she said nothing. She
just stared.

Sun glare warmed the back of his head. He could see the dark red
stretching out from under him, suddenly brighter, and in the center, like a
ghost, the vague shadow of the handle, sticking out of his ear.

He tried to think, and all he came up with was that guy in the
yellow sweater, waiting for him, here. So here was someone who knew what an ice
pick was, after all. Some yuppie kid in a stupid yellow sweater. But still, he
managed to do what JK never could.

“Go away,” he said again, and the handle jerked, and suddenly he
could see through that brick wall, and everything beyond. “Go away. What you
see, you can’t, un-see, you know?”

But either she didn’t hear, or she didn’t listen. Where were her
fucking parents? Her eyes so big, she’d never forget him. It wasn’t right. But
there she was, so beautiful over there, and him so ugly over here. Then the
handle jerked, and jerked again. And there he was.