Ugly Behavior

Ugly Behavior

“Sing motherfuckin’ ‘Ugly Behavior’! Sing motherfuckin’ ‘Ugly Behavior’!” The crowd was screaming it now, but JK didn’t care. Let them scream their lungs out. It was his show, and the crowd could hate him as much as he hated them, he didn’t care. He decided when he sang what, when he did what, walk off the stage or give them the sickest show they’d ever seen, the real show. He got to decide. It was the first thing in his life he could say that about.

Hard to tell how many of them were out there. The lights were up too bright. He couldn’t see much more than pieces of faces past the front row, but there was definitely some young stuff out there. Like that one, the blonde, how the fuck old was she? She looked like a baby.

When JK glanced down at his arms and legs, he thought he looked like an over-exposed black-and-white photograph. The scars on his arms were like ink lines. He danced and pranced, wishing for a strobe light.

Back behind him, Dean worked on a sloppy drum roll. His drumming got worse every week, not that it mattered much. JK had told him more than once to cut out the stupid drum rolls—they sounded like Dean was making fun of him, though JK wasn’t clear exactly how. Maybe tomorrow night he’d pull Dean off his drum kit and kick his ass. He’d fuck him up good. The crowd would love that. Jack and Lee wouldn’t interfere—it was about all they could do to hold onto their guitars.

The place smelled like shit, but that was a good thing. Made JK feel right at home, knee deep in the shit and ugly.

“There’s just no call for all that ugly behavior,” was what JK’s grandma always said. But JK’s grandma didn’t understand rock and roll. JK had made his living for ten years behaving ugly, and though it had been mostly small-time gigs, cassettes and then CDs from small, independent labels, a few paintings sold to hardcore fans, it had been good enough. Some years about half of it went up his nose, but that was okay. Business expense. Nobody ever said being an artist was the easy way.

Oh, there was plenty of “call” for it, all right. All JK had to do was look at tonight’s crowd, beggin’ for ‘Ugly Behavior’. But he never argued the point with her. A woman of her generation wasn’t supposed to understand—that was part of it and always had been. Not doing what they told you to do and stickin’ it up their asses and speaking to your own generation, although most of JK’s fans were a lot younger, with a sprinkling of guys his age who he seriously doubted were true fans—not that any of that crap mattered—but who were mostly into it for the opportunity at underage pussy.

Not that they’d get much—bunch of fat pricks in glasses wearing black JK T-shirts too tight across the belly. Tonight they were the ones pushing up to the front of the stage, their damn glasses shiny like bottles, blinding him under these bright lights. What the hell did they know about kicking open the doors of perception?

No real loyalty there, or anywhere, for that matter. Every fan JK ever met was a liar. “JK, you’re the shit!” the guy in the green T-shirt spat, eyes rolling off the top of his head.

“JK, you say the truth like nobody can!” some fat chick whined.

And “JK, we love you man!” Somebody always said that, a few dozen times a night. He hated these cock suckers. But what was he going to do? They kept him in beer and drugs.

“You suck!” A guy after his own heart. But even that guy, did he really think JK sucked, or was he just saying it to entertain his buddies?

And there was that blonde. Fuck! She was just a kid—this was no place for kids! Where were her fuckin’ parents?

JK didn’t always get along with his old granny, but she’d been the only one he could trust to say what she really felt. She’d raised him when his mom ran off at sixteen, seventeen whatever that scum bag whore. He did owe his mom one thing, though, the knowledge that you got nothing left to lose which every artist needs if he’s going to do real work and not just what’s safe and profitable. It was like in ‘Ugly Behavior,’ when he yelled “If you gonna be real you gotta do something ugly!” and he sang that line about ten or twelve times in a row, depending on how he was feeling that night, and the crowd yelled it right along with him, until at the end he pulled out his dick and started pissing on the stage, or if he was already hard by then he might jack off onto the front row, and by that time the crowd was going crazy, yelling and screaming, because, of course, that’s why they came in the first place.

Each night he did something a little different with ‘Ugly Behavior,’ something spontaneous based on his reading of the crowd. Tonight he was already well into the show and he hadn’t decided yet what he was going to do.

The really creative part was choosing the ugly thing he was going to do in that last minute or two, and that’s what was so great about live performance. It took a lot of self-discipline, though, to get it all timed out right, and still stay spontaneous. Any jackass could masturbate on stage—it took an artist to know when to come.

He looked around for the kid, didn’t see her. Maybe her parents got some sense finally, got her outta there. Motherfuckers trying to save on babysitters. Motherfuckin’ scum.

Inspired, JK started into ‘Scum Bag Whore,’ his mouth stretched as wide as he could make it. He stuck the black ball of the microphone in as far as he could, practically swallowing it, making a gargling noise after every “scum.” One night he had almost swallowed it, running across the stage with it in his mouth, tripping on a cord. It had made him gag, and he’d thrown up on stage. Everybody’d thought it was part of the show. Stupid fuckers. He hadn’t been able to sing for a week after that.

The stupid pricks in front kept yelling for ‘Ugly Behavior,’ louder and louder until you couldn’t hear ‘Scum Bag Whore,’ you pretty much couldn’t hear anything but them. He cleared his throat and hawked a loogey in their direction but the motherfuckers just laughed.

The main thing was, he had to hold off doing ‘Ugly Behavior’ until at least near the end of his first set. Most places there wasn’t going to be a second set because either the fans got too rowdy or JK got too rowdy, somebody got hurt, somebody got offended, somebody got stabbed, the police were called, or the management chickened out even though they all knew what JK did before they hired him, hell, wasn’t that why they’d hired him? It was all a bunch of happy horse shit.

He started singing the opening to ‘My Prick Wears A Necklace,’ the serious part, where he’s singing about the diagnosis, got about ten lines in, when somebody threw a bottle up on stage. He picked it up, started to throw it back into the crowd, but stopped himself. If he did that they’d shut the show down for sure, and he didn’t like leaving the stage without singing ‘Ugly Behavior’ first. And the time wasn’t quite right.

If JK didn’t wait for the right time to sing ‘Ugly Behavior,’ if he gave in to all those fuckers who’d been yelling at him since the opening number “Sing motherfuckin’ ‘Ugly Behavior’!” then they’d be getting what they paid for too early and they wouldn’t much want to listen while he finished his set they’d just want him to do something new, something worse and sometimes things just got out of hand, or more out of hand than they were supposed to.

That was pretty much what went wrong that time outside Memphis at the Headlights Roadhouse. He’d been swallowing everything anybody gave him that day, all kinds of pretty pills and sweet liquors, and he did a couple of lines before going on stage, and then they were handing him beers on stage which for the most part he spat back out at them but he drank a lot of it, too.

Then they started in on that ‘Ugly Behavior’ shit, that chanting “We want ‘Ugly Behavior’!” shit halfway into the first song, ‘Ice Pick In The Head.’ It was pissing him off because they weren’t listening. A bunch of drunk college guys down in front were the ones that started it—they’d brought dates. He’d seen it before—the guy brings a girl promising her a freak show which JK could pretty much be counted on to deliver. Well, let the motherfucker feel superior, as long as he paid for two tickets.

It must have been the combination of everything he’d taken that day, plus the hot lights and just the natural agitation that came with performing. Suddenly JK felt warm and wet in the crotch. He wasn’t sure what it was at first—you felt all kinds of sensations on stage—it wasn’t unusual for JK to perform with a hard-on, or with his clothes sweated through, or with his body reeking of spilt beer or jack d. Then he smelled it—JK had just pissed himself. It wasn’t intentional, and that was what bothered him—it would have been okay if it had been part of the act. It being unintentional made him feel like some pissy old man.

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.