Steve Tem - Ugly Behavior

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.