By Hh.
The bushwa, the clangor, the groove, it got her moving well past her years, rolling out peach tarts and rhubarb grins to satisfy the men, all sorts of men, in that flapper melancholic sort of way. How gauche, her poor mother lamented, ripping out gobbets of hair from her head, from her armpits, scowling at the dubious affairs of her septic heir. Such a demented thing trembling with edacity, slurping up the groove and the thrill of the late night tunes within that boozy microcosm, the contemporary of a bootleggers’ San. Fran. Cisco. Terpsichorean calling led her to the lead, just two shots, and her mother’s prohibitions went to bed. At last, forever grooving, loaded and loving, her eternity wrapped in « one more night. » July 21st, 1923 and Miss Dorothy Amirele’s trial began. It was the Jazz! The Jazz made her do it! The masses screeched with fervor. Such dispositive polyrhythms, such ungodly beats! How’s a young girl to resist such a thing? The judge agreed. Three munificent years, three years too long for bebopping Dorothy who spent the residuum of her sentence stroking the crack above her pillow, repetitively muttering an incoherent phrase that roughly translated to, « I would kill for just one more night with that Jazz. »