Having grown tired of the daily doldrums of copy-cat artists who had forgotten the honor of their calling and had become imitators rather than innovators, Ghani broke all ties with everything safe and familiar and began to roam.
As he roamed, he spent time in the bordellos and traveling carnivals of Eastern Europe. Drinking with all the China men and walking the sewers of Paris, he danced along a colored wind and dangled from a rope of sand. He spent time with the Eyeball Kid and one-armed Sally from Nebraska wandering the coast of Borneo, swinging like an ape from a Banyan tree. Once, in a cantina in Carletta where Bessie Smith played on a jukebox all night long, Ghani, along with a British transvestite, some other Riff Raff and a very sad-eyed lady of the lowlife, witnessed the Spanish sun coming up on their empty cups and they were taken dancing deep down into the dawn. He saw the light and it was a revelation, an epiphany, a down-right eye-opening experience.
He set out in search of a much better half of himself.
He had heard legend of Ms. Juana. Tia, they called her. She stayed in her own jail cell where the warden would play a sweet little tune they called the “toe-nail dance.†The story went that somewhere east of East St. Louis, she lived in the doorway of an old hotel with the radio playing opera. Home was anywhere with diesel gas where she made her own whiskey and gave cigarettes to kids. No one could keep up with her, no one dared. She was an untamed character. All she ever said was, “Go to Hell!â€
Ghani had heard that this Ms. Juana had been playing accordion for Janet’s father, Mr. Weiss. The rumor was that something had happened between the two of them down by the river where they had been sniffing glue. He had called her a “spent piece of used jet trash†which led to the whole incident with the formaldehyde and the horse. He heard that she had since packed up her medicine bag and left without a word. She had moved on to greener pastures, following the lines on her face and hands, in search of vodka and marinated herring. She was gone with the sin.
It was really only a matter of time before the two lost souls found each other. And when they did, it was super loud like a sonic boom, like a racing train, like bells at noon. When their eyes met, Ghani thought to himself, “We’re going to be friends, very good friends.†They shunned the rest of the world and holed up together in their own little odd corner of the world where they began their Siberian love affair fueled by a vodka inferno. Three black crows were sitting on a fence watching the world pass them by. Without a care of the influences of the outside world, they melded into one. Although now at times she sleeps in the kitchen with her feet in the hall and rumor had it that he had been struck by lightning 7 or 8 times, up above their heads, you can hear music in the air.
Having filled their lungs with hymns of Absinthe love affairs, Juana Ghani had arrived.
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