Keep My Words

I got back from upstate last night, a day earlier than expected.  It was a Sunday, so naturally, I went to Saint Jerome to meet Rona.

Because of the drive, I didn’t arrive until 11:15 p.m.  Usually, we meet there around 8:45.  At this hour, the bar is not often busy.  Life and love is discussed in both general and specific terms.  Our glasses of Jameson never go dry.  (The Jameson tastes better at Saint Jerome.  We have theorized that it may be the temperature, or just the way Brian pours it.  In any case, it is delicious.)  Cigarettes are smoked at our leisure.

Around 11, the DJ starts.  I always want to hear “Runaround Sue”, and Rona loves “Twistin’ the Night Away”.  Ian plays them both, along with an infinite playlist of songs that we love.  The bar starts to fill up with people, but it’s rarely uncomfortably crowded.

We dance for hours.  Xxxxx xxxx xxx xxxxx xxxxxxx* on at random.  Rona and I sometimes take turns submitting song requests written on napkins.  When possible we are accommodated, and our dancing attests to our gratitude.

In the blink of an eye it’s 3 a.m., and I can’t remember a trouble in the world.  Eventually, we say goodbye to Brian and Ian, and stumble out onto Rivington Street.

It is the most amazing, wonderful time.  Every time.

“How did we find this place?” Rona asked me one Sunday.

“We got lucky,” I said.  I think that was the same night we played the “one more drink” game.  As we walked down the street afterward I mentioned that we looked disabled.  We stopped once so Rona could spit.  (It was the most ladylike spit I have ever seen.)

Last night I told Rona that because of Saint Jerome Sundays, I am changing my weekly hair washing day.  Those who know me well know that I wash my hair once a week on Sundays, but as of late our dancing at Saint Jerome has left my clean hair soaked in sweat and stuck to my neck and forehead.  Monday seems a more appropriate day to cleanse my mane.  (Although considering the warmth of working at the soup kitchen Monday nights, I may change it to Tuesdays.)

The real Saint Jerome was born around the year 342 at Stridonius, a small town at the head of the Adriatic, near the episcopal city of Aquileia.  I find our Sunday ritual somewhat related to this man.

Saint Jerome himself said, “It was my custom on Sundays to visit, with friends of my own age and tastes, the tombs of the martyrs and Apostles, going down into those subterranean galleries whose walls on both sides preserve the relics of the dead.”

Of the catacombs themselves, he wrote,

Often I would find myself entering those crypts, deep dug in the earth, with their walls on either side lined with the bodies of the dead, where everything was so dark that almost it seemed as though the Psalmist’s words were fulfilled, Let them go down quick into Hell. Here and there the light, not entering in through windows, but filtering down from above through shafts, relieved the horror of the darkness. But again, as soon as you found yourself cautiously moving forward, the black night closed around…

In this text he quotes Psalm 55:15.  “Let death seize upon them, and let them go down quick into hell: for wickedness is in their dwellings, and among them.” (King James Bible)

It is obviously not the message of death that I choose to relate to our Saint Jerome Sundays.  It is certain terminology: it was my custom on Sundays to visit, with friends of my own age and tastes, where everything was so dark, fulfilled, here and there the light, not entering in through windows, but filtering down from above, for wickedness is in their dwellings.

Wickedness in the sweetest sense, of course.  The precious atrocities.  The outrageous behavior.  The hedonistic overindulgence in fun.

Sometimes I don’t know if anyone gets Sundays like Rona and I do.  I am happy that we drove back from upstate earlier than I thought, so I didn’t have to miss Saint Jerome last night.

Rona and I exchanged a few drunken texts when we get home, as is custom.  Last night, Rona’s said “It’s a miracle you came out tonight.  I know it.”

I do look forward to Sundays.  They had a dark period, but again, we found a way to kick the Sunday blues.

(* This information has been removed to protect the xxx^ of someone.)
(^ This information has been removed so that no one will have a clue as to what I am talking about.  Now that’s protection.)

This entry was posted on Monday, December 21st, 2009 at 4:55 pm and is filed under Words. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.