Today I bought a sensibly priced set of brass knuckles at a gun show in lieu of buying an AR-15 like I wanted to. Legally speaking it’s a solid brass paperweight that coincidentally resembles a controlled melee weapon. They feel nice on my hand, and much to my delight, I can hold a glass of wine with the same hand. A glass of 2013 Valdespino en rama sherry is the same color as the brass now, I worry that the delicate aromatics of this fragile wine are already starting to die, in step with its deepening in color. As an experiment, I transfer the glass of wine to my right hand and with my left (brass-knuckled) fist I punch my bedroom door as hard as I can. It leaves a satisfying indentation that confirms brass knuckles are really dangerous. To an outside observer this probably looks pretty crazy, but in my defense the landlord says he’s going to demolish our duplex after we move out. It’s a miracle we don’t start throwing axes through the walls, being the way we are.
I feel like the brass knuckles are quickly becoming one of those objects that will meaningfully punctuate this point in my life. Other seemingly pointless and dangerous objects serve as bookmarks in my story: the blowtorch, the saber, the flare gun. What exactly do these knuckles represent, that is the question.