Tonight I'm Someone Else by Chelsea Hodson

Author:Chelsea Hodson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co.

Swollen and Victorious

Hands are unbearably beautiful.

They hold on to things. They let things go.

—MARY RUEFLE, “The Cart”

1. The Heart Line

Wanna see my hand? a woman asked me as I walked alone—but it wasn’t a question, just a way of showing it to me there on the street in the middle of the night. Sure enough, bloody, parts of it were dry but it was a new thing, like a prize.

On that street in Brooklyn, it was wise to not talk to anyone, not look anyone in the eye, be as invisible as possible, walk faster the later it was. The cold deterred some people, but then you knew for sure the figures you did see would have something to show you—a knife, a smile that glowed in the dark, a hand that’s been somewhere.

It’s really bad; see? Another question that didn’t mean anything. She was walking with me now—her hand looked redder under the deli’s neon sign, but hell if I was going to open a dialogue in twenty degrees. The weather had been so unreliable that week, I kept dressing wrong—it was T-shirt weather one day, parka the next. Funny how even those of us who want to die care about dressing for the day. This was one of those weeks I wanted to die, but not from exposure—something more glamorous. Something holy or ugly. I felt I could get this right.

So many people need no encouragement; they just stay with you, dead or not—like this woman presenting her awful hand. What am I supposed to do with that—invite her into my home and give her a Band-Aid? Sympathize? Tell her that the last time I was bleeding in the street, I asked for it?

I found the wildest guy I knew—we’d known each other in another town but we were both in Brooklyn now, both lonely now. I ate one meal per day now: a twelve-inch turkey sandwich with everything on it from the place with the neon sign under the J train. That’s all I could afford, and it kept me full, but then I’d drink whiskey at night and become feral.

Come on, hit me, I said. Don’t be a pussy. Hit me in the face. Even my weakness sounded strong sometimes. He laughed hard, knowing he was about to hit a girl, maybe for the first time ever, who would do that? I guess anyone who looked at me too long with my begging face shining like the moon would do that. I’d always wanted to know what it felt like—in Tucson I’d loved men who believed violence was the answer, and they hit each other until they got it right. One time I saw a man go down in the alley behind the diner and, later, I held the hand that hit him. It was so big I had to use both of my hands to cradle it—swollen and victorious, I’d said.

And then I’d convinced my friend to really punch me—a fist coming toward me, across my nose.

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