I slunk into the house, body bloodied and T-shirt torn, failing to go unnoticed. My son looked up from his video game of bedraggled freaks. The real deal had arrived.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” I muttered, peeling a bandage from my arm. Deep cut shaped like a scythe or a smile, two dark blue steady growing bruises above.
“Bruh Mama,” my son said with concern.
Bruh Mama is my name. It is a Gen Z honorific, like Friar Tuck.
“That’s not nothing. What’d you do?”
“Went to the lake.”
“What happened at the lake?”
“You don’t want to know,” I said. “You’ll lose all respect for me.”
“Um…” he said, firing teenage ellipses like bullets, and I said, “Hey!”
“Respect, Bruh Mama,” my son said solemnly. “I respect you.” Grains of sand fell from my hair like little lost pieces of dignity.
“OK, I’ll tell you,” I said. “A giant flying carp hit me in the face and knocked me half out of my kayak into a fallen tree which trapped me with branches like claws and as soon as I broke loose, the goddamn carp flew back and smacked me again.”





