Free Brightside by Mark Tullius

press it. I did, and Billy Bass sang, “Take Me to the River.” Tail flapping, mouth opening and closing to Al Green’s words.
    My father wasn’t known for practical jokes. I’d only seen him laugh a few times as a kid. He never bought me anything fun to play with, unless it had to do with hunting or fishing, but even then, he lectured me on responsibility and sucked all the fun right out of it. We went on a few fishing trips to the Black River in Ohio. Father-son weekends because Mom said it’d be good for us. I knew it was just so she could have men sleep over.
     
    * * *
     
    I was seven the first time I saw a real fish. Dad dressed the part in full-length waders and a black vest with pockets so he could stay in the middle of the river all day. I wished he would have.
    Dad had just reeled in a fish the size of my forearm, brought it to the bank. He pointed at the flopping flounder. “See that, Joe? Look at it.”
    “What’s it doing?”
    Dad took off his hat to wipe his forehead. He knelt down beside me and put his hand on my shoulder. “ Its finale.”
    Even though Dad never got this close, all I could think about was the fish. I knew fish couldn’t talk like Billy Bass, but this one was screaming, trying to snap its spine. I told Dad, “Put it back.”
    “No.”
    “PUT IT BACK IN THE WATER!”
    The fish flailed and Dad caught it in mid-air. He put its wriggling belly a few inches from my face. “You see that hook? Look, son, I want you to see this.”
    “I don’t wanna .”
    “Open your eyes,” Dad said.
    Goddamnit , look!
    Dad turned my chin back to the fish, down its mouth. Pink goo pushing around both sides of the shiny red metal. It was impossible to see anything else.
    “See how it went right through? Even if I could free the hook, I’d tear up his insides getting it out. I can’t put this guy back.” The fish kept fighting. Dad’s hand squeezing so tight the eyes were going to pop.
    The part of the hook poking out wasn’t that big. I figured the fish would be okay if it got back in the water. I said, “Try it.”
    “No.” He set the slowing fish against the ground. His other hand reached to his side, brought out the knife I’d never seen unfolded. “It’s over.”
    The knife ripped through the air. Ripped through the fish. Its severed head tilted onto its side, one big eye staring, accusing, saying, Remember this.
    Dad wiped the blade on the grass, acted like it was no big deal. Then he got up and walked back into the river, sang some stupid song about rolly , polly fish heads.
    Maybe he did have a twisted sense of humor after all.
     
     
    * * *
     
    Billy Bass’s song ended on my lap, the batteries almost drained. There were two more giant D-Cell batteries inside the package, but I saw no reason to continue Dad’s joke. Billy Bass would sit in my closet until Day 74 when everything finally made sense.
    I didn’t know my father was trying to help.
     
    * * *
     
    I was in fourth grade playing football in the field behind the school. Corey and Gilbert versus Steven and me.  They were bigger, faster, stronger. They won every time. I never cheated because at least they let us play, and it stopped them from picking on us during class. They’d beat us up and taunt us on the field, but basically leave us alone afterwards.
    This day we were tied. It was their ball, fourth down, five feet from the goal line that ran between the two baseball backstops. I stayed away from their huddle, but had a good idea what they were going to run. Something tricky.
    At that point, I was prepared for the loss, Corey’s hooting and hollering. That stupid dance he did. Plus, it was hot and I was sweaty.
    They broke huddle. Corey went to the ball, Gilbert all the way to the left.
    The bell rang and Steven started walking for the blacktop, acting brave in my old Star Wars shirt I’d given him because he kept staring at it when he’d come over.
    Then Steven actually talked smack. “Guess you don’t win